The secret of the Mansion

dog who frightened the horses this morning didn’t have rabies. He said that a mad dog will attack anything in its way, and if it bit a fox or a weasel or a skunk that animal would go mad, too, and attack anything or anybody."
    "I don’t believe it," Trixie said. "And, anyway, we’re not sure the dog did have rabies. It could have been foaming from the mouth because it got so hot thrashing around in the tangled vines." Trixie had already forgotten how terrified she had been earlier when she thought Bobby was alone in the woods with a mad dog, and she was convinced that Jim had deliberately made up a story about mad animals and dogs especially, just to tease Honey.
    When they arrived at the hedge, Honey drew back timidly. "You go first," she said. "I’m so jittery I think I’d faint if Queenie even cackled at me."
    Trixie laughed and led the way through the thicket, calling out to let Jim know that he didn’t have to hide. He promptly appeared at the window and eyed the lunch basket hungrily. "We ought to have a special signal," he said as they handed him the basket and climbed through the window. "I’ll teach you how to imitate a bobwhite; then, whenever I hear that bird call, I’ll always know it’s you."
    By the time they had spread out the picnic on the old mattress, both girls had learned how to whistle bob-white! almost as well as Jim could.
    "We really ought to clean up this place," Honey
    said, looking around the cluttered living room with distaste. "You can’t live here like this, Jim. It’s perfectly horrible."
    Jim shrugged. "It is pretty dirty, but, after all, Uncle James must have liked it this way so we have no right to change anything without his permission." He munched thoughtfully on a drumstick. "I wonder if he’ll ever get well. If he doesn’t, I’m out of luck."
    "Dad is sure to stop by the hospital on the way home," Trixie said, making a thick sandwich out of a buttered roll and a large slab of white meat. "I’ll bring you the latest news tomorrow morning."
    When they finished lunch, Trixie said excitedly, "I think we ought to start right now searching for the hidden treasure. If Mr. Frayne dies without ever regaining consciousness, nobody’ll ever know where it is."
    "How do you know there is any hidden treasure, Trixie?" Jim teased. "There’s a whole barrelful of bottle tops in the study, if that’s what you mean." Trixie ignored him. "I just have a feeling there’s a ton of money or jewels or something hidden around here. Let’s start looking." She scrambled to her feet.
    "I wouldn’t know where to begin," Honey said doubtfully.
    "Neither would I," Jim agreed. "Although I suppose that big rolltop desk is the most logical place."
    "I don’t think we’ll find it in a logical place," Trixie said. "If I were a miser and were afraid of robbers,
    I’d hide my treasure in the same room where I slept and in the most illogical place imaginable."
    "For instance?" Jim arched his eyebrows dubiously and waited for her to continue.
    "For instance," Trixie retorted, "this pile of old newspapers. No burglar would have the time or the patience to sort through them all, but between the pages would be a swell place to hide a will or stock certificates or even money."
    "You mean there might have been a method in my uncle’s madness?" Jim said, thoughtfully staring at the debris.
    "I wouldn’t go through that pile of filthy papers for anything," Honey said firmly. "It’s probably crawling with roaches. I agree with Jim. The desk is the place to look."
    But Trixie had already started riffling through the yellow sheets of faded newsprint. Jim and Honey watched her for a moment and then went into the study to search the desk. After a while, they called out that the desk was locked and that the chest of drawers contained nothing but a few acorns apparently left there by squirrels.
    Jim refused to break the lock of the desk without his uncle’s permission. "I keep thinking those bottle tops may be worth something," he said deridingly as they joined Trixie in the living room. Trixie worked on and on, and pretty soon they caught some of her enthusiasm and set to work on the other two stacks, which contained many old magazines and pamphlets.
    Trixie was nearing the bottom of her pile, and she was hot and dusty and discouraged. She was about to admit that she had been wrong when she came across a thick Sunday edition which was more neatly folded than any of the others. The newspaper was so old