31469	----	The Shunned House By H. P. LOVECRAFT _A posthumous story of immense power, written by a master of weird fiction--a tale of a revolting horror in the cellar of an old house in New England_ Howard Phillips Lovecraft died last March, at the height of his career. Though only forty-six years of age, he had built up an international reputation by the artistry and impeccable literary craftsmanship of his weird tales; and he was regarded on both sides of the Atlantic as probably the greatest contemporary master of weird fiction. His ability to create and sustain a mood of brooding dread and unnamable horror is nowhere better shown than in the posthumous tale presented here: "The Shunned House." From even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent. Sometimes it enters directly into the composition of the events, while sometimes it relates only to their fortuitous position among persons and places. The latter sort is splendidly exemplified by a case in the ancient city of Providence, where in the late forties Edgar Allan Poe used to sojourn often during his unsuccessful wooing of the gifted poetess, Mrs. Whitman. Poe generally stopped at the Mansion House in Benefit Street--the renamed Golden Ball Inn whose roof has sheltered Washington, Jefferson, and Lafayette--and his favorite walk led northward along the same street to Mrs. Whitman's home and the neighboring hillside churchyard of St. John's, whose hidden expanse of Eighteenth Century gravestones had for him a peculiar fascination. Now the irony is this. In this walk, so many times repeated, the world's greatest master of the terrible and the bizarre was obliged to pass a particular house on the eastern side of the street; a dingy, antiquated structure perched on the abruptly rising side hill, with a great unkempt yard dating from a time when the region was partly open country. It does not appear that he ever wrote or spoke of it, nor is there any evidence that he even noticed it. And yet that house, to the two persons in possession of certain information, equals or outranks in horror the wildest fantasy of the genius who so often passed it unknowingly, and stands starkly leering as a symbol of all that is unutterably hideous. The house was--and for that matter still is--of a kind to attract the attention of the curious. Originally a farm or semi-farm building, it followed the average New England colonial lines of the middle Eighteenth Century--the prosperous peaked-roof sort, with two stories and dormerless attic, and with the Georgian doorway and interior panelling dictated by the progress of taste at that time. It faced south, with one gable end buried to the lower windows in the eastward rising hill, and the other exposed to the foundations toward the street. Its construction, over a century and a half ago, had followed the grading and straightening of the road in that especial vicinity; for Benefit Street--at first called Back Street--was laid out as a lane winding amongst the graveyards of the first settlers, and straightened only when the removal of the bodies to the North Burial Ground made it decently possible to cut through the old family plots. At the start, the western wall had lain some twenty feet up a precipitous lawn from the roadway; but a widening of the street at about the time of the Revolution sheared off most of the intervening space, exposing the foundations so that a brick basement wall had to be made, giving the deep cellar a street frontage with door and one window above ground, close to the new line of public travel. When the sidewalk was laid out a century ago the last of the intervening space was removed; and Poe in his walks must have seen only a sheer ascent of dull gray brick flush with the sidewalk and surmounted at a height of ten feet by the antique shingled bulk of the house proper. [Illustration: "That awful door in Benefit Street which I had left ajar."] The farm-like ground extended back very deeply up the hill, almost to Wheaton Street. The space south of the house, abutting on Benefit Street, was of course greatly above the existing sidewalk level, forming a terrace bounded by a high bank wall of damp, mossy stone pierced by a steep flight of narrow steps which led inward between canyon-like surfaces to the upper region of mangy lawn, rheumy brick walks, and neglected gardens whose dismantled cement urns, rusted kettles fallen from tripods of knotty sticks, and similar paraphernalia set off the weather-beaten front door with its broken fanlight, rotting Ionic pilasters, and wormy triangular pediment. * * * * * What I heard in my youth about the shunned house was merely that people died there in alarmingly great numbers. That, I was told, was why the original owners had moved out some twenty years after building the place. It was plainly unhealthy, perhaps because of the dampness and fungous growths in the cellar, the general sickish smell, the drafts of the hallways, or the quality of the well and pump water. These things were bad enough, and these were all that gained belief among the persons whom I knew. Only the notebooks of my antiquarian uncle, Doctor Elihu Whipple, revealed to me at length the darker, vaguer surmises which formed an undercurrent of folklore among old-time servants and humble folk; surmises which never travelled far, and which were largely forgotten when Providence grew to be a metropolis with a shifting modern population. The general fact is, that the house was never regarded by the solid part of the community as in any real sense "haunted." There were no widespread tales of rattling chains, cold currents of air, extinguished lights, or faces at the window. Extremists sometimes said the house was "unlucky," but that is as far as even they went. What was really beyond dispute is that a frightful proportion of persons died there; or more accurately, _had_ died there, since after some peculiar happenings over sixty years ago the building had become deserted through the sheer impossibility of renting it. These persons were not all cut off suddenly by any one cause; rather did it seem that their vitality was insidiously sapped, so that each one died the sooner from whatever tendency to weakness he may have naturally had. And those who did not die displayed in varying degree a type of anemia or consumption, and sometimes a decline of the mental faculties, which spoke ill for the salubriousness of the building. Neighboring houses, it must be added, seemed entirely free from the noxious quality. This much I knew before my insistent questioning led my uncle to show me the notes which finally embarked us both on our hideous investigation. In my childhood the shunned house was vacant, with barren, gnarled and terrible old trees, long, queerly pale grass and nightmarishly misshapen weeds in the high terraced yard where birds never lingered. We boys used to overrun the place, and I can still recall my youthful terror not only at the morbid strangeness of this sinister vegetation, but at the eldritch atmosphere and odor of the dilapidated house, whose unlocked front door was often entered in quest of shudders. The small-paned windows were largely broken, and a nameless air of desolation hung round the precarious panelling, shaky interior shutters, peeling wall-paper, falling plaster, rickety staircases, and such fragments of battered furniture as still remained. The dust and cobwebs added their touch of the fearful; and brave indeed was the boy who would voluntarily ascend the ladder to the attic, a vast raftered length lighted only by small blinking windows in the gable ends, and filled with a massed wreckage of chests, chairs, and spinning-wheels which infinite years of deposit had shrouded and festooned into monstrous and hellish shapes. But after all, the attic was not the most terrible part of the house. It was the dank, humid cellar which somehow exerted the strongest repulsion on us, even though it was wholly above ground on the street side, with only a thin door and window-pierced brick wall to separate it from the busy sidewalk. We scarcely knew whether to haunt it in spectral fascination, or to shun it for the sake of our souls and our sanity. For one thing, the bad odor of the house was strongest there; and for another thing, we did not like the white fungous growths which occasionally sprang up in rainy summer weather from the hard earth floor. Those fungi, grotesquely like the vegetation in the yard outside, were truly horrible in their outlines; detestable parodies of toadstools and Indian-pipes, whose like we had never seen in any other situation. They rotted quickly, and at one stage became slightly phosphorescent; so that nocturnal passers-by sometimes spoke of witch-fires glowing behind the broken panes of the fetor-spreading windows. We never--even in our wildest Halloween moods--visited this cellar by night, but in some of our daytime visits could detect the phosphorescence, especially when the day was dark and wet. There was also a subtler thing we often thought we detected--a very strange thing which was, however, merely suggestive at most. I refer to a sort of cloudy whitish pattern on the dirt floor--a vague, shifting deposit of mold or niter which we sometimes thought we could trace amidst the sparse fungous growths near the huge fireplace of the basement kitchen. Once in a while it struck us that this patch bore an uncanny resemblance to a doubled-up human figure, though generally no such kinship existed, and often there was no whitish deposit whatever. On a certain rainy afternoon when this illusion seemed phenomenally strong, and when, in addition, I had fancied I glimpsed a kind of thin, yellowish, shimmering exhalation rising from the nitrous pattern toward the yawning fireplace, I spoke to my uncle about the matter. He smiled at this odd conceit, but it seemed that his smile was tinged with reminiscence. Later I heard that a similar notion entered into some of the wild ancient tales of the common folk--a notion likewise alluding to ghoulish, wolfish shapes taken by smoke from the great chimney, and queer contours assumed by certain of the sinuous tree-roots that thrust their way into the cellar through the loose foundation-stones. 