Under Padlock and Seal

"But she says there was a light in the tool-house."

"Oh, nothing but the reflection of the moonlight on the glass, you may depend. If there had been any one about who had no business there, the dog would have barked."

The boys were rather late in getting back to dinner, and when they arrived they were in a hurry to get the meal over and be off again. Brian had to change and walk to the football ground, while Guy intended to go with him and watch the game.

"Whom is the match against?" asked Mrs. Ormond.

"Against Newford College, mother," was the reply. "We ought to lick 'em this time. We've got a ripping strong team."

"I expect you'll come back with that nice red and white shirt of yours mud all over, Brian," said Ida.

"Oh, that doesn't matter so long as we win," answered her cousin.

"If the ladies will excuse it, I think I'd better serve you first, Brian," said Mr. Ormond, as the cover was removed, disclosing a couple of roast fowls. "Then you'll have time to get into your war paint. – My dear," the speaker continued, addressing his wife, "I wish I could have the proper poultry-carver instead of this big knife."

"Isn't it laid?" inquired Mrs. Ormond. – "Jane, you should have put the smaller carving-knife."

"Please, 'm," answered the maid. "I meant to do so, but I can't find it."

"Can't find it! Doesn't Sarah know where it is?"

"No, ma'am; she says she remembers it being brought in the last time it was sent out to be cleaned, but we can't find it now. We turned the cupboard out just before dinner-time."

"Are you sure that Henry hasn't had it to clean, and left it behind in the tool-house when he brought in the other knives?"

"Yes, 'm; we've looked there."

"Oh, never mind," said the master of the house; "I'll make this knife do now; you'll find the other somewhere."

"But there's no reason why it should have been lost," replied Mrs. Ormond. "I can't imagine where it's gone to."

"I say," cried Guy, "perhaps it was the poultry-carver that Elsie's ghost was grinding last night! Ha! ha! That's where it went!"

"I never said it was a ghost, you stupid," answered Elsie, a good bit nettled.

"Well, some one said it was."

"You said so yourself, Guy; and it's not fair to put it off on me."

"You were the person who heard it; and so, if it was a ghost, it was your ghost."

"It isn't my ghost!" cried Elsie, thumping the table, and getting very red. "It isn't a ghost at all, so shut up, Guy."

"How d'you know it wasn't a ghost? If you didn't see what it was, it might as well be a ghost as anything else."

"Come now," interrupted Mrs. Ormond; "I think we discussed this matter quite enough at breakfast, so now you'd better let it rest. Your father thinks that it was nothing but the wind whistling through some crack that Elsie mistook for the noise of the stone."

"But, mother – " began the little girl.

"Never mind, Elsie," interrupted Mrs. Ormond; "we won't talk about it any more just now. There's nothing to be ashamed of in mistaking one sound for another, especially when you wake up in the middle of the night, and everything seems strange."

Elsie subsided, but she was far from satisfied, especially as Guy covertly pulled a face at her across the table. She ate her dinner in silence, and as soon as the meal was over left the room and went outside in a pet. As the tool-house had been uppermost in her mind lately, she naturally found her way there, and sat down on an old hamper to think. Though sensitive, she was a courageous child, and she did not like being made fun of, especially when the taunt implied that she had been frightened at nothing.

There before her stood the grindstone, looking exactly the same as it had always done. The girl rose, walked over to it, and put her foot on the treadle.

"Squeak! squeak!" Yes, that was exactly the noise she had heard in the night, coupled with the grate of the stone against the hard metal. She felt more than ever sure that she had not been mistaken.

At that moment the door opened, and Brian appeared. In his short blue knickers, and with the gaily coloured shirt showing beneath his coat, he looked what he was – a thoroughly manly boy. He and Elsie were always the best of good comrades, and the latter was always ready to tell Brian her troubles, feeling sure of a sympathetic hearing.

"Are my football boots out here?" he asked.

"Yes, they're over there. And, I say, Bri, I did hear the grindstone turning last night, and it's too bad of them to say I didn't."

"Well, if you did, you did," answered Brian consolingly. "There's no reason to fret yourself about such a trifle."

"But Guy tries to make out I was frightened at nothing, and I wasn't."

"Not you," grunted Brian, dragging on his boots. "You're a good plucked un, I know."

"D'you really think so?" answered Elsie, much relieved. "Bri, you're a brick. I hope you'll kick ten goals this afternoon."

"I shall be content if I kick two," answered the boy, stamping his feet on the flagstones to settle them into his stiff boots. As he went out he paused for a moment to look at the grindstone. On the wooden framework were some dark spots; he examined them more closely, and scratched one with his nail.

"Humph! – candle-grease!" he muttered.

CHAPTER III.

UNCLE ROGER'S BOX

"Hullo! What d'you want?"

"Come here a minute."

In three days the incident of the grindstone had been almost forgotten, and Elsie was no longer troubled by any more of Guy's chaff on the subject of her night alarm. At the present moment she was standing in her father's library, and had called to her cousin, who happened to be passing outside in the passage.

"Well, what d'you want?" he repeated as he entered the room.

"Look!" said Elsie, pointing with her finger; "only two more days, and it'll be time to open that. Aren't you longing to know what's inside?"

The object in question stood stowed away in a dark corner of the room, and the children all knew its history. It was an oak box or small chest, dark with age and strongly bound with bands of iron; the panels were ornamented with rough carvings of dragons and other curious beasts, and where the iron clamps met they were secured with good-sized padlocks.

This box had stood in its present position ever since the children could remember, and, indeed, it had been there before even Ida, the eldest of the three, was born. It had been left to Mr. Ormond by an eccentric old relative, who had given special instructions in his will that the chest should not be opened for twenty years after the date of his death. The children were never tired of speculating as to what would be found in "Uncle Roger's Box," as it was called; and of late their interest in the legacy had steadily increased as the time drew near when the riddle would at last be answered.

"Father says he is going to open it on Thursday morning," continued Elsie. "November the third; that's the exact date. I say, Brian, what d'you think's inside?"

"I'm sure I don't know," answered the boy, laughing. "Old clothes, perhaps."

"Oh, no; it's sure to be something valuable. Just fancy – it hasn't been opened for twenty years! T-w-e-n-t-y years! That's twice as long as the whole of my life!"