For almost a week after that the upper corridors were peaceful. No one but Gincy doubted that they would remain so. Saturday evening, when Miss Howard was making her tour of inspection, she met Lalla and Kizzie going to choir practice. “I’ll look into your room just the same, girls,” she said. “You don’t know how good it seems, though, to get over dreading it.” Kizzie sighed. “I couldn’t have stood it another day. It was getting positively ghost-y, having such things goin’ on.” Miss Howard sighed too as she fitted the master key into the door of Number 16. Had she a real traitor in the house, or was it some prankish girl who had gone too far and was now thoroughly frightened? The room was in perfect order. How well the two had learned their lesson of neatness. It rested the tired little teacher just to look at the clean floor, the fresh curtains, and orderly books. She went over to the window and looked out. Beyond the roof of the new dining-room was a long, regular pile of wood, then the tennis court framed by huge oaks, and still beyond, the mountains. Miss Howard stood lost in thought for a moment. Each day brought its problems. She was roused by a light footstep, there was a quick click of the lock, and the master key was pulled out from the other side. She was surely a prisoner. Thoroughly impatient at her own stupidity, Miss Howard tried the window. She could only pull it down a few inches from the top. This was the cleverest, most daring piece of lawlessness which had ever occurred in the Hall. With the master key gone all kinds of vandalism were possible in that room and every other. She dropped into a chair irresolute. A party of seniors had the east parlour until 7:30, which almost emptied the corridor. One might call incessantly and not be heard, unless by the wrong girls—the very ones from whom she wished to keep the matter a secret. The chapel bell rang for chorus practice. The outer world began to grow dusky, still Miss Howard sat perfectly quiet, apparently reading. She was thinking of a mystery story which led through a labyrinth of baffling events to a most simple solution. She grew more and more doubtful of her ability as a detective. Presently, two people stopped outside the door for a little chat. It was Martha Spellman—on her way to the linen closet—and Lalla. Miss Howard waited patiently now that immediate release was certain, until the door opened. Lalla’s face was the picture of astonishment as she noticed the occupant of her room. “You’d better not speak of it, Lalla,” cautioned her teacher after describing the manner of her incarceration. “The girls know enough already; they’ll be going home next thing. No one likes to feel that she’s at the mercy of some lawless person.”