THE
SKELETON CREW;
OR,
WILDFIRE NED.

ILLUSTRATED WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS.

LONDON:
NEWSAGENTS’ PUBLISHING COMPANY, 147, FLEET STREET.

1867.

READ

THE

BOY SAILOR;

OR,

LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.

ONE OF THE MOST THRILLING TALES OF THE DAY.

Nos. 1 & Presented Gratis

TO EVERY PURCHASER OF THIS NUMBER.

PUBLISHED WEEKLY. PRICE ONE PENNY.

READ

“The Boys of England,”

THE

FAVOURITE PUBLICATION OF THE DAY.

SALE 150,000 WEEKLY.

GIFTS CONTINUALLY.

PRIZES OF WATCHES, SCARF PINS, CONCERTINAS, CRICKET BATS, FISHING RODS,
FOWLS, RABBITS, DUCKS, PET DOGS, and

TWO SHETLAND PONIES,

WILL BE DRAWN FOR IN A FEW WEEKS.

NEW TALE OF “WILD CHARLEY,” AND THE PRIZE TICKET
WAS GIVEN WITH No. 13.

Be in Time for the Next Distribution.

THE

SKELETON CREW,

OR,

WILDFIRE NED.

LOOK! LOOK! ’TIS THE CAPTAIN OF THE SKELETON CREW!!

The most exciting Story for Boys is “THE BOY SOLDIER, OR, GARIBALDI’S YOUNG CAPTAIN.”
Four Grand Pictures Given Away.

CHAPTER I.

THE MERRY PARTY AT THE “BLACK BULL”—THE STRANGE HORSEMAN AND RAMBLING BOB.

The incidents of this strange and exciting story occurred more than a hundred years ago.

It was in the month of December, and all the country was covered with snow to the depth of more than a foot.

The moon shone brightly over the pure white landscape, and, as far as the eye could range, nought was to be seen but leafless trees, which bowed and shook in a stiff north-west breeze, and their melancholy flutterings seemed to be like gentle moans and sighings at the white death-like pall which covered nature far and wide.

The pretty and picturesque village of Darlington was near the sea, and not more than fifty or sixty miles from London, and was situated in a pleasant valley on the main road, through which mail coaches were wont to pass both night and day.

The inhabitants had been long a-bed, for the chimes of the village church had tolled the solemn hour of midnight, and not a light could be seen anywhere save at the “Black Bull,” for on that memorable night some few of the villagers were celebrating the Christmas holidays at the comfortable inn with a merry country dance among themselves.

The sounds of fiddles and a flute, and the skipping of feet, could be heard, both in the parlours and tap-room.

Merry laughter and boisterous jollity resounded on all sides, and the light-hearted shouts of both men and maidens were caught up and echoed by the passing breeze.

The night, though clear and bright, was bitter, bitter cold, and every door and window of the “Black Bull” was firmly closed, and many fires were crackling within.

On a bench outside the tavern, and in part concealed by the deep shadows of its old, overhanging thatch-covered eaves, sat a powerful-looking youth with stick and bundle.

He sat there listening to the music inside, and more than once heaved a deep sigh.

It was almost impossible to see his features, but what little could be discerned showed that he was a handsome-looking and powerfully built rustic youth of about eighteen years of age.

He seemed desirous of remaining concealed in the deep shadows of the house, for he crouched close under the shadow of the overhanging roof.

If any one had been close enough to observe him they would have perceived that this country-looking youth not only frequently sighed but that more than once he hastily, and in an angry manner, dashed away from his eye a stray tell-tale tear-drop that trickled down his sun-burnt cheek.

He listened to the merriment within, and more than once a faint sickly smile lit up his handsome features.

The noise of loud laughter continued within, but all at once a labourer’s voice was heard, who shouted out, in stentorian tones—

“Come, lads and lasses, I’ll give ye all a toast! Fill up yer glasses to the brim, and do justice to it.”

“Hear! hear!”

“What is it, Mr. Chairman?” said one and another.

“Let’s have it, Hodge.”

“Well,” said Hodge, rising in his chair, glass in hand, whose shadow the young stranger could see reflected on the parlour blind; “well, lads and lasses all, here’s long life and good luck to our good, kind old master, Farmer Bertram! his health with three times three.”

