There were no missing papers such as plays and novels are accustomed to have cunningly hidden in empty houses.

There was no stolen will, no hidden treasure, no money, no Rajah's ruby, no ransom of a king; these things Jean named over mentally, and chuckled at the idea of treasure-hunting at the Lazy A.

It vas very romantic, very mysterious, she told herself.

And she analyzed the sensation of little wet alligators creeping up her spine (that was her own simile), and decided that her book should certainly have a ghost in it; she was sure that she could describe with extreme vividness the effect of a ghost upon her various characters.
In this wise she recovered her composure and laughed at her fear, and planned new and thrilly incidents for her novel.
She would not tell Lite anything about it, she decided.

He would try to keep her from coming over here by herself, and that would precipitate one of those arguments between them that never seemed to get them anywhere, because Lite never would yield gracefully, and Jean never would yield at all,--which does not make for peace.
She wished, just the same, that Lite was there.