The Mansion in the Mist Read Free Page B

were probably a bunch of professors. I wouldn't spend any time mulling over that card if I were you, Anthony—you'll just be driving yourself buggy over nothing. It's not a clue to help you find a gold mine or anything like that. Tear it up and sleep well tonight!"
    Anthony nodded politely to Emerson and stuck the crumpled card in his pocket. In his heart he was not convinced by Emerson's wonderful explanation, but he didn't feel like arguing.
    The rest of the day was spent playing badminton and pinochle and arguing over baseball trivia. After the sun went down the three campers sat in rocking chairs on the front porch and watched the twilight deepen over Shadow Lake and the stars come out. An ominous silence spread over the water, and in the west a dark thunderhead was rising.
    "I think a storm is coming on," said Emerson, as he puffed at his meerschaum pipe. "And I'll bet it's going to be a real gully washer."
    "You're such a great weather forecaster," said Miss Eells. "You ought to be on television."
    "Isn't she wonderful, Anthony?" Emerson chortled. "And to think I've had to put up with her for more than sixty years. It's a wonder I haven't turned into an ax murderer or a mad strangler."
    "There's still time," muttered Miss Eells, and then she burst into a fit of giggles.
    Throughout all this kidding Anthony sat in stony silence. He was thinking of the mysterious disappearing chest. What if it returned to the empty room tonight? He hoped that it wouldn't. He really didn't want to see the thing again, ever. The trouble was, he couldn't get the chest out of his mind—it was burning a hole in his brain. What was it for? Did the password have anything to do with it? Every time he asked himself these questions his head ached.
    The stormy darkness on the lake deepened. A jagged streak of lightning split the sky, and thunder rumbled in the distance. A cold wind began to blow, and the three campers went inside for more pinochle. Miss Eells had baked some peanut butter cookies in the oven of the old iron cookstove, and they were delicious. Everybody guzzled ginger ale, talked a lot, argued over points, and had a good time. Finally the old shelf clock in the kitchen whanged eleven times, and everyone began to yawn.
    "Well, I guess it's sleepy time," sighed Miss Eells, as she gathered the cards together and stacked them neatly in the middle of the table. "There's one thing, you know, that's good about roughing it in the wilderness: If a storm hits, it can't knock out your power, because there isn't any."
    "You always see the bright side of things," sniffed Emerson. "Next year I am going to have a generator installed up here. It won't be picturesque, but at least we won't ruin our eyes trying to read by oil lamplight."
    One by one, Emerson, Miss Eells, and Anthony made their way to the table at the foot of the stairs. On it were three candles in brass holders, and several small boxes of matches. Everyone lit a candle and plodded wearily off to bed. But when Anthony got to the door of his room, he felt wide awake and tense. He sat down on the edge of his bed and tried to calm his beating heart, but in spite of all his efforts he still felt as if he was ready to jump out of his skin. What was he so worked up about? And then it hit him: the password, the Latin phrase he had found in the old dusty vase. What was it for? He had an idea now, a strange and fascinating idea. When he knelt over the old wooden chest in the back room, he felt that the swirling mists hid a doorway. A doorway to... to where? He had no idea where, but he did know that a password could unlock a door—at least, this is what the ancient tales said. All right then! What if...
    Anthony shook his head to clear it of the dangerous ideas that were floating around inside. "I won't go into that room," he said through gritted teeth. "Besides, the chest is gone."
    Wearily, Anthony stripped off his clothes and put on his pajamas. He yawned, blew out his candle, stretched,