The toast was responded to with a boisterous “three times three,” which shook the glasses on the table till they jingled, and made the windows tremble again.

The young man, when he heard this toast proposed, rose from his seat, and, picking up his bundle and stick, walked hastily away, with downcast head.

He had not gone far along the beaten snow track in the middle of the road ere he turned his head, and saw the figure of a single horseman approaching at a hard gallop!

The horseman rode a splendid coal-black mare, which seemed to fly over the ground with wonderful grace and ease.

The rider, himself, was elegantly dressed, and muffled up to the chin in a stylish great-coat, while his three-cornered hat was drawn over his eyes, and shaded his features so much that no one could scarce see his face distinctly.

When he approached the “Black Bull,” he stopped for a minute, as if undecided whether he would dismount or not.

After a time, however, he put spurs to his horse once more, and soon overtook the youth with his stick and bundle, who was slowly and thoughtfully walking along.

“Bitter cold night, friend,” said the horseman, checking his steed into a slow walk.

“Yes, it is,” was the sullen answer of the youth.

“Why are you not at the ‘Black Bull’ to-night?” said the rider, with a hoarse laugh. “Some of the lads seem to be enjoying themselves there in fine style. What made you leave so early?”

“Wasn’t there at all, if you must know.”

“Not invited, I suppose?”

“No; nor didn’t want to be.”

“Why not? Are you not fond of singing and dancing?”

“Yes; as much as any one; but still I wouldn’t go there to-night for any money.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re keeping up Farmer Bertram’s birthday.”

“Oh, indeed,” said the strange, young-looking horseman. “You don’t like Farmer Bertram, then, I suppose?”

“Yes I do. But he hates me though, I do believe,” said the youth, with a sigh.

“He discharged you from the farm, I suppose. What was it for? getting drunk, or poaching?”

“Neither. I wasn’t discharged at all. I left on my own account. If I wanted to work about these parts, I could get plenty to do from Sir Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall, that white house yonder on the hill, among that cluster of old oak trees.”

“You know Sir Richard Warbeck, then?”

“Aye, and have done this many a year; his adopted sons, too—Charley, as is now in London, and Wildfire Ned, as we call the brave lad, as lives up the Hall. I know ’em both, well.”

“You seem to know all about the people living around Darlington, I perceive.”

“I do. Who should know ’em better than me?”

“Who are you, then, my friend?” said the horseman, with a quick glance.

“They call me Rambling Bob, but Bob Bertram is my real name.”

“Bob Bertram?” said the stranger, with a glittering eye. “What, the only son of Farmer Bertram of Four Ash Farm?”

“Right, sir. Do ye know him?”

“Me? Bless the man, no!” said the horseman. “I don’t know any one hereabouts. I am on my way to a neighbouring village on urgent business.”

“More’s the pity then,” said Bob. “You might travel a long way afore you’d find a nicer or kinder old gentleman than Sir Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall.”

“So I’ve heard; and he’s very rich also, I am told.”

“There’s no mistake about that, sir. He’s a magistrate in the city of London, and is director of one of the best banks there. He adopted two orphan boys, and brought ’em up as his own sons. One’s in the London bank; but young Wildfire Ned, as we call him, won’t do nothing but go to sea. If they only mind themselves they are sure to fall into all Sir Richard’s money. If they don’t, though, and should go astray, they will have the door slammed in their face, as I had to-day.”

“You? by your father, Farmer Bertram?”

“Yes; and all because some time ago I picked up with a poor village lass as I loved as dearly as I love my life, and promised for to marry.”

“And did your father turn you out of house and home on that account?”

“He didn’t turn me out ’zactly,” said Bob. “I left, and went to sea for a few months. I was wrecked on the coast here a week back, without money or anything ’cept what I stand up in, and these leggings were given me this very day by Sir Richard’s gamekeeper as knows me, so I should go up to the farm and see the old man decent like.”

“And what did Farmer Bertram say to you?”

“Why, cause I had made up my mind to marry the lass I loved best, and father the child sleeping at her breast, he slammed the door in my face, and refused to give me a shilling.”

“That’s rather hard for a father to do,” said the horseman, with a cunning glance. “And what do you intend to do with yourself to-night? You can’t sleep in the open air, it would freeze you alive. Why don’t you try to get a situation of some kind?”

