rs. Clover might nap while sitting up; and the girl
had two avenues by which to leave the house: either through the kitchen,
or by the front door to the disused portion of the hotel. She need only
steal noiselessly along the corridor from her bedroom door and down the
broad main staircase and--the front door was not even locked. She
remembered distinctly that _he_ had simply pulled it to. Still, it would
be well to make certain he had not gone back later to lock it.

Strolling idly, with a casual air of utter ennui--assumed for the
benefit of her gaoler in event she should become inquisitive--Eleanor
went round the eastern end of the building to the front. Here a broad
veranda ran from wing to wing; its rotting weather-eaten floor fenced in
by a dilapidated railing save where steps led up to the front door; its
roof caved in at one spot, wearing a sorry look of baldness in others
where whole tiers of shingles had fallen away.

Cautiously Eleanor mounted the rickety steps and crossed to the doors.
To her delight, they opened readily to a turn of the knob. She stood for
a trifle, hesitant, peering into the hallway now dark with evening
shadow; then curiosity overbore her reluctance. There was nothing to
fear; the voice of Mrs. Clover singing over her dishpan in the kitchen
came clearly through the ground-floor corridor, advertising plainly her
preoccupation. And Eleanor wanted desperately to know what it was that
the man had hidden in the socket of the newel-post.

Shutting the door she felt her way step by step to the foot of the
staircase. Happily the floor was sound: no creaking betrayed her
progress--there would be none when in the dead of night she would break
for freedom.

Mrs. Clover continued to sing contentedly.

Eleanor removed the knob of the post and looked down into the socket. It
was dark in there; she could see nothing; so she inserted her hand and
groped until her fingers closed upon a thick rough bar of metal.
Removing this, she found she held a cumbersome old-fashioned iron key of
curious design.

It puzzled her a little until she recalled the clang of metal that had
prefaced the man's appearance in the hall that afternoon. This then, she
inferred, would be the key to his private cache--the secret spot where
he hid his loot between forays.

Mrs. Clover stopped singing suddenly, and the girl in panic returned the
key to its hiding place, the knob to its socket.

But it had been a false alarm. In