2 Not till my adult years did my uncle set before me the notes and data which he had collected concerning the shunned house. Doctor Whipple was a sane, conservative physician of the old school, and for all his interest in the place was not eager to encourage young thoughts toward the abnormal. His own view, postulating simply a building and location of markedly unsanitary qualities, had nothing to do with abnormality; but he realized that the very picturesqueness which aroused his own interest would in a boy's fanciful mind take on all manner of gruesome imaginative associations. The doctor was a bachelor; a white-haired, clean-shaven, old-fashioned gentleman, and a local historian of note, who had often broken a lance with such controversial guardians of tradition as Sidney S. Rider and Thomas W. Bicknell. He lived with one man-servant in a Georgian homestead with knocker and iron-railed steps, balanced eerily on the steep ascent of North Court Street beside the ancient brick court and colony house where his grandfather--a cousin of that celebrated privateersman, Captain Whipple, who burnt His Majesty's armed schooner _Gaspee_ in 1772--had voted in the legislature on May 4, 1776, for the independence of the Rhode Island Colony. Around him in the damp, low-ceiled library with the musty white panelling, heavy carved overmantel and small-paned, vine-shaded windows, were the relics and records of his ancient family, among which were many dubious allusions to the shunned house in Benefit Street. That pest spot lies not far distant--for Benefit runs ledgewise just above the court house along the precipitous hill up which the first settlement climbed. When, in the end, my insistent pestering and maturing years evoked from my uncle the hoarded lore I sought, there lay before me a strange enough chronicle. Long-winded, statistical, and drearily genealogical as some of the matter was, there ran through it a continuous thread of brooding, tenacious horror and preternatural malevolence which impressed me even more than it had impressed the good doctor. Separate events fitted together uncannily, and seemingly irrelevant details held mines of hideous possibilities. A new and burning curiosity grew in me, compared to which my boyish curiosity was feeble and inchoate. The first revelation led to an exhaustive research, and finally to that shuddering quest which proved so disastrous to myself and mine. For at the last my uncle insisted on joining the search I had commenced, and after a certain night in that house he did not come away with me. I am lonely without that gentle soul whose long years were filled only with honor, virtue, good taste, benevolence, and learning. I have reared a marble urn to his memory in St. John's churchyard--the place that Poe loved--the hidden grove of giant willows on the hill, where tombs and headstones huddle quietly between the hoary bulk of the church and the houses and bank walls of Benefit Street. The history of the house, opening amidst a maze of dates, revealed no trace of the sinister either about its construction or about the prosperous and honorable family who built it. Yet from the first a taint of calamity, soon increased to boding significance, was apparent. My uncle's carefully compiled record began with the building of the structure in 1763, and followed the theme with an unusual amount of detail. The shunned house, it seems, was first inhabited by William Harris and his wife Rhoby Dexter, with their children, Elkanah, born in 1755, Abigail, born in 1757, William, Jr., born in 1759, and Ruth, born in 1761. Harris was a substantial merchant and seaman in the West India trade, connected with the firm of Obadiah Brown and his nephews. After Brown's death in 1761, the new firm of Nicholas Brown & Company made him master of the brig _Prudence_, Providence-built, of 120 tons, thus enabling him to erect the new homestead he had desired ever since his marriage. The site he had chosen--a recently straightened part of the new and fashionable Back Street, which ran along the side of the hill above crowded Cheapside--was all that could be wished, and the building did justice to the location. It was the best that moderate means could afford, and Harris hastened to move in before the birth of a fifth child which the family expected. That child, a boy, came in December; but was still-born. Nor was any child to be born alive in that house for a century and a half. The next April, sickness occurred among the children, and Abigail and Ruth died before the month was over. Doctor Job Ives diagnosed the trouble as some infantile fever, though others declared it was more of a mere wasting-away or decline. It seemed, in any event, to be contagious; for Hannah Bowen, one of the two servants, died of it in the following June. Eli Lideason, the other servant, constantly complained of weakness; and would have returned to his father's farm in Rehoboth but for a sudden attachment for Mehitabel Pierce, who was hired to succeed Hannah. He died the next year--a sad year indeed, since it marked the death of William Harris himself, enfeebled as he was by the climate of Martinique, where his occupation had kept him for considerable periods during the preceding decade. The widowed Rhoby Harris never recovered from the shock of her husband's death, and the passing of her first-born Elkanah two years later was the final blow to her reason. In 1768 she fell victim to a mild form of insanity, and was thereafter confined to the upper part of the house; her elder maiden sister, Mercy Dexter, having moved in to take charge of the family. Mercy was a plain, raw-boned woman of great strength; but her health visibly declined from the time of her advent. She was greatly devoted to her unfortunate sister, and had an especial affection for her only surviving nephew William, who from a sturdy infant had become a sickly, spindling lad. In this year the servant Mehitabel died, and the other servant, Preserved Smith, left without coherent explanation--or at least, with only some wild tales and a complaint that he disliked the smell of the place. For a time Mercy could secure no more help, since the seven deaths and case of madness, all occurring within five years' space, had begun to set in motion the body of fireside rumor which later became so bizarre. Ultimately, however, she obtained new servants from out of town; Ann White, a morose woman from that part of North Kingstown now set off as the township of Exeter, and a capable Boston man named Zenas Low. * * * * * It was Ann White who first gave definite shape to the sinister idle talk. Mercy should have known better than to hire anyone from the Nooseneck Hill country, for that remote bit of backwoods was then, as now, a seat of the most uncomfortable superstitions. As lately as 1892 an Exeter community exhumed a dead body and ceremoniously burnt its heart in order to prevent certain alleged visitations injurious to the public health and peace, and one may imagine the point of view of the same section in 1768. Ann's tongue was perniciously active, and within a few months Mercy discharged her, filling her place with a faithful and amiable Amazon from Newport, Maria Robbins. Meanwhile poor Rhoby Harris, in her madness, gave voice to dreams and imaginings of the most hideous sort. At times her screams became insupportable, and for long periods she would utter shrieking horrors which necessitated her son's temporary residence with his cousin, Peleg Harris, in Presbyterian Lane near the new college building. The boy would seem to improve after these visits, and had Mercy been as wise as she was well-meaning, she would have let him live permanently with Peleg. Just what Mrs. Harris cried out in her fits of violence, tradition hesitates to say; or rather, presents such extravagant accounts that they nullify themselves through sheer absurdity. Certainly it sounds absurd to hear that a woman educated only in the rudiments of French often shouted for hours in a coarse and idiomatic form of that language, or that the same person, alone and guarded, complained wildly of a staring thing which bit and chewed at her. In 1772 the servant Zenas died, and when Mrs. Harris heard of it she laughed with a shocking delight utterly foreign to her. The next year she herself died, and was laid to rest in the North Burial Ground beside her husband. Upon the outbreak of trouble with Great Britain in 1775, William Harris, despite his scant sixteen years and feeble constitution, managed to enlist in the Army of Observation under General Greene; and from that time on enjoyed a steady rise in health and prestige. In 1780, as a captain in the Rhode Island forces in New Jersey under Colonel Angell, he met and married Phebe Hetfield of Elizabethtown, whom he brought to Providence upon his honorable discharge in the following year. The young soldier's return was not a thing of unmitigated happiness. The house, it is true, was still in good condition; and the street had been widened and changed in name from Back Street to Benefit Street. But Mercy Dexter's once robust frame had undergone a sad and curious decay, so that she was now a stooped and pathetic figure with hollow voice and disconcerting pallor--qualities shared to a singular degree by the one remaining servant Maria. In the autumn of 1782 Phebe Harris gave birth to a still-born daughter, and on the fifteenth of the next