The Automobile Girls at Chicago Part 10

"About an hour before the accident occurred, I think, sir."

"If you didn't close them, who did? Answer me that."

Of course the man could not answer that question. He made no answer at all, thinking thereby not to further irritate his employer.

"I suppose the gates were closed by some of those rascally treasure hunters that are continually tearing over my premises, digging holes for the unwary to fall into and making general nuisances of themselves in every other way. Drive them off. Pepper them with shot if you can't get rid of them in any other way. I may not be here for long, but while I am here, I'm the master of Treasureholme. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," answered the man humbly, his face reflecting no expression at all.

Mr. Presby thumped back and forth with his cane for nearly an hour after that, despite the fact that every step he took sent excruciating pains through his gouty foot. Finally retiring to the library, he went to sleep in his Morris chair, with the troublesome foot propped up on a stool.

Early in the forenoon Mrs. Presby communicated with Miss Sallie and Mr.

Stuart, telling them as much of the details of the accident as was known. Ten minutes later Robert Stuart and Miss Sallie were on their way to Treasureholme as fast as an automobile could carry them. The girls were asleep when they arrived. The doctor, who had arrived in the meantime, would not permit his patients to be disturbed. He a.s.sured Mr.

Stuart, however, that the girls had providentially escaped with a few slight scratches and bruises and that they would all be up before the end of the day.

But the mystery of the closed gates was disturbing the entire household.

It was inexplicable. Mr. Presby declared that it was the work either of his enemies or of some treasure-seeker who thought he was doing the owner a service by closing his gates for him.

Late that afternoon the five girls appeared in the dining room little the worse for their shaking up, although Barbara was far more lame and sore than she would admit. A general season of rejoicing ensued, and several neighbors dropped in to congratulate the girls on their miraculous escape from serious injury.

On seeing her father, Ruth's first question was, "What happened to A.

Bubble?"

Mr. Stuart did not know. He promised to find out, which he did an hour or so later. Mr. A. Bubble, he told her, would be sent to a shop for repairs the next day, as he intended going back to Chicago that night and would attend to it. The radiator had been badly bent, the forward axle had buckled, guards were smashed, the hood was damaged, in short, Mr. Bubble presented a most disreputable appearance.

Mr. Stuart told Ruth she was in a certain degree responsible for the accident, still she had no thought that the gates would be closed.

"I'll know enough after this to keep my car under control. I won't try to knock over any more houses and things," Ruth retorted.

By the afternoon of their second day at Treasureholme the "Automobile Girls" had practically gotten over the effects of their accident and were cosily established in Olive's room consuming hot chocolate and cakes while Olive, at their urgent request, again recounted the story of the buried treasure. Now that they were face to face with the great mystery, they were alive with curiosity. They were burning to see with their own eyes the place that held so much of mystery and perhaps a fortune that was probably being trodden over by human feet every hour of the day.

CHAPTER VIII

EXPLORING THE SECRET Pa.s.sAGE

"I CERTAINLY do adore this room!" exclaimed Mollie Thurston, with glowing eyes.

The "Automobile Girls" and Olive were sitting in the dining room of old Treasureholme. It was a ma.s.sive, but cheerful room, the ceiling studded with great beams. A fireplace constructed of boulders of varying shapes and sizes, large enough to take a six-foot log, occupied the greater part of one side of the room. Olive Presby had been telling her guests various anecdotes relating to Treasureholme and as usual the conversation had turned to the tale of the long-lost treasure.

An old-fas.h.i.+oned bookcase, extending all the way across one end of the room, was filled with leather-bound books. Bab regarded them longingly.

She made up her mind to browse among these old volumes at the first opportunity.

"Help yourself any time you wish," smiled Olive, who had observed Bab's eager glances at the bookcase. Barbara blushed that her thoughts should have been read so easily.

"Oh, I should love to!" she answered simply.

Mollie cast an apprehensive glance about her.

"Are you sure there are no ghosts in this old place?" she asked.

"Of course not. What made you think of that?" laughed Ruth.

"In all the stories I ever read about buried treasure there was sure to be a ghost to guard it," replied Mollie. "Perhaps Treasureholme has a ghost, too. At any rate, I feel spooky."

"So do I," agreed Grace. "Did you hear that noise?"

"It sounds to me like rats or mice," ventured Barbara. "Of course it is.

I know the sound. I hope they don't come out while I am here."

A hush fell over the little party of "Automobile Girls." A gentle scratching that seemed to come from the left side of the fireplace was audible to each of them. As they listened the sound seemed to magnify. A draft through the open door that led into the hallway smote Mollie in the back of the neck. She sprang up, uttering a little cry.

"It's a ghost. I felt it blow on my neck," she cried.

"Nonsense! I'll soon show you the ghost," offered Ruth, starting to her feet. "I know this old place pretty well. May I, Olive?"

Olive nodded smilingly. Ruth stepped to the left side of the fireplace and, grasping a k.n.o.b that had escaped the observation of the Kingsbridge girls, deliberately pulled out a panel that was in reality a door.

The girls uttered exclamations of amazement. Then they saw something move in the dark recess the door had revealed. It was Tom, sitting in the hole in the wall, with his feet curled up under him. He was grinning sardonically.

"Here's your ghost," announced Ruth, taking firm hold of the irrepressible Tom's collar and a.s.sisting him out into the room. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Thomas Presby, frightening young women in that fas.h.i.+on."

"Yes, Tom, I am ashamed of you," rebuked Olive. But Tom was perfectly cheerful and unabashed.

"A secret pa.s.sage?" gasped Mollie.

"It's a sort of underground pa.s.sage, built to look like an old-fas.h.i.+oned Dutch oven," explained Olive.

"Per--perhaps the treasure is buried there," suggested Bab scarcely above a whisper.

Tom laughed derisively. Olive smiled tolerantly.

"If it ever was hidden there, it was taken out long, long ago. That pa.s.sage has been known for some generations, I believe," said Olive.

"How ever did you get in there?" demanded Ruth, a sudden thought occurring to her.

"Find out," grinned Tom.

"There must be another entrance to it, isn't there, Olive?"

"Not that I know of. Is there, Tom?"

"Maybe and maybe not."

"Oh, please tell us. Can't you see we are burning with curiosity?"

begged Bab.