“That’s what I want to do; but my clothes are so shabby I don’t like to call on any one I knows. I shall creep into the old man’s house, and sleep there to-night, somehow, when all is quiet; but for an hour or two I shall stay in yonder old barn beside the road.”

“Oh! it’s a very hard case,” said the stranger; “particularly when you are the only son, and the old man is rich.”

“Ha, stranger; but better times are coming, I hope.”

“I’m glad you think so. Well, good night. Here’s a piece of silver to help you along,” said the horseman, offering money to the seedy and needy farmer’s son.

“No thank you,” said Rambling Bob, with a look of offended pride. “I’m not come to begging yet. I am strong enough to work for my daily bread without charity from strangers.”

“What! so poor, and refuse money? Ha! ha! quite a stoic, I perceive. Well, Mr. Bertram, if you will not take money, I’ve another offer to make. I have taken a fancy to that heavy, knobby stick you carry. Will you sell it?”

“I don’t mind that,” said Bob.

A bargain was soon concluded; the bludgeon changed hands for a guinea, and the stranger went his way.

That pleasant-speaking young horseman, muffled up to the eyes, was a deep designing villain!

He knew well all about Farmer Bertram’s affairs, and his son’s also.

Had Rambling Bob only known him at the moment, and fathomed his deep, dark designs, he would have been spared much misery in after life, and others also.

But of this young stranger we shall quickly hear more.

Let us follow him.

He rode direct to see Farmer Bertram at Four Ash Farm.

As he approached the old farm-house, standing some distance from the road, he stepped under a cluster of trees.

In a very mysterious manner he pulled out of his belt a pair of pistols and examined them.

“They are all right,” he said, with a bitter smile. “It is best to be prepared, I may want to use them.”

Having done this, he rode up a lane and in a few moments stood rapping at the farm-house door with his riding-whip.

“House ho!” he shouted, in a hoarse and unnatural voice.

In a second the door was opened by an aged woman.

The horseman dismounted, and entered the house.

As he did so, the watch dogs began to howl in a most horrible and hideous manner!

The stranger heard it.

His face turned to an ashy paleness, as he thought——

“That dismal howling, I have been told, is always looked upon by superstitious country people as an omen of death!”

It was an omen of death!

CHAPTER II.

FARMER BERTRAM RECEIVES A VISIT FROM BOLTON—BOLTON’S TREACHERY.

Farmer Bertram was in bed when the stranger entered, having had a fall from his horse while hunting.

The horseman said his business was of such pressing importance that he must see the farmer at once.

Bertram recognized the name, and directed his old servant to admit the stranger to his chamber at once.

“From Mr. Redgill, I believe?” said the farmer. “Are you his son? Excuse me not rising to receive you, but I am unwell. I intended to go to London in a day or two, and settle with Mr. Redgill at once, for I have collected all my rents, and sold my crops to advantage, so that I have got a good bit of ready money by me, much more than will pay off the last instalment of the mortgage he holds against me. Let me see,” said the farmer, opening a writing-desk near his bedside, “Let me see, here are the receipts; yes, one signed for £300, a second for £200, and a third for £1,000, and now I owe him £2,000 more. What a striking likeness there is between you and Mr. Redgill, though; now I come to look at you in a clear light, I would have sworn that you were his son.”

“Indeed!” laughed the young stranger, in an uneasy manner. “You have detected a likeness; most people say the same; but I am not his son, and, what is more, no relation either. You have heard of young Bolton, Mr. Redgill’s travelling and collecting clerk? Well, I am he.”

“And is Redgill in such a hurry for his money that he has sent you to collect it? Why, he expressly told me to use my own time, and call myself with it whenever I liked. I’m sure I have always been punctual with him.”

“I do not come for the money by any means,” said Bolton; “Mr. Redgill would not so insult you as to distrust your well-known honesty.”

“Because, if even you did call for the money, I should not have given it to you,” said the old man, smiling, “£2,000 can’t be trusted in everybody’s hands, you know, and although you may be as you say, Mr. Bolton, Redgill’s travelling and collecting clerk, I am not to know that; I have never seen you before, as I know of.”

“True,” said the stranger, smiling blandly; “I commend your prudence, Farmer Bertram; but the truth is, I was travelling to Portsmouth on business for Mr. Redgill, and stopped to bait my horse at the ‘Black Bull,’ and found some of your labourers enjoying themselves.”

