by them." Cynthia produced the box from
the pocket of her sweater and opened it.

"Mercy! There are only three left!" she cried, feeling round in it.

"Never mind. They will light us out of this room and through the hall to
the cellar stairs. When we get there the window will guide us."

Cynthia struck the first match, and they hurriedly picked their way
around the scattered furniture. But the match went out before they
reached the door. The second saw them out of the room and into the long
hall. The third, alas! broke short off at its head, and proved useless.
Then a real terror of the dark, unknown spaces filled them both.
Breathless, frantic, they felt their way along the walls, groping
blindly for the elusive cellar door. At length Joyce's hand struck a
knob.

"Here it is!" she breathed. They pulled open the door and plunged
through it, only to find themselves in some sort of a closet, groping
among musty clothes that were hanging there.

"Oh it isn't, it isn't!" wailed Cynthia. "Oh I'll never, never come into
this dreadful house again!" But Joyce had regained her poise.

"It's all right! Our door is just across the hall. I remember where it
is now. She pulled the shuddering Cynthia out of the closet, and felt
her way across the wide hall space.

"Here it is! Now we are all _serene_!" she cried triumphantly, opening a
door which they found gave on a flight of steps. And as they crept down,
a dim square of good, honest daylight sent their spirits up with a
bound. It was raining great pelting drops as they scrambled out and
scampered for Cynthia's veranda. But daylight, even if dismal with rain,
had served to restore them completely to their usual gaiety.

"By the way, Joyce," she said, as they stood on the porch shaking the
rain from their skirts, "what was it you were pointing at just when the
candle went out? I didn't have time to see."

"Why, the _strangest_ thing!" whispered Joyce. "There was a big picture
hanging over the mantel. But what do you think? It hung there _with its
face turned to the wall_!"

CHAPTER III

AMATEUR DETECTIVES

While Cynthia was bending over her desk during study-hour, struggling
with a hopelessly entangled account in Latin of Caesar and his Gallic
Wars, her next neighbor thrust a note into her hand. Glad of any
diversion, she opened it and read:

This afternoon for the B. U. H. How much pocket-money have you?

J.

Cynthia had no difficulty in guessing