"More likely 1690. The tail of the nine is cracked away. It's older than the house at any rate. I wish I had my sketch-book here, and I'd have copied it. Have you a note-book in your pocket?" "No; and I shouldn't lend it to you if I had. We must be going at once, or we shall be late for prep." Katrine consulted her watch, and turned to the door. Then she gave a cry of consternation. It was impossible to open it. The knob had been loose, and when the door banged the whole handle had fallen out into the passage. They were shut in as securely as if by bolt and bar. Here was a dilemma, indeed! They looked at one another in consternation. "What are we to do?" faltered Gwethyn. Katrine was trying to wedge the handle of her penknife into the empty socket, but the effort was useless. It went in a little way, but would not turn. Her attempt to slip back the catch with the blade was equally futile. The unpleasant truth was hopelessly plain--they were prisoners in the empty house. The prospect was appalling. The Grange was in such a secluded spot that nobody might come near for days. No doubt they would soon be missed at Aireyholme, but would Mrs. Franklin think of looking for them here? They shouted and called out of the window, but only the birds twittered in reply. They were in the upper story, a good height from the ground, and much too far to jump. The creepers were too frail to offer any adequate support. They turned to the door again, and tried to break through one of the panels, but the wood was well-seasoned oak and resisted their kicks and blows. Were ever two girls in such a desperate situation? The tears were raining down Gwethyn's cheeks. "Shall we have to stop here all night?" she sobbed. "I wish we'd never come near the wretched place!" "We're trapped like rats in a cage!" declared Katrine, pacing distractedly up and down their prison. She paused at the window. "Gwethyn! I do believe somebody is in the garden! The blackbirds are making such a fuss!" "Perhaps it's a cat or a hawk that's frightening them." "Perhaps. But let us call in case it's a human being. Even a burglar would be welcome!" "We're rather like burglars ourselves!" said Gwethyn, her sense of humour triumphing over her tears. "Only there certainly isn't anything here to burgle." The girls leaned from the window and shouted with all the power of their lungs. Then they waited and listened anxiously. Was that a footstep crunching on the gravel. "O jubilate! somebody's coming!" gasped Katrine. "Let's shout again! Oh, the angel!" It was Mr. Freeman, sketching paraphernalia in hand, who stepped round the corner of the dovecot--a guardian angel in tweed knickers, smoking a most unangelic briar pipe. He looked about to see whence the noise proceeded, and, spying the girls, waved his hand. "We're in an awful fix!" called Katrine. "We're locked into this room. Will you please climb in through the vestibule window--it's open--and let us out?"