“Yes, I gave them a treat to-night as it’s my birthday. I would have gone among them myself, only I felt very much upset by the wild behaviour of my only son Robert.”

“Exactly, and it’s about him that I have come so far out of my way, in order to inform you of him, and to warn you.”

“Warn me!” said the farmer, suddenly changing colour, and with looks of distrust at the stranger’s uneasiness of voice and manner.

“You have had a quarrel with him to-day, and slammed the door in his face.”

“I did. Who told you?” the old man asked. “No one but him and I were present.”

“I overheard him say as much to another in a whispered conversation.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; he knows that you have a large sum of money in the house, and is determined to rob you of it, and then run off with the slut he calls his sweetheart.”

“Rob me! his own father!”

“It is as true as gospel. That I am correct is plain, or how could I have learned so much of his and your affairs unless I overheard him?”

“Mr. Bolton, I’m sure you are right, and very kind to come here and warn me!”

“Oh, no thanks; it is a duty we owe one to another as men and Christians,” said Bolton, with a very pious air. “I was well armed myself, and though I am much pressed for time, I thought I would call and see you; fore-warned is fore-armed.”

“True, sir, true; and what would you have me do?”

“Do? that depends. Have you any servants about you that you can arm?”

“Not one, save an old woman I keep as housekeeper, more out of charity than anything else; all the rest are at the ‘Black Bull,’ having a dance and supper.”

“I see, I see,” said Bolton, biting his lip. “Well, you don’t want your son’s guilt exposed before the whole village, do you?”

“No! true, sir, true; he is my son, and, with all his faults, I don’t want to heap more shame on his head and mine.”

“Then I’ll tell you what to do.”

“What?”

“Send your old servant down to the two village constables with a private message, telling them all about the intended robbery; they will then come up and remain with you all night, and all will be well.”

“But the village is two miles or more by the road, and the old servant would take an hour or two to go and return. Bob might come in the meantime, find me all alone, and rob me of every penny I have in the world.”

“But he doesn’t know where you keep it, surely?” said Bolton, with a dry, cunning smile.

“Yes, he does; he knows I always keep my gold in that chest yonder by the window; but no one, save my friend Redgill, has any idea where I keep my bank notes,” said the farmer, with a sickly smile.

The stranger did.

He had heard Mr. Redgill speak of it as a capital joke that Farmer Bertram always concealed his bank notes in the inner lining of his boots!

But of this he said not a word.

“Ah! it’s a sad case,” said Bolton. “I am very sorry I cannot remain with you until the constables come, but business of pressing importance calls me away.”

Betty, the old servant, was instantly summoned, and toddled off to the village in all haste, much amazed at the message she had to tell to the constables.

Despite all the old farmer’s entreaties Mr. Bolton would not stay, but left at the same moment old Betsy did.

Both of them went down the lane together.

When they reached the high road Bolton said to the servant,

“If the constables should ask who gave this information, you know my name, old woman?”

“No, I don’t, kind gentleman,” was the croaking reply.

“You do not think I am Bob Bertram, then?” said the stranger.

“That I cannot say,” answered the old woman, “for you keep your hat so far over your face.”

“Well, tell them one Mr. Smith, of Portsmouth, called and told Farmer Bertram all about it.”

“I will, kind gentleman.”

“Make haste. Good night.”

Betsy went towards the village, and Bolton turned his horse’s head in a contrary direction and galloped away.

He had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when a bend in the road hid him from Betsy’s view.

Instead of riding onward, however, he spurred his horse, and leaped hedge after hedge, until he returned to the farm again in less than ten minutes.

He tied his horse to a tree in the orchard, and quietly approached the back door of the farm-house again.

All was darkness save a ray of light which issued from the farmer’s chamber.

Not a sound was heard except the mournful sighing of keen December night winds among the leafless trees.

Now and then, ’tis true, watch dogs shook their chains, and howled most dolefully and dismally, in tones unnatural, ominous and death-like.

Silently and softly did Bolton approach the house.

“He is alone,” he thought, “and too weak to leave his chamber. Now is my time, while all are away. His treasure must be mine!”

He tried the back door.

It was locked!

“It was not locked when I left,” the villain thought.