May Mercy Dexter took leave of a useful, austere, and virtuous life. William Harris, at last thoroughly convinced of the radically unhealthful nature of his abode, now took steps toward quitting it and closing it for ever. Securing temporary quarters for himself and his wife at the newly opened Golden Ball Inn, he arranged for the building of a new and finer house in Westminster Street, in the growing part of the town across the Great Bridge. There, in 1785, his son Dutee was born; and there the family dwelt till the encroachments of commerce drove them back across the river and over the hill to Angell Street, in the newer East Side residence district, where the late Archer Harris built his sumptuous but hideous French-roofed mansion in 1876. William and Phebe both succumbed to the yellow fever epidemic of 1797, but Dutee was brought up by his cousin Rathbone Harris, Peleg's son. Rathbone was a practical man, and rented the Benefit Street house despite William's wish to keep it vacant. He considered it an obligation to his ward to make the most of all the boy's property, nor did he concern himself with the deaths and illnesses which caused so many changes of tenants, or the steadily growing aversion with which the house was generally regarded. It is likely that he felt only vexation when, in 1804, the town council ordered him to fumigate the place with sulfur, tar, and gum camphor on account of the much-discussed deaths of four persons, presumably caused by the then diminishing fever epidemic. They said the place had a febrile smell. Dutee himself thought little of the house, for he grew up to be a privateersman, and served with distinction on the _Vigilant_ under Captain Cahoone in the War of 1812. He returned unharmed, married in 1814, and became a father on that memorable night of September 23, 1815, when a great gale drove the waters of the bay over half the town, and floated a tall sloop well up Westminster Street so that its masts almost tapped the Harris windows in symbolic affirmation that the new boy, Welcome, was a seaman's son. Welcome did not survive his father, but lived to perish gloriously at Fredericksburg in 1862. Neither he nor his son Archer knew of the shunned house as other than a nuisance almost impossible to rent--perhaps on account of the mustiness and sickly odor of unkempt old age. Indeed, it never was rented after a series of deaths culminating in 1861, which the excitement of the war tended to throw into obscurity. Carrington Harris, last of the male line, knew it only as a deserted and somewhat picturesque center of legend until I told him my experience. He had meant to tear it down and build an apartment house on the site, but after my account decided to let it stand, install plumbing, and rent it. Nor has he yet had any difficulty in obtaining tenants. The horror has gone. 3 It may well be imagined how powerfully I was affected by the annals of the Harrises. In this continuous record there seemed to me to brood a persistent evil beyond anything in nature as I had known it; an evil clearly connected with the house and not with the family. This impression was confirmed by my uncle's less systematic array of miscellaneous data--legends transcribed from servant gossip, cuttings from the papers, copies of death certificates by fellow-physicians, and the like. All of this material I cannot hope to give, for my uncle was a tireless antiquarian and very deeply interested in the shunned house; but I may refer to several dominant points which earn notice by their recurrence through many reports from diverse sources. For example, the servant gossip was practically unanimous in attributing to the fungous and malodorous _cellar_ of the house a vast supremacy in evil influence. There had been servants--Ann White especially--who would not use the cellar kitchen, and at least three well-defined legends bore upon the queer quasi-human or diabolic outlines assumed by tree-roots and patches of mold in that region. These latter narratives interested me profoundly, on account of what I had seen in my boyhood, but I felt that most of the significance had in each case been largely obscured by additions from the common stock of local ghost lore. Ann White, with her Exeter superstition, had promulgated the most extravagant and at the same time most consistent tale; alleging that there must lie buried beneath the house one of those vampires--the dead who retain their bodily form and live on the blood or breath of the living--whose hideous legions send their preying shapes or spirits abroad by night. To destroy a vampire one must, the grandmothers say, exhume it and burn its heart, or at least drive a stake through that organ; and Ann's dogged insistence on a search under the cellar had been prominent in bringing about her discharge. Her tales, however, commanded a wide audience, and were the more readily accepted because the house indeed stood on land once used for burial purposes. To me their interest depended less on this circumstance than on the peculiarly appropriate way in which they dovetailed with certain other things--the complaint of the departing servant Preserved Smith, who had preceded Ann and never heard of her, that something "sucked his breath" at night; the death-certificates of the fever victims of 1804, issued by Doctor Chad Hopkins, and showing the four deceased persons all unaccountably lacking in blood; and the obscure passages of poor Rhoby Harris's ravings, where she complained of the sharp teeth of a glassy-eyed, half-visible presence. Free from unwarranted superstition though I am, these things produced in me an odd sensation, which was intensified by a pair of widely separated newspaper cuttings relating to deaths in the shunned house--one from the _Providence Gazette and Country-Journal_ of April 12, 1815, and the other from the _Daily Transcript and Chronicle_ of October 27, 1845--each of which detailed an appallingly grisly circumstance whose duplication was remarkable. It seems that in both instances the dying person, in 1815 a gentle old lady named Stafford and in 1845 a schoolteacher of middle age named Eleazar Durfee, became transfigured in a horrible way, glaring glassily and attempting to bite the throat of the attending physician. Even more puzzling, though, was the final case which put an end to the renting of the house--a series of anemia deaths preceded by progressive madnesses wherein the patient would craftily attempt the lives of his relatives by incisions in the neck or wrist. This was in 1860 and 1861, when my uncle had just begun his medical practise; and before leaving for the front he heard much of it from his elder professional colleagues. The really inexplicable thing was the way in which the victims--ignorant people, for the ill-smelling and widely shunned house could now be rented to no others--would babble maledictions in French, a language they could not possibly have studied to any extent. It made one think of poor Rhoby Harris nearly a century before, and so moved my uncle that he commenced collecting historical data on the house after listening, some time subsequent to his return from the war, to the first-hand account of Doctors Chase and Whitmarsh. Indeed, I could see that my uncle had thought deeply on the subject, and that he was glad of my own interest--an open-minded and sympathetic interest which enabled him to discuss with me matters at which others would merely have laughed. His fancy had not gone so far as mine, but he felt that the place was rare in its imaginative potentialities, and worthy of note as an inspiration in the field of the grotesque and macabre. For my part, I was disposed to take the whole subject with profound seriousness, and began at once not only to review the evidence, but to accumulate as much more as I could. I talked with the elderly Archer Harris, then owner of the house, many times before his death in 1916; and obtained from him and his still surviving maiden sister Alice an authentic corroboration of all the family data my uncle had collected. When, however, I asked them what connection with France or its language the house could have, they confessed themselves as frankly baffled and ignorant as I. Archer knew nothing, and all that Miss Harris could say was that an old allusion her grandfather, Dutee Harris, had heard of might have shed a little light. The old seaman, who had survived his son Welcome's death in battle by two years, had not himself known the legend, but recalled that his earliest nurse, the ancient Maria Robbins, seemed darkly aware of something that might have lent a weird significance to the French raving of Rhoby Harris, which she had so often heard during the last days of that hapless woman. Maria had been at the shunned house from 1769 till the removal of the family in 1783, and had seen Mercy Dexter die. Once she hinted to the child Dutee of a somewhat peculiar circumstance in Mercy's last moments, but he had soon forgotten all about it save that it was something peculiar. The granddaughter, moreover, recalled even this much with difficulty. She and her brother were not so much interested in the house as was Archer's son Carrington, the present owner, with whom I talked after my experience. * * * * * Having exhausted the Harris family of all the information it could furnish, I turned my attention to early town records and deeds with a zeal more penetrating than that which my uncle had occasionally shown in the same work. What I wished was a comprehensive history of the site from its very settlement in 1636--or even before, if any Narragansett Indian legend could be unearthed to supply the data. I found, at the start, that the land had been part of the long strip of home lot granted originally to John Throckmorton; one of many similar strips beginning at the