They went indoors at last and tried to settle down to reading, but it was very difficult to distract their minds from disturbing thoughts. Miss Marcia retired early, as the ride had tired her, and they were left to their own devices. At length they gave up the attempt to read and sat talking in whispers over the dying fire. When there was nothing left but ashes, Leslie suggested, with a shiver, that they go to bed, and they withdrew to Leslie’s room.

Needless to say they did not go to bed at once, but sat long by the side window, staring across at Curlew’s Nest. And it was then that Phyllis suddenly had her great idea.

“Now, see here, Leslie Crane, I have an idea and I’m going to do something, and I don’t want you to interfere with me. Do you understand?”

“What do you mean?” whispered Leslie, looking alarmed.

“I mean just this. You’re going to stay right where you are, with Rags, and keep watch. And I’m going to get out of the window and go over and explore Curlew’s Nest by myself!”

“Phyllis, are you crazy?” implored Leslie. “I think that is one of the most dangerous things you could do!”

“Nothing of the sort. It’s safer to-night than it would be almost any other time. Because—can’t you see?—some one has evidently been here all the afternoon, when the coast was entirely clear, and no doubt they’ve done all they wish to do there for this day, anyhow! There couldn’t be a better time than this very night, for there’s not one chance in a hundred that they’ll be back again.”

“But just suppose the hundredth chance did happen, what would you do?” argued Leslie in despair.

“Do?—I’d shout like everything to you to turn Rags loose and call up the village constable and Father. Or better yet, I’d blow this police whistle which Father always insists on my carrying so that I can call them in to meals when they’re down on the beach. If you hear that—just start things going. That’s why I’m leaving you and Rags here on guard.”

“Oh, I don’t like it—I don’t like it at all!” moaned Leslie. “It wouldn’t be so bad if you only met Eileen there—but you can’t tell whom you might encounter. I believe there’s something more dangerous and desperate about this affair than either of us have guessed. I don’t know why I think so—it’s just come to me lately. It’s a sort of—presentiment I can’t seem to shake off!”

“Nonsense!” declared Phyllis, not to be balked. “If I met any one there, it could only be Eileen, and she’s the one I’m crazy to encounter. After the way she has treated us, I’d have a few things to say to that young person for trespassing on Mrs. Danforth’s property. Mrs. Danforth has always asked that we keep an eye on these cottages of hers while we’re here,—it’s an understood thing between us—so I’d be entirely within my rights in going in there to look the place over, especially if I suspected anything queer, and the other person would be quite in the wrong. Don’t you see?”

“Oh, yes, I see that, but it doesn’t lessen the fact that it may be dangerous!” sighed Leslie, wearily.

Phyllis ignored this. “If the hundredth chance should happen and I encounter Eileen, or if I come across anything very unusual and think you ought to see it, I’ll let you know. Only in case of the hundred and first chance of real danger will I blow this whistle. Hold on tight to Rags and don’t let him try to follow me. By-by! See you later!” And before Leslie could expostulate further, she had slipped out of the window, her electric torch in her hand, and was out of sight around the corner of the neighboring cottage.

Leslie remained half hanging out of the window, in an agony of suspense. The night was moonless and very dark. Added to that, a heavy sea-mist hung over everything like a blanket, and, out of the gloom, the steady pounding of the surf came to her with ominous insistence. The chill of the foggy air was penetrating, and she wrapped a sweater about her almost without realizing that she had done so. Rags was on the seat beside her, ears alertly cocked.

There was not a sound from the next house, nor could she even see a single gleam of light from the chinks in the shutters. Where could Phyllis be? Surely there had been time enough for her to have entered the place, looked about, and come out again. What could she be doing?

Then her brain began to be filled with horrible pictures of all the possible and impossible things that might have happened. So beyond all bearing did this feature become at length that she came to the sudden conclusion she would endure it no longer. She would get out of the window, herself, and go in search of her friend. If the worst came to worst, Rags could do some one a pretty bit of damage!

She had actually got as far as to put one foot over the low sill, when she quickly pulled it back again. A dark form had slipped around the corner of the other house and was hurrying toward her.

“Leslie! Leslie! Quick!—can you come here with me?”

Leslie almost collapsed, so swift was the reaction of relief at hearing Phyllis’s voice, after all her terrible imaginings.

“What is it? What have you found?” she managed to reply.

“I can’t explain to you here,” whispered Phyllis. “It would take too long. Come along with me and see for yourself. It’s perfectly safe. There’s not a soul around. I’ve been in the house. Bring Rags along—it won’t hurt. There have been queer doings here to-day—evidently. You can see it all in five minutes. Do come!”

In spite of all her previous fears, the temptation was too much for Leslie. If Phyllis had examined the ground and found it safe, surely there was no need for fear, and her curiosity to see what her friend had seen was now stronger than she could resist. She crept softly out of the window, speaking to Rags in a whisper, and the dog leaped lightly out after her.

