"I'm rather glad, on the whole, that nothing particular happened while you were away," said Cicely. "I should have wanted so dreadfully to tell somebody, I'm afraid Marjorie Butler might have wormed it out of me. As it is, they none of them know, and we still have the secret to ourselves." CHAPTER IX The Plot Thickens After hearing the story of Monica Courtenay, their friend's ancestress, Lindsay and Cicely felt a special interest in her portrait. They strolled one afternoon along the picture gallery to take another look at it. There were the pretty smiling face--so like Monica's--and the bunch of red roses that had saved the life of Sir Piers Courtenay. Was all the good fortune of the race to be hers, and would none of it descend to the namesake who so closely resembled her? "If she could only come back and be of some use again!" sighed Lindsay. "She ought to know every secret of this house." "I wish we could make her speak and tell us," said Cicely. At that moment a distant door banged, and a great gust of wind blew along the gallery. Cicely started violently. "Lindsay, did you see?" she exclaimed. "The picture moved in its frame!" "Nonsense! How could it?" said Lindsay, who had been looking the other way. "I tell you it did!" "You must have imagined it." It certainly seemed rather improbable. The portraits were all firmly fixed in the panelled walls, and no breath of air could be expected to penetrate behind them. "It's almost as if she were alive," continued Cicely, "and just when we were wishing she could talk! No wonder people make up tales about her. I don't think I quite like it." "How silly you are!" said Lindsay scornfully. "You might have seen a ghost!" "Well, it is queer! You needn't laugh at me so. I'm not going to stay here any longer; I vote we go out into the garden." Pictures that moved were rather more than Cicely had bargained for. Mysteries were all very well in their way, but she began to feel it was possible to have too much of a good thing. It was a distinct relief to her to leave the gloomy old gallery, with its armour and tapestry, and walk out into the fresh air and sunshine. There was still half an hour to be disposed of before tea, and the two girls sauntered leisurely in the direction of the kitchen-garden. "I wish I knew where the boathouse used to be that Sir Piers wanted the key for," said Lindsay. "It was not very far away, I dare say. The river runs somewhere at the bottom of those fields." "I wonder if there's a path." "I believe there's one at the end of the orchard. I saw Scott walking down there once." "Shall we go and see?" "All right!"