Town Street beside the river and extending up over the hill to a line roughly corresponding with the modern Hope Street. The Throckmorton lot had later, of course, been much subdivided; and I became very assiduous in tracing that section through which Back or Benefit Street was later run. It had, as rumor indeed said, been the Throckmorton graveyard; but as I examined the records more carefully, I found that the graves had all been transferred at an early date to the North Burial Ground on the Pawtucket West Road. Then suddenly I came--by a rare piece of chance, since it was not in the main body of records and might easily have been missed--upon something which aroused my keenest eagerness, fitting in as it did with several of the queerest phases of the affair. It was the record of a lease, in 1697, of a small tract of ground to an Etienne Roulet and wife. At last the French element had appeared--that, and another deeper element of horror which the name conjured up from the darkest recesses of my weird and heterogeneous reading--and I feverishly studied the platting of the locality as it had been before the cutting through and partial straightening of Back Street between 1747 and 1758. I found what I had half expected, that where the shunned house now stood the Roulets had laid out their graveyard behind a one-story and attic cottage, and that no record of any transfer of graves existed. The document, indeed, ended in much confusion; and I was forced to ransack both the Rhode Island Historical Society and Shepley Library before I could find a local door which the name of Etienne Roulet would unlock. In the end I did find something; something of such vague but monstrous import that I set about at once to examine the cellar of the shunned house itself with a new and excited minuteness. The Roulets, it seemed, had come in 1696 from East Greenwich, down the west shore of Narragansett Bay. They were Huguenots from Caude, and had encountered much opposition before the Providence selectmen allowed them to settle in the town. Unpopularity had dogged them in East Greenwich, whither they had come in 1686, after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and rumor said that the cause of dislike extended beyond mere racial and national prejudice, or the land disputes which involved other French settlers with the English in rivalries which not even Governor Andros could quell. But their ardent Protestantism--too ardent, some whispered--and their evident distress when virtually driven from the village down the bay, had moved the sympathy of the town fathers. Here the strangers had been granted a haven; and the swarthy Etienne Roulet, less apt at agriculture than at reading queer books and drawing queer diagrams, was given a clerical post in the warehouse at Pardon Tillinghast's wharf, far south in Town Street. There had, however, been a riot of some sort later on--perhaps forty years later, after old Roulet's death--and no one seemed to hear of the family after that. For a century and more, it appeared, the Roulets had been well remembered and frequently discussed as vivid incidents in the quiet life of a New England seaport. Etienne's son Paul, a surly fellow whose erratic conduct had probably provoked the riot which wiped out the family, was particularly a source of speculation; and though Providence never shared the witchcraft panics of her Puritan neighbors, it was freely intimated by old wives that his prayers were neither uttered at the proper time nor directed toward the proper object. All this had undoubtedly formed the basis of the legend known by old Maria Robbins. What relation it had to the French ravings of Rhoby Harris and other inhabitants of the shunned house, imagination or future discovery alone could determine. I wondered how many of those who had known the legends realized that additional link with the terrible which my wider reading had given me; that ominous item in the annals of morbid horror which tells of the creature _Jacques Roulet, of Caude_, who in 1598 was condemned to death as a demoniac but afterward saved from the stake by the Paris parliament and shut in a madhouse. He had been found covered with blood and shreds of flesh in a wood, shortly after the killing and rending of a boy by a pair of wolves. One wolf was seen to lope away unhurt. Surely a pretty hearthside tale, with a queer significance as to name and place; but I decided that the Providence gossips could not have generally known of it. Had they known, the coincidence of names would have brought some drastic and frightened action--indeed, might not its limited whispering have precipitated the final riot which erased the Roulets from the town? * * * * * I now visited the accursed place with increased frequency; studying the unwholesome vegetation of the garden, examining all the walls of the building, and poring over every inch of the earthen cellar floor. Finally, with Carrington Harris's permission, I fitted a key to the disused door opening from the cellar directly upon Benefit Street, preferring to have a more immediate access to the outside world than the dark stairs, ground-floor hall, and front door could give. There, where morbidity lurked most thickly, I searched and poked during long afternoons when the sunlight filtered in through the cobwebbed above-ground windows, and a sense of security glowed from the unlocked door which placed me only a few feet from the placid sidewalk outside. Nothing new rewarded my efforts--only the same depressing mustiness and faint suggestions of noxious odors and nitrous outlines on the floor--and I fancy that many pedestrians must have watched me curiously through the broken panes. At length, upon a suggestion of my uncle's, I decided to try the spot nocturnally; and one stormy midnight ran the beams of an electric torch over the moldy floor with its uncanny shapes and distorted, half-phosphorescent fungi. The place had dispirited me curiously that evening, and I was almost prepared when I saw--or thought I saw--amidst the whitish deposits a particularly sharp definition of the "huddled form" I had suspected from boyhood. Its clearness was astonishing and unprecedented--and as I watched I seemed to see again the thin, yellowish, shimmering exhalation which had startled me on that rainy afternoon so many years before. Above the anthropomorphic patch of mold by the fireplace it rose; a subtle, sickish, almost luminous vapor which as it hung trembling in the dampness seemed to develop vague and shocking suggestions of form, gradually trailing off into nebulous decay and passing up into the blackness of the great chimney with a fetor in its wake. It was truly horrible, and the more so to me because of what I knew of the spot. Refusing to flee, I watched it fade--and as I watched I felt that it was in turn watching me greedily with eyes more imaginable than visible. When I told my uncle about it he was greatly aroused; and after a tense hour of reflection, arrived at a definite and drastic decision. Weighing in his mind the importance of the matter, and the significance of our relation to it, he insisted that we both test--and if possible destroy--the horror of the house by a joint night or nights of aggressive vigil in that musty and fungus-cursed cellar. 4 On Wednesday, June 25, 1919, after a proper notification of Carrington Harris which did not include surmises as to what we expected to find, my uncle and I conveyed to the shunned house two camp chairs and a folding camp cot, together with some scientific mechanism of greater weight and intricacy. These we placed in the cellar during the day, screening the windows with paper and planning to return in the evening for our first vigil. We had locked the door from the cellar to the ground floor; and having a key to the outside cellar door, were prepared to leave our expensive and delicate apparatus--which we had obtained secretly and at great cost--as many days as our vigils might be protracted. It was our design to sit up together till very late, and then watch singly till dawn in two-hour stretches, myself first and then my companion; the inactive member resting on the cot. The natural leadership with which my uncle procured the instruments from the laboratories of Brown University and the Cranston Street Armory, and instinctively assumed direction of our venture, was a marvelous commentary on the potential vitality and resilience of a man of eighty-one. Elihu Whipple had lived according to the hygienic laws he had preached as a physician, and but for what happened later would be here in full vigor today. Only two persons suspected what did happen--Carrington Harris and myself. I had to tell Harris because he owned the house and deserved to know what had gone out of it. Then too, we had spoken to him in advance of our quest; and I felt after my uncle's going that he would understand and assist me in some vitally necessary public explanations. He turned very pale, but agreed to help me, and decided that it would now be safe to rent the house. To declare that we were not nervous on that rainy night of watching would be an exaggeration both gross and ridiculous. We were not, as I have said, in any sense childishly superstitious, but scientific study and reflection had taught us that the known universe of three dimensions embraces the merest fraction of the whole cosmos of substance and energy. In this case an overwhelming preponderance of evidence from numerous authentic sources pointed to the tenacious existence of certain forces of great power and, so far as the human point of view is concerned, exceptional malignancy. To say that we actually believed in vampires or werewolves would be a carelessly inclusive statement. Rather must it be said that we were not prepared to deny the possibility of certain