They stole around the corner of the next house, three black shadows in the enveloping mist, and not till Phyllis had closed the side door of Curlew’s Nest behind them was a word spoken.

“Follow me into the living-room,” she ordered, “and if you don’t see something there that surprises you, I miss my guess!”

She switched on the electric torch, and Leslie and Rags followed after her in solemn procession. From what she had said, Leslie expected to see the place in a terrible disorder, at the very least, and was considerably surprised, when she came into the room, to observe nothing out of its place. In some bewilderment she looked about, while Phyllis stood by, watching her.

“Why, what’s wrong?” she whispered. “Everything seems to be just as it was.”

“Look on the center-table!” commanded Phyllis, and she turned the torch full on that article of furniture.

Leslie tiptoed over to examine it. Then she uttered a little half-suppressed cry. On the table was a slip of paper—not a very large slip, and evidently torn from some larger sheet. And on this paper were a few words, type-written. She bent to read them. It ran:

Leslie turned deadly pale as she read it and seized Phyllis spasmodically by the arm.

“Oh, come out of here this moment!” she exclaimed. “I will not stay in this house another instant. I told you it was dangerous!” and she dragged her friend, with the strength of terror to the side door.

Outside, as the chill mist struck her, she breathed a great sigh of relief.

“What a little ’fraid-cat you are!” laughed Phyllis. “What in the world were you frightened about?”

Leslie shivered. “Oh, the whole thing strikes me as too uncanny for words! Some one has been in here and left that warning. They may be around here now, for all you know. Who do you suppose it can be?”

“I’ve a very good notion who it was, but it’s too chilly to explain it standing here. Go over to the house with Rags and I’ll be there directly. I want to go back a moment.”

“Phyllis, Phyllis, don’t go back there again!” implored Leslie, almost beside herself with an alarm she could hardly explain. “What do you want to do?”

“Never mind! Go back! I’ll be there in two minutes.” And tearing herself from Leslie’s grasp, Phyllis ran back into the dark bungalow.

But Leslie would not return to her own house and desert her companion, though she could not bring herself to enter again that fear-inspiring place. So she lingered about outside in a state of unenviable desperation till Phyllis once more emerged from the dark doorway.

“So you couldn’t leave me, after all!” Phyllis laughed. “Well, come back to bed now, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

They were chilled through with the drenching mist by the time they returned, and not till they were enveloped in the warm bed-clothing did Phyllis deign to explain her ideas about the newest development in their mystery.

“You were mightily scared by that little piece of paper, and I confess that I was startled myself, for a minute. But after I’d thought it over, it suddenly dawned on me that there was precious little to be scared about, and I’ll tell you why. I’m perfectly convinced that that thing was written and placed there by my brother Ted!”

Leslie sat up in bed with a jerk. “You can’t possibly mean it!”

“I certainly do, and here’s my reason: You yourself convinced me, earlier this evening, that there was a chance of Ted’s being mixed up in this thing somehow. I can’t imagine how he got into it—that’s a mystery past my explaining. But it looks very much as if he knew this Eileen, and that he was poking around here this afternoon while we were away. Now he suspects that we are mixed up in it, too, for he saw us come out of the bungalow that day. Well, if Eileen has told him about the Dragon’s Secret and its disappearance, perhaps he thinks we know what happened to it. At any rate, he’s taken the chance, and written this warning for our inspection the next time we happened in. He thinks it will scare us, I suppose! He’ll presently find out that we don’t scare for a cent! And I have thought of a scheme as good as his!—Do you know what I did when I went back there? I took a pencil and printed on the bottom of that paper just this:

“‘The article will be returned to its hiding-place.’

“Now here’s what I’m going to do next. In my trunk I have a little jewel-case, very much the size and shape and weight of the Dragon’s Secret. It’s one of those antimony things you’ve often seen, covered with a kind of carving that might easily pass for what’s on that other one, if it weren’t seen. I’m going to-morrow to make a burlap bag, just like the one we found, and sew the jewel-case in it, and it will be a sharp person who can tell the difference between them till the bag is opened. Then we’ll bury it in the place where Rags dug up the other, some time to-morrow when the coast is clear. After that we’ll wait and see what happens next! Now what do you think of my scheme?”

“It sounds splendid to me,” admitted Leslie, then she added uneasily: “But there’s something you haven’t explained yet. You think Ted wrote that thing, yet it is type-written! How do you explain that?”

“Oh, that’s simple enough! We have an old typewriter down here that Father uses occasionally, and Ted frequently practises on it.”

“But did you notice the paper?” Leslie insisted. “It was queer, thin, almost foreign-looking stuff. Do you folks use that kind, or happen to have it about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose he got it somewhere. What does it matter, anyway?” answered Phyllis, sleepily. And in two minutes more she was in the land of dreams.

But Leslie, still unconvinced, tossed the night through without closing her eyes.