Mollie was a practical girl, as must needs be one who drives an auto. She had pockets—a woeful lack with many—and matches.
It was the work of but a few seconds to set aglow the extinguished lantern, and how Mollie blessed the thought that had prompted taking both side lights with them. Otherwise she would have had to remain in the gloom. The lantern had not broken in the fall, and soon a cheerful glow made the room less gloomy, though it was a large apartment, and there were many flickering shadows, while the corners seemed in total darkness.
"But there's nothing there—can't be," decided Mollie, as she rose to her feet. "I just won't let myself be frightened."
Flashing the light about the room, the girl-prisoner made it out to be a large apartment, void of anything save a few broken sticks of furniture, and a litter of papers. The paper on the walls was mildewed and hanging in strips. There was a damp and musty smell in the place, but—joy of joys to Mollie—no rat holes. The floor was solid, and she could see no openings where the creatures might get in.
"So far—so good," she said aloud, and the sound of her own voice, in a measure, reassured her.