unfamiliar and unclassified modifications of vital force and attenuated matter; existing very infrequently in three-dimensional space because of its more intimate connection with other spatial units, yet close enough to the boundary of our own to furnish us occasional manifestations which we, for lack of a proper vantage-point, may never hope to understand. In short, it seemed to my uncle and me that an incontrovertible array of facts pointed to some lingering influence in the shunned house; traceable to one or another of the ill-favored French settlers of two centuries before, and still operative through rare and unknown laws of atomic and electronic motion. That the family of Roulet had possessed an abnormal affinity for outer circles of entity--dark spheres which for normal folk hold only repulsion and terror--their recorded history seemed to prove. Had not, then, the riots of those bygone seventeen-thirties set moving certain kinetic patterns in the morbid brain of one or more of them--notably the sinister Paul Roulet--which obscurely survived the bodies murdered and buried by the mob, and continued to function in some multiple-dimensioned space along the original lines of force determined by a frantic hatred of the encroaching community? Such a thing was surely not a physical or biochemical impossibility in the light of a newer science which includes the theories of relativity and intra-atomic action. One might easily imagine an alien nucleus of substance or energy, formless or otherwise, kept alive by imperceptible or immaterial subtractions from the life-force or bodily tissue and fluids of other and more palpably living things into which it penetrates and with whose fabric it sometimes completely merges itself. It might be actively hostile, or it might be dictated merely by blind motives of self-preservation. In any case such a monster must of necessity be in our scheme of things an anomaly and an intruder, whose extirpation forms a primary duty with every man not an enemy to the world's life, health, and sanity. What baffled us was our utter ignorance of the aspect in which we might encounter the thing. No sane person had ever seen it, and few had ever felt it definitely. It might be pure energy--a form ethereal and outside the realm of substance--or it might be partly material; some unknown and equivocal mass of plasticity, capable of changing at will to nebulous approximations of the solid, liquid, gaseous, or tenuously unparticled states. The anthropomorphic patch of mold on the floor, the form of the yellowish vapor, and the curvature of the tree-roots in some of the old tales, all argued at least a remote and reminiscent connection with the human shape; but how representative or permanent that similarity might be, none could say with any kind of certainty. * * * * * We had devised two weapons to fight it; a large and specially fitted Crookes tube operated by powerful storage batteries and provided with peculiar screens and reflectors, in case it proved intangible and opposable only by vigorously destructive ether radiations, and a pair of military flame-throwers of the sort used in the World War, in case it proved partly material and susceptible of mechanical destruction--for like the superstitious Exeter rustics, we were prepared to burn the thing's heart out if heart existed to burn. All this aggressive mechanism we set in the cellar in positions carefully arranged with reference to the cot and chairs, and to the spot before the fireplace where the mold had taken strange shapes. That suggestive patch, by the way, was only faintly visible when we placed our furniture and instruments, and when we returned that evening for the actual vigil. For a moment I half doubted that I had ever seen it in the more definitely limned form--but then I thought of the legends. Our cellar vigil began at ten p. m., daylight saving time, and as it continued we found no promise of pertinent developments. A weak, filtered glow from the rain-harassed street-lamps outside, and a feeble phosphorescence from the detestable fungi within, showed the dripping stone of the walls, from which all traces of whitewash had vanished; the dank, fetid and mildew-tainted hard earth floor with its obscene fungi; the rotting remains of what had been stools, chairs, and tables, and other more shapeless furniture; the heavy planks and massive beams of the ground floor overhead; the decrepit plank door leading to bins and chambers beneath other parts of the house; the crumbling stone staircase with ruined wooden hand-rail; and the crude and cavernous fireplace of blackened brick where rusted iron fragments revealed the past presence of hooks, andirons, spit, crane, and a door to the Dutch oven--these things, and our austere cot and camp chairs, and the heavy and intricate destructive machinery we had brought. We had, as in my own former explorations, left the door to the street unlocked; so that a direct and practical path of escape might lie open in case of manifestations beyond our power to deal with. It was our idea that our continued nocturnal presence would call forth whatever malign entity lurked there; and that being prepared, we could dispose of the thing with one or the other of our provided means as soon as we had recognized and observed it sufficiently. How long it might require to evoke and extinguish the thing, we had no notion. It occurred to us, too, that our venture was far from safe; for in what strength the thing might appear no one could tell. But we deemed the game worth the hazard, and embarked on it alone and unhesitatingly; conscious that the seeking of outside aid would only expose us to ridicule and perhaps defeat our entire purpose. Such was our frame of mind as we talked--far into the night, till my uncle's growing drowsiness made me remind him to lie down for his two-hour sleep. Something like fear chilled me as I sat there in the small hours alone--I say alone, for one who sits by a sleeper is indeed alone; perhaps more alone than he can realize. My uncle breathed heavily, his deep inhalations and exhalations accompanied by the rain outside, and punctuated by another nerve-racking sound of distant dripping water within--for the house was repulsively damp even in dry weather, and in this storm positively swamp-like. I studied the loose, antique masonry of the walls in the fungus-light and the feeble rays which stole in from the street through the screened window; and once, when the noisome atmosphere of the place seemed about to sicken me, I opened the door and looked up and down the street, feasting my eyes on familiar sights and my nostrils on wholesome air. Still nothing occurred to reward my watching; and I yawned repeatedly, fatigue getting the better of apprehension. Then the stirring of my uncle in his sleep attracted my notice. He had turned restlessly on the cot several times during the latter half of the first hour, but now he was breathing with unusual irregularity, occasionally heaving a sigh which held more than a few of the qualities of a choking moan. I turned my electric flashlight on him and found his face averted; so rising and crossing to the other side of the cot, I again flashed the light to see if he seemed in any pain. What I saw unnerved me most surprisingly, considering its relative triviality. It must have been merely the association of any odd circumstance with the sinister nature of our location and mission, for surely the circumstance was not in itself frightful or unnatural. It was merely that my uncle's facial expression, disturbed no doubt by the strange dreams which our situation prompted, betrayed considerable agitation, and seemed not at all characteristic of him. His habitual expression was one of kindly and well-bred calm, whereas now a variety of emotions seemed struggling within him. I think, on the whole, that it was this _variety_ which chiefly disturbed me. My uncle, as he gasped and tossed in increasing perturbation and with eyes that had now started open, seemed not one but many men, and suggested a curious quality of alienage from himself. * * * * * All at once he commenced to mutter, and I did not like the look of his mouth and teeth as he spoke. The words were at first indistinguishable, and then--with a tremendous start--I recognized something about them which filled me with icy fear till I recalled the breadth of my uncle's education and the interminable translations he had made from anthropological and antiquarian articles in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. For the venerable Elihu Whipple was muttering _in French_, and the few phrases I could distinguish seemed connected with the darkest myths he had ever adapted from the famous Paris magazine. Suddenly a perspiration broke out on the sleeper's forehead, and he leaped abruptly up, half awake. The jumble of French changed to a cry in English, and the hoarse voice shouted excitedly, "My breath, my breath!" Then the awakening became complete, and with a subsidence of facial expression to the normal state my uncle seized my hand and began to relate a dream whose nucleus of significance I could only surmise with a kind of awe. He had, he said, floated off from a very ordinary series of dream-pictures into a scene whose strangeness was related to nothing he had ever read. It was of this world, and yet not of it--a shadowy geometrical confusion in which could be seen elements of familiar things in most unfamiliar and perturbing combinations. There was a suggestion of queerly disordered pictures superimposed one upon another; an arrangement in which the essentials of time as well as of space seemed dissolved and mixed in the most illogical fashion. In this kaleidoscopic vortex of phantasmal images were occasional snap-shots, if one might use the term, of singular clearness