He tried it again.

The door chain rattled!

A window above was suddenly and violently slammed too, as if by the wind.

This startled Bolton.

He crawled round to the parlour window.

It was open!

He got in, and pulled off his boots.

He softly opened the door, and found himself in the large, dark entrance hall.

The slow and solemn ticking of the old hall clock seemed to strike his heart with pangs of remorse and horror.

He held his breath, and cold sweat oozed from his brow.

He could distinctly hear the loud pulsation and wild, excited beatings of his own vile heart as there he stood with wild eyes peering up the broad dark staircase.

“All is still,” he said, and prepared to ascend to the sick man’s room.

Each step was taken cautiously, and with cat-like softness.

But the stairs were old, and creaked with a warning sound.

He had reached the first landing, and stood in a dark recess to recover his breath.

Onward he went.

He could see the light streaming through the keyhole of the old man’s bed-room.

There remained now but one more flight of stairs.

The first step he took was arrested by an ominous click, which sounded like the cocking of a gun!

Bolton’s eyes now glared like two burning coals in the darkness around him.

His hand upon the bannister trembled, and a cold sweat flowed from every pore.

A sense of deadly horror seized him, but he knew not why.

He felt as if some unnatural and hideous being was watching him, and dogging his noiseless footsteps.

What could it be?

He knew not.

Some dreadful fear compelled him to crouch down low upon the landing from sheer exhaustion.

Bang! bang! suddenly burst out upon his astonished ears, and awoke loud echoes in the old farm-house.

A double-barrelled gun had been discharged at him, loaded with buck-shot, and by some one concealed at the head of the stairs.

A loud groan followed the flashes and report.

CHAPTER III.

THE MURDER OF FARMER BERTRAM—THE LEGLESS BODY—SUDDEN APPEARANCE OF THE SKELETON CREW.

“Black-hearted scoundrel!” said a voice, not far off. “Black-hearted scoundrel! I knew by the wicked twinkle of his eye that he meant me ill. Cunning as he was I have outwitted him. He is dead! He came here to rob and murder me! I will go and get a light, and view the body. Heaven knows, I did it in self-defence. What could an old man like I do with such a villain as that lying dead on the stairs, if he had once got into my chamber and found me in bed? Oh! Bolton, you lie a cold and bloody helpless carcase now, and you deserved it. The story of my son was a cruel trick, but you have paid dearly for it. I will go and get a light; I saw him in the orchard, and watched him.”

So saying, the old man walked across the landing into a chamber near his own where the lamp was.

At that instant Bolton rose quickly and bolt upright.

He was untouched!

The shot had in both instances missed him, for he had lain flat on the staircase.

He had groaned, it is true.

But this was in order to deceive old Bertram.

In a second he ascended the stairs, looked to his pistols, and, with Bob’s bludgeon in hand, stood beside the farmer’s chamber door.

He peeped in.

Bertram stood with his back towards the door trimming a lamp.

Bolton creeped up behind him.

In a moment the heavy bludgeon was raised, and descended with frightful force on the old man’s head!

A fearful crash it was.

In a second afterwards Farmer Bertram lay groaning on the floor.

“Murderer! my footsteps shall follow you wherever you go. When least you expect me I will appear to you! on land or sea; in your gay moments, in your sad moments; when alone, or when surrounded by friends; sleeping or waking, I, Bertram, your murdered victim, will stand by your side in the most horrid form, and follow you wherever you go!”

While thus cursing, Bertram rose, and, in his death grasp, took hold of Bolton’s throat, but Bolton, with a loud shriek, dashed the murdered man from him, and hurried into the next chamber to search for his gold.

He found several bags of money in an old oak chest.

The sight of the glittering coin ravished his eyes, dancing as they were with fiendish triumph.

“’Tis well,” said Bolton, “the old man is richer than I thought. Now for the notes; he has them concealed in the lining of his boots.”

Emptying the gold into his many large capacious pockets he unsheathed his dirk.

“I will cut his boots open, and secure the notes,” said he.

Lantern in hand, he re-entered the room where the lifeless body lay.

His eyes almost darted from their sockets at the sight he then saw.

Each hair on his head stood on end; he trembled in every limb.

His very marrow was frozen at the awful spectacle before him.

The body was legless!

Each leg had been disjointed just above the knee!

