"Funniest sight ever! There Miss Yvonne was standing with a lamp in her hand, and Louis, with a pickaxe and shovel, had pried out one of the stones in the foundation near the big chimney and was poking around in the hole he'd made, while Miss Yvonne stared into it, those big black eyes of hers as round as saucers. While I was still looking, she shook her head, motioned Louis to put the stone back, and pointed to another a little farther along. I began to feel as if I'd lit on something that wasn't any business of mine, so instead of knocking on the window as I'd intended, I just got up and came away. Guess they must be hunting for buried treasure or something. Never knew they suspected the presence of any in their old ranch. Louis didn't look as if he were particularly enjoying the job, however." "Well, that's about all," he ended, suddenly remembering what, in the excitement of the little adventure, he had momentarily forgotten,--his superior pose toward all girls and toward his sister in particular. Then he vanished swiftly out of the room, lest they be moved to ask him any further questions and lest he be tempted to answer. After he had gone, Sue and Carol stared at each other in a maze of excited conjecture. "What do you make of it?" sighed Carol. "I don't make anything of it," declared Sue. "It sounds too mysterious for words. But I know this much. They weren't hunting for buried treasure. It's for papers of some kind. I'm sure of it. But what can they be about, and why should they be in the cellar?" But Carol was off on another tack. "At last we'll have something worth while to write about in our journals," she remarked. "Don't you ever think again, Susette Birdsey, that nothing exciting happens in our lives! I can fill up three or four pages about it." Her companion assented absently. "Do you realize," she suddenly exclaimed, "that here's where we got way ahead of the Imp? Serves her right for playing us such a mean trick and going out of the room. I call it a piece of downright luck!" CHAPTER III THE IMP HAS THE BEST OF IT December 31. This is New Year's Eve and it's nearly twelve o'clock. Carol and I promised each other that we'd sit up and see the old year out, and write in our journals. Carol is finishing a lovely poem she's been writing, called, "On New Year's Eve." It begins: The silent snow is falling light, On New Year's Eve, on New Year's Eve,-- That's all I can remember of it. The only trouble is that there isn't any snow falling to-night. There's a regular thaw on, and it's dreadfully warm and mushy. There's something awfully solemn about New Year's Eve. It makes you feel sorry for all the mean things you've done, and you form all sorts of good resolutions for the future. At least, I do, and so does Carol. But I have my doubts about the Imp. I don't believe she is sorry for a single thing she's ever done. She doesn't act so, anyway.