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of the cellar steps.
    “Take care, squaw,” he said, grinning. “We don’t want another tragedy on our hands. Watch your nethermost appendages as you descend those stairs.”
    “I’ll watch my step. You just see that your graceful fingers don’t drop that bowl,” Trixie said, annoyed.
    The cellar was dark and cold, and Trixie shivered as she looked around. Judging by its thick stone walls and its two barred windows, she guessed it must have been a wine cellar at one time.
    A single unshaded bulb hung from the ceiling. When she switched it on, Trixie could see shelves of jams and jellies and canned fruits.
    A large wooden barrel smelled pleasantly of apples, and Harrison’s derby hat sat neatly on top of it.
    She picked it up, then jumped as something brushed against her leg. She saw, to her relief, that it was only Henry the Eighth.
    “I’m not surprised that we couldn’t hear Harrison when he yelled to us for help,” she told the cat. “We might never have heard him if he hadn’t thumped on the cellar door.”
    Henry looked supremely uninterested. He leaped to the top of the barrel and began to wash himself.
    When Trixie returned to the kitchen, Mart was still at the sink. “Mart,” Trixie said, putting the hat on a counter top, “I’m going to try and lock myself in the cellar.”
    “Good,” he said, without turning. “I hope you’re successful, Sherlock. Then I’ll have you in my power, heh-heh!”
    But Trixie was not successful. She hadn’t really thought she would be. She slammed the heavy door again and again, but it didn’t lock.
    When she had finished, Mart said, “What was that all about?”
    Trixie was thoughtful. “Harrison said he went into the cellar and accidentally locked himself in.”
    “So?”
    “So it’s impossible. I knew all along he wasn’t telling us the truth. Honey and I really had to struggle with that bolt to let him out.”
    Mart stared. “It was bolted, too?”
    “From the kitchen side of the door,” Trixie said. “There was no way he could have done it himself.”
    “But what does it mean?”
    “It means,” Trixie said, “that someone else was here last night, and that someone else locked Harrison in the cellar and left him there. He must know it, but for some reason, he didn’t want to tell us about it.”
    She stared down at Harrison’s derby hat as if she wished it could talk.
    “But why wouldn’t Harrison tell us?” Mart asked.
    “I don’t know.” Trixie led the way back into the living room. “But I’m sure going to try and find out.”
    “What are you going to find out?” Di asked.
    “It’s elementary, my dear Di,” Mart drawled. “Trixie’s uncovered another one of life’s little mysteries. I have never met a female with such a propensity for puzzling problems.”
    “Speaking of puzzles,” Honey said, “will you look at this? I know I shouldn’t have read it, but—well—it is sort of eye-catching.”
    She reached up to the mantelpiece and took down the greeting card that Trixie had noticed before. There was a series of drawings on the front of it.
    The Bob-Whites gathered around to see.
    “Hey!” Mart exclaimed. “There’s a picture of Hoppy, the Town Hall weather vane.”
    “And this next one looks like a drawing of Sleepyside Hollow,” said Di.
    Trixie was looking over Di’s shoulder. “Jeepers! The next picture is a drawing of a hot dog, and the one after that is a flower. I wonder if it’ s supposed to be some sort of secret code?”
    Brian frowned. “Maybe it is. Let’s see. Hoppy the weather vane, Sleepyside Hollow, a hot dog, and a flower. Nope, it doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
    “There’s more,” Honey said and opened the card.
    Inside, in bold handwriting, was a single name: Jonathan.
    “I think we ought to put it back where we found it,” Jim said. “The emergency’s over, and this is somebody’s home.”
    “And I think we should leave a note for Mrs. Crandall,” Honey said, neatly replacing