Sara, slowly. “It sounds—rather like a cat—trying to get in.”

She left her chair and went to the skylight. It was a queer little sound she heard—like a soft scratching. She suddenly remembered something and laughed. She remembered a quaint little intruder who had made his way into the attic once before. She had seen him that very afternoon, sitting disconsolately on a table before a window in the Indian gentleman’s house.

“Suppose,” she whispered in pleased excitement—“just suppose it was the monkey who got away again. Oh, I wish it was!”

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