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Virginia smiled. “And yet you won’t either of you try to write a story for the Manuscript Magazine.” Then turning away, she inquired: “Why, where is Betsy? She isn’t with us.”

That would-be young detective had not cared to linger at an open summer house, which she was sure contained no mystery (for, could not one see all that was in it at a glance?) and so she had skipped ahead. They soon found her standing in the drive gazing as one fascinated at an upper window in a big, rambling old Colonial house.

“What are you looking at so steadily?” Virginia asked. She, too, glanced up. The windows were covered with heavy green blinds and the front door was boarded up.

“I’m not so sure that the old place is deserted,” Betsy said in a low voice as the girls gathered close about her. “I was positive a moment ago that I saw that upper left blind open a little, but now it seems to be fastened as securely as before.”

“Betsy, you, too, must be unusually imaginative today,” Margaret declared. “If anyone were living here, why should the house be boarded up?”