preceding day. A black cross was marked on a small window over the front door and opposite it, on the margin of the Jimmy-book, beside another cross, was written:
“Allan Bradshaw is here.”
“What does it mean?” gasped Ilse. “Who did it?”
“I—don’t know,” stammered Emily. “The writing—is mine.”
Ilse looked at Emily and drew back a little.
“You must have drawn it in your sleep,” she said dazedly.
“I can’t draw,” said Emily.
“Who else could have done it? Mistress McIntyre couldn’t—you know she couldn’t. Emily, I never heard of such a strange thing. Do you think—do you think—he can be there?”
“How could he? The house must be locked up—there’s no one working at it now. Besides, they must have searched all around there—he would be looking out of the window—it wasn’t shuttered, you remember—calling—they would have seen—heard—him. I suppose I must have drawn that picture in my sleep—though I can’t understand how I did it—because my mind was so filled with the thought of little Allan. It’s so strange—it frightens me.”
“You'll have to show it to the Bradshaws,” said Ilse.
“I suppose so—and yet I hate to. It may fill them with a cruel false hope again—and there can’t be anything in it. But I daren’t risk not showing it. You show it—I can't, somehow. The thing has upset me—I feel frightened—childish—I could sit down and cry. If he should have been there—since Tuesday—he would be dead of starvation.”
“Well, they'd know—I’ll show it, of course. If it should turn out—Emily, you’re an uncanny creature.”
“Don’t talk of it—I can’t bear it,” said Emily, shuddering.
There was no one in the kitchen when they entered it, but presently a young man came in—evidently the Dr.
