"In the pantry looking over the china, I think," Portia said. "Why? What is it? What's the matter?" But Mr. Caduggan was already on his way down the next flight of stairs, with Popeye just behind him, barking impulsively. Portia followed, of course, and Julian joined them in the front hall. "What goes? Is the house afire?" "I don't know," Portia said. "I guess not or he'd say so." They ran after him through the hall, through the dining room, to the pantry. Popeye barked. Mrs. Blake and Aunt Hilda turned from their work, startled by the racket, and Aunt Hilda nearly dropped a teacup. "What in the _world_?" said Mrs. Blake. "Well, I tell you, ma'am," Mr. Caduggan said gustily, heaving with mystery and importance. "If you'll just step up-attic for a minute, I think there's something there you'll want to see." Foster and Davey, who had been in the laundry, sitting cozily in a washtub reading comics, dislodged themselves and came to find out what was happening. "What in the _world_?" repeated Mrs. Blake, dusting her hands on her dusty apron. "What can it be, Mr. Caduggan?" "I'd rather you saw for yourself, ma'am," he replied cryptically. "Is it something good or something bad?" Portia pleaded as they all mounted the stairs to the second floor. "Wait and see," said Mr. Caduggan. "Is it something dangerous?" asked Foster, alight with hope. "Is it a live thing?" asked Davey. And then he asked in a lower tone: "Is it a _dead_ thing?" "Wait and see," replied Mr. Caduggan imperturbably. At the attic door he turned and said: "One at a time, please, up these stairs. They ain't none too steady. Need bracin'. Mrs. Blake, you first, ma'am." Mrs. Blake ran lightly up the wooden steps, then Aunt Hilda, then the children (Julian first, as usual). It was dim "up-attic" and like the rest of the house, full of objects and full of dust. Mr. Caduggan went to a window and ripped off the dark and rotting window shade. "There," said he. Mrs. Blake drew in her breath. So did Aunt Hilda. "Duncan Phyfe!" exclaimed Mrs. Blake, in the low voice of awe. "Duncan who? I don't see _anybody_," Foster said. "Chippendale!" exclaimed Aunt Hilda. "Can it really be? But it is, it is! Oh, Barbara, look! Queen Anne!" Portia and Julian wondered if their mothers had gone mad. "Are they talking about all those old bureaus and things?" Foster demanded; he could see that they were, and he was disgusted. Downstairs the house was a regular furniture store, it was so full of tables and sofas and chairs and desks; and now here was all this excitement about still _more_ furniture. He could not understand it.