“You would soil this irretrievably,” said he.

“There is stuff in the stores for another,” she smiled.  Slowly his touch deepened into pressure.  Watching him she saw the crust of some old fear or dominant superstition melt under her eyes, and was quite prepared, when he remarked, with what for him was a lightsome air: 

“I will buy the stuff, if you will dare the darkness and intricacies of our old cellar.  I can give you no light.  You will have to feel your way according to my direction.”

“I am ready to dare anything.”

He left her abruptly.

“I will warn Miss Digby,” he called back.  “She shall go with you as far as the cellar.”

V

Violet in her short career as an investigator of mysteries had been in many a situation calling for more than womanly nerve and courage.  But never—­or so it seemed to her at the time—­had she experienced a greater depression of spirit than when she stood with Miss Digby before a small door at the extreme end of the cellar, and understood that here was her road—­a road which once entered, she must take alone.

First, it was such a small door!  No child older than eleven could possibly squeeze through it.  But she was of the size of a child of eleven and might possibly manage that difficulty.

Secondly:  there are always some unforeseen possibilities in every situation, and though she had listened carefully to Mr. Van Broecklyn’s directions and was sure that she knew them by heart, she wished she had kissed her father more tenderly in leaving him that night for the ball, and that she had not pouted so undutifully at some harsh stricture he had made.  Did this mean fear?  She despised the feeling if it did.

Thirdly:  She hated darkness.  She knew this when she offered herself for this undertaking; but she was in a bright room at the moment and only imagined what she must now face as a reality.  But one jet had been lit in the cellar and that near the entrance.  Mr. Van Broecklyn seemed not to need light, even in his unfastening of the small door which Violet was sure had been protected by more than one lock.

Doubt, shadow, and a solitary climb between unknown walls, with only a streak of light for her goal, and the clinging pressure of Florence Digby’s hand on her own for solace—­surely the prospect was one to tax the courage of her young heart to its limit.  But she had promised, and she would fulfill.  So with a brave smile she stooped to the little door, and in another moment had started her journey.