Suddenly both rooms were flooded with light, and a familiar voice spoke.

“They’re not here, you see; I felt sure that they could not be in the studio.  We must search elsewhere, and lose no time about it.”

It was Arthur Kirtland’s voice, and scrambling to their feet, they ran to greet him, all fear left behind.

“Oh, Mr. Kirtland, we are here,” cried Rose.

“And we’ve been here just almost forever,” Polly added.

“And, oh, here’s John!” cried Rose.  “Now we can go home!”

“I think ye can, bein’s yer Aunt Lois thinks ye’re both lost, and no knowin’ whether we’ll find ye or not.  Ye better be tellin’ Mr. Kirtland how it is ye are here after he’d thought the place empty, and he’d locked it up, an’ gone home.”

Quickly they told the story of their trip to the ice cream parlor, and of their late return, finding entrance by the little green door.

Of the lonely waiting, of the noises that had frightened them.

“Oh, Mr. Kirtland!  That armor is standing just as it did when it was daylight here, but truly we heard his sword rattle against his shield, and once—­” Rose’s voice faltered.

“Once,” said Polly, taking up the story, “we thought he walked across the floor!”

“I have heard the same thing,” was the quick reply, “and I am not at all surprised that you were terrified.”

Rose and Polly were grateful that he did not laugh or even look amused.

“But he couldn’t walk,” said Rose; “it’s only an iron suit.”

“Oh, he surely doesn’t move,” Arthur Kirtland said, and he smiled kindly at the children, “but sometimes I think a tiny mouse mistakes it for a huge cage and runs around in it, and as to his walking, the cars on the railroad that runs back of the studio jar the building and shake the suit of armor.  I think that may be what you heard.”

“Well, it sounds harmless enough when ye know what made the noise,” John said, with a laugh, “and now I guess ye’ll be some willin’ ter go home ter Aunt Lois.  The carriage is at the door.”

“Oh, yes, yes!” they cried.

“A studio is a lovely place in the day-time,” said Polly, “and the pictures are beautiful then, but when it begins to be dark it’s different.”

“Different!  I guess that’s so,” said the coachman; “and now, come!  We’ll drive home at a lively pace.”

“Oh, doesn’t it seem good to be safe!” cried Polly when, snugly seated in the carriage, they saw that they were on their own familiar avenue.

“Yes, and we always like to be going somewhere, and now we’re glad that we’re almost home,” said Rose.

“I guess anybody would be glad to get away from that studio, if they’d ever been in there alone when it gets darker and darker every minute,” said Polly.

“Do you b’lieve Mr. Kirtland would dare to be there at night?” questioned Rose.