"It's no use, Cynthia. We've come to the end of our rope!" Joyce sat back on her heels (she had been through a box of old trash in the kitchen of the Boarded-up House) and wiped her grimy hands on the dust-cloth. Cynthia, perched gingerly on the edge of a rickety chair, nodded a vigorous .  
"I gave it up long ago. It seemed so hopeless! But you would continue to hunt, so I've around after you and said nothing."
 
More than three weeks had elapsed since the finding of the old newspaper and the definite settling of the date. Filled with new hope over this find, the girls had continued to search through the neglected old , strong in the belief that they would eventually discover, if not the missing key, at least a trail of clues that would lead to the unraveling of the mystery. The mystery, however, refused to be unraveled. They made no further discoveries, and to-day even Joyce expressed herself as completely discouraged.
 
"There's just one thing that seems to me foolish," Cynthia continued. "It's your still insisting that we keep from mentioning the Boarded-up House to outsiders. Good gracious! do you think they're all going to suspect that we're inside here every other day, just because you happen to speak of the place? If you do, it's your guilty conscience troubling you!" Cynthia had never spoken quite so sharply before. Joyce looked up, a little hurt.
 
"Why, Cynthia, what's the matter with you? One would think I'd been doing something wrong, the way you speak!"
 
"Oh, I didn't mean it that way," explained Cynthia, . "But you don't know how this remembering not to speak of it has got on my nerves! I catch myself a dozen times a day just going to make some innocent remark about the B. U. H., generally at the table, and then I stutter and blush, and they all ask what's the matter, and I don't know what in the world to answer! Now I have an idea. Perhaps it isn't worth anything; mine generally aren't! But it's this: why wouldn't it be a good scheme to get the older folks to talk about this house, without letting them know you have any special interest in it—just start the subject, somehow? I notice folks are liable to talk quite a long while on most any subject that's started. And they might have something to say that would interest us, and we might get some new clues. And I don't see any reason why they should connect us with it, ."
 
Joyce considered the subject in thoughtful silence.
 
"I believe you're right," she said at last. "It is silly to continue keeping so 'mum' about it, and we might get some good new points. Anyhow, in the detective stories Sherlock Holmes didn't keep everything so quiet, but talked to lots of outside people, and got ideas that way, too. Why didn't I think of it before! Good old Cynthia! You had the right notion that time. Come, let's go home now. I'm tired and sick of this dusty grubbing, and we're not going to do any more of it!"
 
Next morning, Joyce came flying over to Cynthia's house half an hour before it was time to start for high school. She seemed rather excited.
 
"Come on! Do hurry, Cyn! I've something important to tell you."
 
"But it isn't time to start yet," objected Cynthia, "and I'm only half through breakfast. Tell me here!" Joyce gave her a warning glance before turning away.
 
"Oh, later will do," she remarked , and strolled into the to chat with Mrs. Sprague. This was sufficient to hasten Cynthia, who usually loved to linger cozily over her morning meal. She had her hat and coat on and her books under her arm inside of seven minutes, and the two girls hurried away together. They were no sooner down the steps than Joyce began:
 
"Last night an idea came to me, just through some remark that Father happened to make. It's queer we never thought of it before. There's a real-estate agent over the other side of the town—Mr. —and he ought to know everything about all the property here. That's his business. Let's go to his office and ask him about the old house. He doesn't know us, and won't suspect anything. We'll go this afternoon, right after school!"
 
"But there's a meeting of the Sigma Sigma Society this afternoon," Cynthia , "and they're going to give that little play. I'm crazy to see it!"
 
"I don't care!" cried Joyce, recklessly. "What's the meeting of an old literary society compared to an important thing like this?"
 
"But we could do it just as well to-morrow."
 
"I can't wait till to-morrow, Cynthia Sprague!" And that settled the matter. They started on their expedition that very afternoon.
 
It was a , raw day, and they found Mr. Wade over a red-hot stove in his little office. He stared at them in some surprise as they entered.
 
"Pardon me," began Joyce, always the spokesman, "but I'd like to ask a question or two about the old boarded-up house on Avenue." Now the agent was not in the best of spirits that day. Business had been very dull, he had two children at home sick with , and he himself was in the first stage of a cold.
 
"I don't know anything about it!" he crossly. "It ain't in the market—never was!"
 
"Oh, we don't want to buy it or rent it!" explained Joyce, politely. "We only wanted to know if you knew the owners, where they live and what their names are."
 
"No, I don't!" he . "Tried to find out once. It's some estate. Business all through lawyers in New York, and[Pg 96] they won't open their heads about it. Plain as told me it was none of my affairs!"
 
"Then perhaps you could tell us—" Joyce was persisting, when the agent suddenly interrupted, turning on her suspiciously:
 
"Say, what do you want to know all this for? What's the old place to you, anyhow?"
 
"Oh, nothing—nothing at all!" protested Joyce, alarmed lest their precious secret was about to be discovered. "We only asked out of curiosity. Good day, sir!" And the two girls fled from the office.
 
"I was going to ask him the name of the lawyers," Joyce explained as they hurried away. "But it wouldn't do any good, I guess, if we knew. We couldn't go and question them, for it's plain from what the agent said that they don't want to talk about it. My, but that man was cranky, wasn't he!"
 
"I think he was sick," said Cynthia. "He looked it. Well, I suppose we will have to give it all up! We've tried just about everything." Suddenly she stopped and stood still, staring blankly at nothing.
 
"Come on!" urged Joyce. "Whatever is the matter with you, here like that?"
 
"I was just thinking—seems to me I remember something about the first day we got into the B. U. H. Didn't you tell me that you knew the house was left furnished, that somebody had told your father so?"
 
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