She experienced a sense of contentment as she recalled the little horsehair trunk. Tonight she would spirit that away up to her room and there she would find adventure looking inside it. There would be letters, she told herself, and photographs--and--and perhaps some real treasure. At that moment her eyes caught a second box of keepsakes. These too she shoved away under the ragged quilt. "Tonight in my parlor," she told herself. She was rapidly coming to know that each trunk told the story of the owner. In her room she would read that story. Her parlor. Her brow wrinkled. What a mysterious room! So perfect, and in such a place. "And there's the concave mirror, and the whisper at dawn." She shuddered in spite of herself. Then she came out of her revery with a snap. The fat lady in the mink coat was approaching her uncle. She would offer half a dollar for the buffet runner. Gliding swiftly past, Grace whispered in her uncle's ear: "The price is three dollars." The "lady" gave her a suspicious glance. But the price _was_ three dollars. And in the end, three dollars the lady paid. "Is that all the trunks?" The fat lady turned a petulant, spoiled face toward the girl. "Are there no other trunks?" She snatched at the ragged blanket, but Grace was too quick for her, her foot was on its edge. "There are no other trunks to be opened today." "Oh--ah!" The "lady" sighed. "This has been such fun!" Fun? Grace turned away. And in turning she found herself presenting a tearful face to none other than Drew Lane her friend of the bus, who had entered unnoticed. "Well," he smiled, pretending not to see her tears. "How's the big store in Chicago?" "Great! Great!" She managed a smile. "How--how are all the people you look af--after?" she asked a bit unsteadily. "Oh, they're all right." He laughed a low laugh. "In fact--" His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper--"I've got some of them locked up. Quite a number. You see, I'm a city detective. This is part of my territory. I'll be seeing you often, I hope." She started and stared. That whisper! When one spoke out loud his voice could be recognized. She knew this. But a whisper? Could one truly recognize a whisper when he heard it the second time? It seemed incredible. And yet, Drew Lane's whisper was so like the one she had heard at dawn. "Impossible! A mere fancy!" She tried to free herself from this apparently unreasonable suspicion. "A penny for your thoughts," Drew Lane bantered. "No! No! Not for a dollar," was her quick reply. "All right," he laughed. "Anyway, I'll be seeing you. Got to hurry on down the street." He was gone, leaving the girl's head in a whirl. "Whispers at dawn?" she murmured as she made her way toward the horsehair trunk. "What about these?" She held the box of keepsakes from the big trunk up for her uncle's inspection. "What?" He stared. "These? Letters? Pictures?"