but unaccountable heterogeneity. Once my uncle thought he lay in a carelessly dug open pit, with a crowd of angry faces framed by straggling locks and three-cornered hats frowning down on him. Again he seemed to be in the interior of a house--an old house, apparently--but the details and inhabitants were constantly changing, and he could never be certain of the faces or the furniture, or even of the room itself, since doors and windows seemed in just as great a state of flux as the presumably more mobile objects. It was queer--damnably queer--and my uncle spoke almost sheepishly, as if half expecting not to be believed, when he declared that of the strange faces many had unmistakably borne the features of the Harris family. And all the while there was a personal sensation of choking, as if some pervasive presence had spread itself through his body and sought to possess itself of his vital processes. I shuddered at the thought of those vital processes, worn as they were by eighty-one years of continuous functioning, in conflict with unknown forces of which the youngest and strongest system might well be afraid; but in another moment reflected that dreams are only dreams, and that these uncomfortable visions could be, at most, no more than my uncle's reaction to the investigations and expectations which had lately filled our minds to the exclusion of all else. Conversation, also, soon tended to dispel my sense of strangeness; and in time I yielded to my yawns and took my turn at slumber. My uncle seemed now very wakeful, and welcomed his period of watching even though the nightmare had aroused him far ahead of his allotted two hours. Sleep seized me quickly, and I was at once haunted with dreams of the most disturbing kind. I felt, in my visions, a cosmic and abysmal loneness; with hostility surging from all sides upon some prison where I lay confined. I seemed bound and gagged, and taunted by the echoing yells of distant multitudes who thirsted for my blood. My uncle's face came to me with less pleasant association than in waking hours, and I recall many futile struggles and attempts to scream. It was not a pleasant sleep, and for a second I was not sorry for the echoing shriek which clove through the barriers of dream and flung me to a sharp and startled awakeness in which every actual object before my eyes stood out with more than natural clearness and reality. 5 I had been lying with my face away from my uncle's chair, so that in this sudden flash of awakening I saw only the door to the street, the window, and the wall and floor and ceiling toward the north of the room, all photographed with morbid vividness on my brain in a light brighter than the glow of the fungi or the rays from the street outside. It was not a strong or even a fairly strong light; certainly not nearly strong enough to read an average book by. But it cast a shadow of myself and the cot on the floor, and had a yellowish, penetrating force that hinted at things more potent than luminosity. This I perceived with unhealthy sharpness despite the fact that two of my other senses were violently assailed. For on my ears rang the reverberations of that shocking scream, while my nostrils revolted at the stench which filled the place. My mind, as alert as my senses, recognized the gravely unusual; and almost automatically I leaped up and turned about to grasp the destructive instruments which we had left trained on the moldy spot before the fireplace. As I turned, I dreaded what I was to see; for the scream had been in my uncle's voice, and I knew not against what menace I should have to defend him and myself. Yet after all, the sight was worse than I had dreaded. There are horrors beyond horrors, and this was one of those nuclei of all dreamable hideousness which the cosmos saves to blast an accursed and unhappy few. Out of the fungus-ridden earth steamed up a vaporous corpse-light, yellow and diseased, which bubbled and lapped to a gigantic height in vague outlines half human and half monstrous, through which I could see the chimney and fireplace beyond. It was all eyes--wolfish and mocking--and the rugose insect-like head dissolved at the top to a thin stream of mist which curled putridly about and finally vanished up the chimney. I say that I saw this thing, but it is only in conscious retrospection that I ever definitely traced its damnable approach to form. At the time, it was to me only a seething, dimly phosphorescent cloud of fungous loathsomeness, enveloping and dissolving to an abhorrent plasticity the one object on which all my attention was focussed. That object was my uncle--the venerable Elihu Whipple--who with blackening and decaying features leered and gibbered at me, and reached out dripping claws to rend me in the fury which this horror had brought. It was a sense of routine which kept me from going mad. I had drilled myself in preparation for the crucial moment, and blind training saved me. Recognizing the bubbling evil as no substance reachable by matter or material chemistry, and therefore ignoring the flame-thrower which loomed on my left, I threw on the current of the Crookes tube apparatus, and focussed toward that scene of immortal blasphemousness the strongest ether radiations which man's art can arouse from the spaces and fluids of nature. There was a bluish haze and a frenzied sputtering, and the yellowish phosphorescence grew dimmer to my eyes. But I saw the dimness was only that of contrast, and that the waves from the machine had no effect whatever. Then, in the midst of that demoniac spectacle, I saw a fresh horror which brought cries to my lips and sent me fumbling and staggering toward that unlocked door to the quiet street, careless of what abnormal terrors I loosed upon the world, or what thoughts or judgments of men I brought down upon my head. In that dim blend of blue and yellow the form of my uncle had commenced a nauseous liquefaction whose essence eludes all description, and in which there played across his vanishing face such changes of identity as only madness can conceive. He was at once a devil and a multitude, a charnel-house and a pageant. Lit by the mixed and uncertain beams, that gelatinous face assumed a dozen--a score--a hundred--aspects; grinning, as it sank to the ground on a body that melted like tallow, in the caricatured likeness of legions strange and yet not strange. I saw the features of the Harris line, masculine and feminine, adult and infantile, and other features old and young, coarse and refined, familiar and unfamiliar. For a second there flashed a degraded counterfeit of a miniature of poor mad Rhoby Harris that I had seen in the School of Design museum, and another time I thought I caught the raw-boned image of Mercy Dexter as I recalled her from a painting in Carrington Harris's house. It was frightful beyond conception; toward the last, when a curious blend of servant and baby visages flickered close to the fungous floor where a pool of greenish grease was spreading, it seemed as though the shifting features fought against themselves and strove to form contours like those of my uncle's kindly face. I like to think that he existed at that moment, and that he tried to bid me farewell. It seems to me I hiccupped a farewell from my own parched throat as I lurched out into the street; a thin stream of grease following me through the door to the rain-drenched sidewalk. * * * * * The rest is shadowy and monstrous. There was no one in the soaking street, and in all the world there was no one I dared tell. I walked aimlessly south past College Hill and the Athenæum, down Hopkins Street, and over the bridge to the business section where tall buildings seemed to guard me as modern material things guard the world from ancient and unwholesome wonder. Then gray dawn unfolded wetly from the east, silhouetting the archaic hill and its venerable steeples, and beckoning me to the place where my terrible work was still unfinished. And in the end I went, wet, hatless, and dazed in the morning light, and entered that awful door in Benefit Street which I had left ajar, and which still swung cryptically in full sight of the early householders to whom I dared not speak. The grease was gone, for the moldy floor was porous. And in front of the fireplace was no vestige of the giant doubled-up form traced in niter. I looked at the cot, the chairs, the instruments, my neglected hat, and the yellowed straw hat of my uncle. Dazedness was uppermost, and I could scarcely recall what was dream and what was reality. Then thought trickled back, and I knew that I had witnessed things more horrible than I had dreamed. Sitting down, I tried to conjecture as nearly as sanity would let me just what had happened, and how I might end the horror, if indeed it had been real. Matter it seemed not to be, nor ether, nor anything else conceivable by mortal mind. What, then, but some exotic _emanation_; some vampirish vapor such as Exeter rustics tell of as lurking over certain churchyards? This I felt was the clue, and again I looked at the floor before the fireplace where the mold and niter had taken strange forms. In ten minutes my mind was made up, and taking my hat I set out for home, where I bathed, ate, and gave by telephone an order for a pickax, a spade, a military gas-mask, and six carboys of sulfuric acid, all to be delivered the next morning at the cellar door of the shunned house in Benefit Street. After that I tried to sleep; and failing, passed the hours in reading and in the composition of inane verses to counteract my mood. At eleven a. m. the next day I commenced digging. It was sunny weather, and I was glad of that. I was still alone, for as much as I feared the unknown horror I sought, there was more fear in the thought of telling anybody. Later I told Harris only through