The limbs were gone!

“How could this happen?” mused the guilty man, trembling from head to foot.

Just at that moment he heard loud laughter outside in the garden—laughter not like that of men, but of demons.

He rushed to the window, and saw below the hideous forms of a dozen skeleton men, dancing and shouting in wild delight.

“Some of the Skeleton Crew!” he gasped, placing his hands before his face to shut out the horrid sight.

On the instant they vanished in the darkness, with loud shouts of mockery, like things of air!

Almost struck dumb with astonishment, he stood there, as if transfixed to the spot.

A gust of wind blew out his lamp.

In the dreadful darkness he heard the heavy footfalls of a man descending the stairs with slow and solemn step, while a voice, exactly like Farmer Bertram’s, was heard repeating in sepulchral tones in the hall below—

“My footsteps shall follow you, Phillip Redgill, for ever!”

“Phillip Redgill,” gasped the murderer, “that is my name! Oh, God! it is the farmer’s voice, and yet he is here, lifeless and legless! Hark, what steps are those I hear? who could have limbed him thus?”

While Bolton (or Phillip Redgill, as the spirit voice now properly called him) stood trembling thus, the ghostly voice said loudly again—

“Phillip Redgill, beware! my footsteps shall follow you for ever!”

Dropping the blood-stained bludgeon beside the body, Phillip Redgill rushed from the room, dashed down stairs, opened the back door, and ran towards the orchard.

He mounted his horse, and was about to start off at a furious gallop, when he gave a sharp, horror-stricken shout at something he saw.

The gory legs of the farmer stood bolt upright in the snow beside him!

“Phillip Redgill, I follow you.”

The murderer plunged spurs into his steed, and dashed from the spot with the swiftness of the wind.

He perceived Bob Bertram at some distance, who was approaching his father’s house.

It was as much as he could do to control his feelings; but he said to Bob,

“I have soon returned, you see.”

“Yes, ye haven’t been long.”

“No, and I have been so successful that I wish to be generous to all I meet to-night, and, if you are not too proud, I’ll begin with you.”

“How so, sir?” said Bob.

“You complained when last we spoke that you wanted good clothes in order to make a respectable appearance?”

“I did. What of that?”

“Why, I am a rich man and you poor. I’ll exchange clothes with you, and give you a purse full of money to start you a-fresh in life. What say you? I have taken a particular fancy to you, and like you.”

“I have not any objections,” said Bob, much amused at the horseman’s strange freak. “But where can we change?”

“Oh, this old barn will do, but we must be quick,” said the stranger, dismounting.

Bob soon exchanged clothes with the horseman; but he couldn’t help but remark that his companion had a very large amount of gold coin about him.

The stranger told him he had been out collecting for a very large London firm.

“There,” said Phillip, surveying Bob, “those clothes will make a man of you.”

“Mine alter your looks very much,” said Bob, laughing.

“Never mind that, my boy. I can afford to play such queer pranks, for I am rich. It will take my father quite by surprise to see me dressed in this manner.”

“And so it will mine when I go again.”

“Why not go to-night? Come, cheer up; put this purse in your pocket, and have a pull at my brandy flask; it will cheer you up. Go to him at once; he can’t be always angry with you.”

The stranger’s words were so kind and encouraging that, after he had galloped off, Bob determined to go boldly to his father’s house, and demand a lodging for the night.

The stranger’s brandy had aroused him, and made him feel rather flattered with his altered and gentlemanly appearance.

Thinking thus, he walked across the fields towards Four Ash Farm; but as he approached the dwelling he felt a sense of deep depression from some unknown cause—a feeling of chilliness and fear took possession of him.

He walked boldly up to the back door, however, and found it wide open.

Instead of the dogs joyfully yelping when he approached them, they rushed at him to the full length of their chains, howling most dismally.

He entered the house.

All was unearthly quiet.

“I will not disturb any one,” thought the prodigal son, “but creep into the parlour, and sleep on the sofa until morning.”

This he did on tiptoe, for fear of being heard, and was soon fast asleep.

In less than half-an-hour Betty returned, and with her two village constables.

They went upstairs to the farmer’s bed-room, conducted by old Betty.

She knocked at her master’s bed-room door three times.

There was no answer.

No light was burning.

She opened the door, and peeped in.