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Perhaps that grand feeling of being able to lie abed as long as they wished was too much for them; at any rate, when Terry breezily wished Moselle a cheery good-morning, the maid made no attempt at hiding her surprise.

“’Mornin’, Miss Terry. You-all sleep well?” she inquired.

“’Morning, Moselle,” Terry replied. “Yes, thank you. And now I’m ready for a big breakfast.”

Moselle grinned her delight. She loved to cook, and nothing pleases a cook more than knowing her art is appreciated.

Arden and Sim were not long behind Terry, and the girls made a pretty picture in their gay dresses against the background of dark paneled walls in the dining room.

It was Arden’s day to do the marketing, but because they were to drive to the station and meet Dorothy Keene, shortly after breakfast, they agreed, “just for this once,” to leave the planning of the day’s meals to Moselle. They were still determined to run the house efficiently and well, on a smaller budget than Sim’s mother had allowed; furthermore, Terry and Arden agreed not to telephone home for advice. Of course, the routine of cleaning and washing went on as before: the girls could not improve on that. So Moselle was instructed to call up the stores and have something very special for the coming guest, whose mother was “in the movies,” which fact thrilled Moselle to the cockles of her heart.

When the train pulled into the suburban station, the three girls, with the car parked as close as possible to the platform, had no trouble in finding Dorothy. Although Terry, perched on the car top, which was folded down, had thought she could see better from that vantage point and locate her chum more quickly, Dorothy, it developed, was the only passenger who alighted at Pentville. So they saw her at once. She was wearing a smart fur coat cut on swagger lines and a ridiculously small hat pulled over one eye. She waved a greeting.

“Hello, Dot!” Sim ran to meet her. “Awfully glad you could come.” They hugged affectionately. “We’re having specially nice weather just for you.”

“Sim dear,” the girl replied, “and Terry and Arden, it’s great to see you. I’ve been in a penthouse in New York with a lot of stage-struck people, and I feel a bit struck myself,” she laughed. “This lovely country and you kids are just what I need,” declared the visitor.

They walked toward the car, each trying to show her own particular brand of pleasure at Dot’s arrival.

“And we need you, too,” Arden put in with a little tug at Dot’s arm. “Don’t we, girls?”

“Now, look here!” and Dot pulled them all to a sudden halt. “You are up to something, I’m sure. What is it? Any new mysteries thrusting themselves upon you?”

“Dot, my child,” Arden answered, “you are positively psychic! That’s exactly what we’re bursting to tell you!”

“Ghosts! Nice hundred-year-old ones! All hoary and bloody, with pointing fingers!” Terry supplied.

“And a poor old lady and two orphan grandchildren,” grunted Sim, as she tried to turn the wheel of the car. All four were in the front seat, a feat accomplished by Sim, Arden, and Terry squeezing into a row and Dot sitting on Terry’s lap. That Dot’s head was much higher than the windshield and unsheltered from the wind bothered them not at all. With so much to say, they simply couldn’t split up the group by using the rumble seat. Dot’s grips were there, anyway, and for the two weeks of her visit she would be well supplied with clothes—at least, judging by the size of the bags.

“Go on, my dear Watsons,” chuckled Dot laughing. “Isn’t there a nice-looking young man any place in this mystery?”

“Of course there is,” replied Terry, “and a girl, too.”

“But the house, Dot—it’s perfect! We heard the ghostly footsteps ourselves, and in broad daylight, too!” Sim surprisingly stated.

Dorothy shook her head. “You’re all sleeping idiots! Well, I won’t arouse you. I suppose country people must have some amusement.”

“Country people!” Three voices sang out together. It never failed. A suggestion that they in Pentville were not as metropolitan as their New York chum was always a disputed point.

“A ghost couldn’t live in New York,” Arden said sarcastically. “You have to get out where there is some room for ghosts. Like Pentville or Jockey Hollow.”

“Don’t you believe us, Dot?” Terry asked. Dot just smiled.

“We’ll show you. What do you say, girls—shall we go over to Jockey Hollow before we go home? The bags will be safe. Our ghost isn’t a thief.” Sim slowed down at the junction where one road led to the Hollow, which they would pass as they went to Sim’s house, though at some distance.

“Yes! Let’s go, Sim. If you’re not afraid of the car on those roads,” Terry said, plainly anxious to go back to Sycamore Hall.

Sim needed no urging, and going into second she turned the wheel and very carefully started down the narrow dirt road. On the brow of the hill she stopped and pointed out the faded stone walls of the house which could clearly be seen through the bare trees.

“That’s it, unbeliever,” Sim told her guest. “We’ll take you inside, if we can get in, and show you things your eyes have never before beheld.”

“Lead on MacDuff,” Dorothy laughed. “Whom have you hired to jump out on me and cry ‘Boo’?”

“Word of honor, Dot,” Arden insisted, “it isn’t a joke. You’ll see! Go on, Sim,” she prompted.

Bouncing and rolling from side to side, the little roadster neared the house. The old lane that once approached prosperous farm lands, but was now overgrown and stony, led almost to the door. But knowing she must turn around again to go home, Sim stopped so they could back out.

Shutting off the motor, she turned to her friends.

“I hope he shows up,” Sim whispered to Arden and Terry.

“Who?” asked Dot.

“The old soldier with a wounded head, all bandaged in bloody rags. He wears very heavy boots and was hidden and sheltered from the British in this old house during the Revolution,” Terry guessed facetiously.

“But how did you find out all this?” Dot was plainly interested but also a little incredulous.

“We were riding here in Jockey Hollow yesterday,” Sim explained, “when our horses were frightened, and we were, also, by some Negro workmen rushing out of the place, crying, ‘Ghost!’ Oh, it was startling!” and she related, in her most convincing way the details of their strange adventure.

“Oh!” said Dorothy after a little pause. “Oh!” That was all.

The four sat in the car, no one speaking for a while. Their own imaginings had gotten the best of them, evidently, though no one would admit it.

Then, suddenly, the quiet and peace surrounding the old Hall was broken, by the loud squeaking of ancient nails being pulled from hundred-year-old wood, and the shrill sounds were like the shrieks of frightened women. It startled the girls into activity.

“The workmen are back!” Arden said disappointedly. “I guess the ghost won’t dare come out.”

“Too bad, girls. You almost had me believing you. But let’s go in and look around, anyway. I like old houses, with or without ghosts.” Dot was still skeptical.

So they climbed out of the car and picked their way over the tangled vines and low bushes to the door: a dignified, paneled old piece decorated with a handsomely discolored brass knocker.

Dorothy, in a spirit of bravado, lifted the