“By all means,” cried Hildegarde.  “But let me go first, to bear the brunt of any horrors there may be.  Spiders I would not face, but they must all be dead years ago.”

She crept in on her hands and knees, closely followed by the two Merryweathers.  Growing accustomed to the dimness, they found themselves in a small square chamber, high enough for them to stand upright.  The walls were smooth, and thick with dust; the floor was carpeted with something that felt soft and close, like an Eastern rug.

“We simply must have light!” cried Hildegarde.  “Wait, girls!  I will bring a candle and matches.”

“No! no!” cried Bell.  “Wait a moment!  I think I have found a window, or something like one, if I can only get it open.”

Again there was a soft, complaining sound, and then a sliding movement; a tiny panel was pushed aside, and a feeble ray of light stole in.  The girls’ faces glimmered white against the blackness.

“Something obstructs the light,” said Hildegarde.  “See! this is it.”  She put her arm out through the little opening, and pushed away a dense mass of vines that hung down like a thick curtain.  “That is better,” she said.  “Now let us see where we are.”

It was a curious place, surely, to lie hidden in the heart of a comparatively modern house.  A square room, perhaps eight feet across, neatly papered with the blue-dragon paper of Hildegarde’s own room; on the floor an old rug, faded to a soft, nameless hue, but soft and fine.  On the walls hung a few pictures, quaint little coloured wood-cuts in gilt frames, representing ladies and gentlemen in scant gowns and high-shouldered frock-coats.  There were two little chairs, painted blue, with roses on the backs; a low table, and a tiny chest of drawers.  The girls looked at each other, a new light dawning in their faces.

“It is a doll’s room,” said Gertrude, softly, with an awe-stricken look.

“I know!  I know whose room it was!” cried Hildegarde.  “Wait, oh, wait!  I am sure we shall find something else.  I will tell you all about it in a moment, but now let us look and find all we can.”

With beating hearts they searched the corners of the little chamber.  Presently Hildegarde uttered a cry, and drew something forward into the light of the little window; a good-sized object, carefully covered with white cloth, neatly stitched together.  Hildegarde took out her pocket scissors, and snipped with ardour, then drew off the cover.  It was a doll’s bedstead, of polished mahogany, with four pineapple-topped posts, exactly like the great one in which Hildegarde herself slept; and in it, under dainty frilled sheets, blankets and coverlid, lay two of the prettiest dolls that ever were seen.  Their nightgowns were of fine linen; the nightcaps, tied under their dimpled chins, were sheer lawn, exquisitely embroidered.  One tiny waxen hand lay outside the coverlid, and in it was a folded piece of paper.