."

Sleep, however, after their few moments of terror and in the face of
the enigma of their unexplained visitor, was impossible. Also the
light in the bedroom did not induce slumber, although both girls found
it agreeable. Their door leading out into the corridor was now
securely latched, notwithstanding that Betty was not in the habit of
locking it.

"Betty," Polly asked after a few moments of silence, when the two
friends were back again in bed with their arms clasped close about each
other, "the closet there at the end of your room--is it one where
either you or your mother keep your clothes?"

"No," the other girl repeated thoughtfully. "I had not thought of
that. But it only makes things queerer than ever. For the closet is a
particularly large one and has always been stored with rubbish. It has
an old trunk in it and some pictures and boxes. I don't think there is
anything of value, though I don't know exactly what is in the trunk, or
the boxes either for that matter. I have often meant to clear the
place out, but I have never needed the space and mother pokes around in
it sometimes. It is ridiculous to suppose that a burglar would take an
interest in old trash, when there are so many other valuable things
about. Besides, suppose there should happen to be a few treasures in
one of the boxes or the trunk, nobody could know about it when I don't.
Oh dear, I wish it were morning!"

Betty sighed deeply, tumbling about restlessly in a fashion that made
her a very undesirable bed companion. And yet Polly, who was
ordinarily nervous from the slightest movement, made no protest. And
she said nothing more for some time, although it was self-evident that
she was not growing sleepy. Her rather oddly shaped blue eyes had a
far-away, almost uncanny light in them, that somehow added to Betty's
discomfort.

"Look here, Polly O'Neill," she protested, giving her arm an
affectionate squeeze, "please don't be wishing a ghost upon us. I know
you have always believed in Irish fairies and elves and hobgoblins and
the like, and used to fuss with poor Mollie and me outrageously because
we couldn't or wouldn't see them. But tonight--Oh, well, even Irish
ghosts don't come strolling into one's bedroom. They at least have the
courtesy to stay in churchyards and in haunted ruins."

"Yes, but isn't this the haunted room of this house, Betty?" Polly
inquired in a faintly teasing voice, which yet held a note of serious
q