That Jamieson's down there now.
There's only trouble comes of hunting ghosts; they lead you into bottomless pits and things like that.
Oh, Miss Rachel, don't—" as I tried to get past her.
She was interrupted by Mr. Jamieson's reappearance.
He ran up the stairs two at a time, and his face was flushed and furious.
"The whole place is locked," he said angrily.
"Where's the laundry key kept?"
"It's kept in the door," Liddy snapped.
"That whole end of the cellar is kept locked, so nobody can get at the clothes, and then the key's left in the door? so that unless a thief was as blind as—as some detectives, he could walk right in."
"Liddy," I said sharply, "come down with us and turn on all the lights."
She offered her resignation, as usual, on the spot, but I took her by the arm, and she came along finally.
She switched on all the lights and pointed to a door just ahead.
"That's the door," she said sulkily.
"The key's in it."
But the key was not in it.
Mr. Jamieson shook it, but it was a heavy door, well locked.
And then he stooped and began punching around the keyhole with the end of a lead-pencil.
When he stood up his face was exultant.
"It's locked on the inside," he said in a low tone.
"There is somebody in there."
"Lord have mercy!" gasped Liddy, and turned to run.
"Liddy," I called, "go through the house at once and see who is missing, or if any one is.
We'll have to clear this thing at once.
Mr. Jamieson, if you will watch here I will go to the lodge and find Warner.
Thomas would be of no use.
Together you may be able to force the door."
"A good idea," he assented.
"But—there are windows, of course, and there is nothing to prevent whoever is in there from getting out that way."
"Then lock the door at the top of the basement stairs," I suggested, "and patrol the house from the outside."
We agreed to this, and I had a feeling that the mystery of Sunnyside was about to be solved.
I ran down the steps and along the drive.
Just at the corner I ran full tilt into somebody who seemed to be as much alarmed as I was.
It was not until I had recoiled a step or two that I recognized Gertrude, and she me.
"Good gracious, Aunt Ray," she exclaimed, "what is the matter?"
"There's somebody locked in the laundry," I panted.
"That is—unless—you didn't see any one crossing the lawn or skulking around the house, did you?"
"I think we have mystery on the brain," Gertrude said wearily.
"No, I haven't seen any one, except old Thomas, who looked for all the world as if he had been ransacking the pantry.
What have you locked in the laundry?"
"I can't wait to explain," I replied.
"I must get Warner from the lodge.
If you came out for air, you'd better put on your overshoes."
And then I noticed that Gertrude was limping—not much, but sufficiently to make her progress very slow, and seemingly painful.
"You have hurt yourself," I said sharply.
"I fell over the carriage block," she explained.
"I thought perhaps I might see Halsey coming home.
He—he ought to be here."
I hurried on down the drive.
The lodge was some distance from the house, in a grove of trees where the drive met the county road.
There were two white stone pillars to mark the entrance, but the iron gates, once closed and tended by the lodge-keeper, now stood permanently open.