Dale huddled close
to her lover as they groped their way back to the living-room,
cautiously, doing their best to keep from stumbling against some
heavy piece of furniture whose fall would arouse the house.
"There's a candle on the table, Jack, if I can find the table."
Her outstretched hands touched a familiar object. "Here it is."
She fumbled for a moment. "Have you any matches?"
"Yes." He struck one--another--lit the candle--set it down on
the table. In the weak glow of the little taper, whose tiny flame
illuminated but a portion of the living-room, his face looked
tense and strained.
"It's pretty nearly hopeless," he said, "if all the walls are
paneled like that."
As if in mockery of his words and his quest, a muffled knocking
that seemed to come from the ceiling of the very room he stood in
answered his despair.
"What's that?" gasped Dale.
They listened. The knocking was repeated--knock--knock--knock
--knock.
"Someone else is looking for the Hidden Room!" muttered Brooks,
gazing up at the ceiling intently, as if he could tear from it the
secret of this new mystery by sheer strength of will.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE GLEAMING EYE
"It's upstairs!" Dale took a step toward the alcove stairs. Brooks
halted her.
"Who's in this house besides ourselves?" he queried.
"Only the detective, Aunt Cornelia, Lizzie, and Billy."
"Billy's the Jap?"
"Yes."
Brooks paused an instant. "Does he belong to your aunt?"
"No.
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