The Quest of the Missing Map by Carolyn G. Keene Page B

how?”
    In bewilderment Nancy looked at the cords binding the child’s ankles and hands which were crossed in front of her. She unknotted them as Trixie answered:
    “I thought you were that awful man coming back. So when you opened the panel, I knocked this big stick off the shelf. It fell on top of you.”
    She pointed to a croquet mallet lying on the floor.
    “Trixie, who put you in here? Tell me quickly.”
    “That horrid ghost you drew a picture of!”
    “And he brought you to the cottage?”
    “No, I came by myself,” Trixie admitted. “I didn’t think the ghost would bother me since the guards were around.”
    “How did you get in?”
    “With the key. I saw where my mother put it after she locked up the place.”
    “Then what happened?”
    “I was playing the piano when that bad man—the ghost—grabbed me. I couldn’t yell ’cause he put his hand over my mouth. He tied me up and carried me in here.”
    She gulped and started to cry again but Nancy gave her a comforting hug. Hand in hand they walked back to the house. Mrs. Chatham was so relieved to see her daughter she barely listened to Nancy’s explanation of what had happened to Trixie.
    When the excitement had subsided, Nancy mentioned the ransom note. “I wonder why the messenger hasn’t come yet. I should think the kidnappers wouldn’t lose any time sending someone over here, Mrs. Chatham.”
    “You’re right, Nancy. I’ll call the police right away so they can capture him.”
    “Perhaps,” Nancy said, “the man has been here and already left.”
    Seeing the woman’s confused expression, she explained, “Whoever was sent to get the money from you may have spotted Trixie and me outside, and knew the game was up. Please don’t worry any more, Mrs. Chatham. Get a good night’s rest and in the morning, if it’s all right, I’d like to resume the search for Captain Tomlin’s map.”
    Police were stationed at the house and the cottage. In the morning they reported to Nancy, who had stayed overnight, that no one had shown up.
    She and Mrs. Chatham went to the studio to examine the various ship models. Each bore a small brass plate with a name engraved on it, but the Warwick was not there. Moreover, a thorough examination of the miniature ships did not reveal a single hiding place.
    “Mrs. Chatham, how many did you sell?” Nancy asked.
    “About ten or twelve,” the woman said. “I listed the purchasers.”
    “You did?” Nancy cried, her spirits reviving. “And the names of each model?”
    “I don’t remember about that. Perhaps I can find the record book.”
    Mrs. Chatham returned to the main house, and within moments came back with a small black book.
    “Apparently I didn’t write down the names of the ship models,” she said, glancing through the book. “Only the prices paid and the eleven purchasers.”
    “Was Captain Tomlin’s vessel very well known?” Nancy asked.
    “No. It was a small ship and rather old.”
    “Then a model of it would be less likely to command a high price. I’m tempted to start our investigation with the purchasers of the least expensive ones.”
    They noted that a man named J. K. Trumbull had paid the lowest price. His address was given as Hope, a small city about twenty-five miles away. But to Nancy’s disappointment his telephone number was not listed in the directory.
    “I’ll have to drive there and try to find Mr. Trumbull,” she declared. “Maybe Bess and George will go with me.”
    When the girls were informed of the trip, both were eager to accompany Nancy. The cousins packed a picnic lunch and were waiting when she drove up in front of the Marvin residence.
    Within an hour the trio arrived in Hope and began making inquiries about J. K. Trumbull. A local shopkeeper finally directed them to a white frame house. Its owner was a short, curly-haired man.
    Introductions were exchanged and Nancy asked, “Mr. Trumbull, I understand you purchased a ship model of the Warwick. Is that