sheer necessity, and because he had heard odd tales from old people which disposed him ever so little toward belief. As I turned up the stinking black earth in front of the fireplace, my spade causing a viscous yellow ichor to ooze from the white fungi which it severed, I trembled at the dubious thoughts of what I might uncover. Some secrets of inner earth are not good for mankind, and this seemed to me one of them. My hand shook perceptibly, but still I delved; after a while standing in the large hole I had made. With the deepening of the hole, which was about six feet square, the evil smell increased; and I lost all doubt of my imminent contact with the hellish thing whose emanations had cursed the house for over a century and a half. I wondered what it would look like--what its form and substance would be, and how big it might have waxed through long ages of life-sucking. At length I climbed out of the hole and dispersed the heaped-up dirt, then arranging the great carboys of acid around and near two sides, so that when necessary I might empty them all down the aperture in quick succession. After that I dumped earth only along the other two sides; working more slowly and donning my gas-mask as the smell grew. I was nearly unnerved at my proximity to a nameless thing at the bottom of a pit. Suddenly my spade struck something softer than earth. I shuddered, and made a motion as if to climb out of the hole, which was now as deep as my neck. Then courage returned, and I scraped away more dirt in the light of the electric torch I had provided. The surface I uncovered was fishy and glassy--a kind of semi-putrid congealed jelly with suggestions of translucency. I scraped further, and saw that it had form. There was a rift where a part of the substance was folded over. The exposed area was huge and roughly cylindrical; like a mammoth soft blue-white stovepipe doubled in two, its largest part some two feet in diameter. Still more I scraped, and then abruptly I leaped out of the hole and away from the filthy thing; frantically unstopping and tilting the heavy carboys, and precipitating their corrosive contents one after another down that charnel gulf and upon the unthinkable abnormality whose titan _elbow_ I had seen. * * * * * The blinding maelstrom of greenish-yellow vapor which surged tempestuously up from that hole as the floods of acid descended, will never leave my memory. All along the hill people tell of the yellow day, when virulent and horrible fumes arose from the factory waste dumped in the Providence River, but I know how mistaken they are as to the source. They tell, too, of the hideous roar which at the same time came from some disordered water-pipe or gas main underground--but again I could correct them if I dared. It was unspeakably shocking, and I do not see how I lived through it. I did faint after emptying the fourth carboy, which I had to handle after the fumes had begun to penetrate my mask; but when I recovered I saw that the hole was emitting no fresh vapors. The two remaining carboys I emptied down without particular result, and after a time I felt it safe to shovel the earth back into the pit. It was twilight before I was done, but fear had gone out of the place. The dampness was less fetid, and all the strange fungi had withered to a kind of harmless grayish powder which blew ash-like along the floor. One of earth's nethermost terrors had perished for ever; and if there be a hell, it had received at last the demon soul of an unhallowed thing. And as I patted down the last spadeful of mold, I shed the first of the many tears with which I have paid unaffected tribute to my beloved uncle's memory. The next spring no more pale grass and strange weeds came up in the shunned house's terraced garden, and shortly afterward Carrington Harris rented the place. It is still spectral, but its strangeness fascinates me, and I shall find mixed with my relief a queer regret when it is torn down to make way for a tawdry shop or vulgar apartment building. The barren old trees in the yard have begun to bear small, sweet apples, and last year the birds nested in their gnarled boughs. [Illustration] Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Weird Tales_ October 1937. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. 
4700	----	This Etext is for private use only. No republication for profit in print or other media may be made without the express consent of the Copyright Holder. The Copyright Holder is especially concerned about performance rights in any media on stage, cinema, or television, or audio or any other media, including readings for which an entrance fee or the like is charge. Permissions should be addressed to: Frank Morlock, 6006 Greenbelt Rd, #312, Greenbelt, MD 20770, USA or frankmorlock@msn.com. Other works by this author may be found at http://www.cadytech.com/dumas/personnage.asp?key=130 THE UNFORSEEN RETURN Comedy in One Act BY REGNARD Translated and adapted By Frank J. Morlock Characters French names Mr. Edward Richly (Clitandre) Belinda (Lucile) Clarissa (Cydalise) Squire (Marquis) Lucy (Lisette) Mrs. Prim (Mme. Bertrand) Roger (Merlin) Jeremy (Jacquinet) Mr. Andre (M. Andre) Mr. Richly (M. Geronte) Six men, four women The scene is a street before Richly's house. Lucy, a maid is approaching from one side and encounters Mrs. Prim. Mrs. Prim: Ah, there you are! I'm very glad to meet you. Let's take the opportunity to have a little serious conversation, Miss Lucy. Lucy: (easily) Just as serious as you please, Mrs. Prim. Mrs. Prim: You know perfectly well that I am displeased with the behavior of my niece. Lucy: Really Madam. And what's she done wrong, may I ask? Mrs. Prim. She does nothing but wrong--and to make it worse she surrounds herself with a wench like you who gives her the worst possible advice and who pushes her over the precipice--where she's heading if she hasn't already fallen. Lucy: Well, Mrs. Prim, this is at the very least, a serious conversation as you put it--and if I were to respond as seriously I don't know where it might end. But the respect I have for your age, and for the aunt of my mistress prevents me from responding to you without respect. Mrs. Prim: My age! You're a model of moderation! Lucy: It would be nice if you were, too, Madam. You are not the first to spread scandal about your niece; remarks that have no foundation except in your disordered imagination. Mrs. Prim: My disordered imagination! What impudence. (furiously) It's the disorder of your actions which make me speak out--and there is nothing worse than the life you are living. Lucy: How is that--what's wrong with our life if you please? Mrs. Prim: What? Is there anything more scandalous than the expenditures Belinda is constantly making--a girl without a penny in income. Lucy: You have credit, Madame. Mrs. Prim: Just what she needs to maintain a large house and extravagant tastes. Lucy: Is she forbidden to make her fortune? Mrs. Prim: And how is she to make her fortune? Lucy: Very innocently. She drinks, eats, sings, laughs, gambles, walks to take the air--and wealth comes to us while we sleep, I assure you. Mrs. Prim: And meanwhile her reputation evaporates. She'll learn. She won't have a penny of mine. My brother, who wanted her to be a nun will disinherit her. Patience, patience, she won't always be young. Lucy: Very true, that's why we must put our time to good use. Mrs. Prim: Oh, very well--and all the profit you will get from that will be to die in a charity ward: both dishonored. Lucy: Oh, for that, no Madam. A successful marriage will prevent that prophecy from being fulfilled. Mrs. Prim: A successful marriage. She's going to get married? Lucy: Yes indeed. Mrs. Prim: Just in time! But I won't be a party to it. I won't help her make anyone think she's either respectable or rich. I renounce her as my niece, and I will not aid her to deceive anyone; goodbye. Lucy: Don't trouble yourself--we know our business better than you. Mrs. Prim: I believe this will be some grand alliance! (Exit Mrs. Prim in a huff) Lucy: This will be a fine marriage and when it is consummated you will be honored to receive her and be her aunt. (shouting after Mrs. Prim) You just wait and see! (Lucy is annoyed, stung by Mrs. Prim's remarks. She would like to say more but cannot.) Roger: (entering) Good day, child. Who was that old lady you were talking with? Lucy: Who? That was Mrs. Prim, my mistress's aunt. Roger: I didn't recognize her. I wasn't paying much attention. Lucy: The old girl's very well off. She owns a lot of property in London. Belinda is very well connected, at least. Roger: But she hasn't any money of her own. Lucy: There's no reason to give up. Money will come. If her three uncles, two aunts, three cousins and two nephews die--she will have a very large inheritance. Ha, ha! Do you know that if the Plague were to strike again, Belinda would cut quite a figure. Roger: She has a nice figure already. Lucy: Her beauty carries all before it. Roger: My master is absolutely determined to marry her. Lucy: And she is absolutely determined to marry him. Roger: There would perhaps be some trouble if our good father were to return --but he won't for a while. We'll have the time to prepare and my master will be happy--except for the chagrin of marrying Belinda. Lucy: What--what are you trying to say? Roger: Marriage is subject to its ups and downs. Lucy: You are very polite to think that Mr. Edward would ever repent of marrying Belinda, a young lady that I have brought up myself. Roger: So much the worse. Lucy: A pretty girl, young and well developed. Roger: That part doesn't reassure me. Lucy: A girl easy to live with. Roger: Most girls are not hard to live with--at first. Lucy: A young lady who is wise and virtuous. Roger: (wonderingly) And you say you raised her? Lucy: (furiously) Why don't you go ahead and say what you want to say wiseacre? Roger: Well do you want me to speak openly? I don't like this alliance at all. And I forsee that it won't benefit anyone. Mr. Edward spends his money because he is in love and love makes a man open handed: marriage ruins love. If my master becomes a miser where will we be? Lucy: He's of too prodigal a nature ever to turn miser. Has he given orders for today's feast? Roger: Let's see. Three cooks arrived with their set ups. Leonard, the famous Leonard marched at their head. The illustrious Florel has sent six bottles of Champagne--he made it himself. Lucy: So much the better. I love expensive stuff--but here is Mr. Edward. (Edward Townley enters from the house. He is youthful, open, and expensively dressed.) Edward: Ha! Good day, my dear Lucy--how are things with you, child? And how is your beautiful lady? Lucy: She's at home with Clarissa. Edward: Go, run, my dear Lucy: beg her to come here as soon as possible. I have no happy moments except those I pass with her. Lucy: You two are made for each other. When you're not around she's bored to death. She won't delay I promise you. (Exit Lucy) Roger: Well, sir! You're really going to get married? Very soon you will have finished your love affair and your money. Not the best way to finish the business. But if you are going to do it so be it. What will we tell your father when he returns from his business trip to Spain? Edward: You always have inopportune thoughts. Look my friend: frolic in the present, have no regret for the past; and don't whatever you do read irritating portents in the future. That's the secret of happiness. By the way, haven't you received any money for me in the past few days? Roger: In the last three weeks I've obtained a half year's rent on the farm in advance. In return you've given Farmer Small a quittance for the entire year. Edward: Excellent! Roger: Last week I received 1,800 pounds for those two paintings your father refused to sell for thirty thousand. Edward: Fine! Roger: Fine! Also, I got 200 pounds for that tapestry your father purchased for five thousand two years ago. Edward: Better! Roger: Yes, yes, we've had a real white sale during his absence haven't we? Edward: It's a little nourishment that we must take sometimes; and we will work together on more nourishment in the future. Roger: Work by yourself because I have a bad conscience about being the instrument of your ruin. It's with my help you've been able to dissipate 10,000 pounds, not to mention another ten thousand you owe here and there to usurers and money lenders, who are just waiting to fall on us and gobble everything up when the day comes to pay them back. Edward: The one who disturbs me the most and causes me the most embarrassment is this Mr. Andre. He persecutes me and I only owe him a hundred pounds! Roger: He isn't only after that. You also gave him a promissory note for 500 pounds. Four days ago he took out a judgement on the note. And it won't be pleasant if you spend your wedding night in jail. Edward: (calmly) We will find a way to deal with him. Roger: What way? We have no cash at all. All your income is taken in advance and spent as received. The townhouse furniture has been sold for a song--we've cut down the timber at the country house under the pretext of using it for fuel. As for me, I swear to you that I see no way out. Edward: If my father can be kept from returning another five or six months I will have plenty of time to repair by my economy the expensive disorders of my youth. Roger: Assuredly. And your esteemed father, for his part--hasn't he worked hard to amass all this wealth? Edward: Without a doubt. Roger: It's better that you practice this foolishness while he's still alive. After he's dead he won't be in a position to straighten things out. Edward; You're right, Roger. Roger: Sir, you're not so bad that you can't, at least, speak well. Your father will have made a huge profit from his trip--and you will have made a huge expenditure in his absence. Of what can he complain when he returns? It will be as if he had never gone, and at worst it will be his fault for having been so foolish as to make the trip. Edward: You're really talking some sense today, Roger. Roger: Between you and me, your father is not very bright. I've led him by the nose and you know it. I can make him believe anything I want to. And when he comes back this time I think I still have power enough to pull you out of this sorry mess. Let's go sir. Good cheer and a warm fire. Courage returns to me. How many for dinner tonight? Edward: Five or six. Roger: And your dear friend the self styled Squire who has helped you to gobble up so much of your wealth so stylishly--will he be here? Edward: He promised me he would, but here is the charming Belinda and her cousin-- (Enter Belinda, Clarissa and Lucy) Belinda: The precautions you make me take, Edward, can only be justified by the success they are having--and I will be entirely lost in worldliness if our marriage doesn't end all the pleasure parties I'm used to. Edward: I have never had any other sentiments, pretty Belinda--and here is your friend who can bear witness to it. Clarissa: I guarantee the goodness of your heart if you must take this moment to justify yourself; but I, who never get mixed up in anything adventurous and who haven't seen the conclusion of this affair--what kind of role must I play--and what will people say of it, I pray? Roger: They'll say that people are known by the company they keep--and that the company made you get married. My master has so many friends--you have only to pick. Lucy: Take one, madame. The crazier things are--the more fun. Come on--make a choice! Clarissa: I'll marry the devil. Now that you mention it, I think I'll marry off Lucy--because of the company. It's a very contagious example. Edward: I wish you'd follow our example. I have a young friend who is alienated from his family. That's the way to recommend him. Has he told you of his feelings? Clarissa: No. This sort of marriage doesn't interest me. I don't follow anyone's lead. I want to take a husband as independent as I am. Edward: Well said. My friend isn't the type to let you put a bridle on him. Roger: But here is the Squire who comes to see you. I am going to see if everything is ready for your supper. (Exit Roger to the house) Squire: (entering from the street) Your servant, my friend. Ah, ladies, I am delighted to see you. You are waiting for me and that's very proper. I am the very soul of your parties, I admit. The premier mover in your pleasures, I know it. Where are we now? Is the supper ready? Are we getting married? Shall we abandon ourselves to wine? Come on, bring on the gaiety--I've never been in such a mood, in such spirits--I defy you to bore me. Clarissa: Truly, Squire, you were wise to wait. Lucy: It would be silly if a Squire were the first to come! One would think he had nothing to do. Squire: I assure you ladies that my coach cannot fly faster. It's less than three quarters of an hour since I left Saint James. You know I usually use arabian horses. There are simply no better horses for a quick rendezvous. Edward: What affair is so pressing? Squire: If we didn't have flying carriages like that we'd miss half our opportunities. Melinda: And since when, Squire, are you mixed up with going to court? It seems that you ordinarily stay at Oxford. Squire: Well, what of it, my dear. (To Edward) Here you are awash in pleasure--you swim in delights. You know the interest that I take in all that concerns you. What happiness when two well tested hearts approach the long awaited moment--there one sees the ending of--a novel. This is a great day for you. Edward: I feel my happiness in all this talk. (To Squire) But tell me, I beg you, have you been, as you promised, to the jeweler for the diamonds? Squire: (to Clarissa) And you pretty cousin, what is it? Your heart says nothing to you? The example should encourage you--don't you wish, in marrying, to pay your debts to love and nature? It is terrible to be useless in this world. Clarissa: I am not bored yet with my virginity. Squire: Whenever you please we will take the same momentous step--hearts united. I am made for the ladies, and, in all modesty, the ladies are made for me. May I be damned if you are not to my taste. I am ready to love you one day to the point of adoration--to the point of madness! But not to the point of marriage. I like amours without consequences-- you understand me, I'm sure? Lucy: Truly, this speech is so plain it needs no commentary. What! Squire! For shame! Squire: You can't know how much this little fellow shames me. It is true this little bourgeois hasn't an equal, and that I treat him like family, introduce him into society, teach him to gamble, educate his taste in manners, furniture, and horses. I lead him a little astray--but these little gentlemen are not very happy unless one inspires them with the manners of the court and they learn to ruin themselves in two or three years. Lucy: Have you many scholars? Squire: Where is Roger? I don't see him here. He's a pretty fellow. I love him. I find him admirable as a trickster, to keep off creditors, to calm usurers, to persuade and pacify merchants. To sell all the furniture in a house quietly and quickly. How fashionable, how witty of your father, how prudent, to leave you a governor so wise, an economist so knowing. This rogue values twenty thousand pounds rent, the same way a baby does a half penny. (Enter Roger) Roger: Ladies and gentlemen, when you wish to enter supper is ready. Squire: Yes. Well said. We mustn't lose time. I told you that Roger was a pretty fellow. I feel in a praiseworthy mood to drink wine. You will see if I remain in that mood. Come ladies--those who love me--follow me. Edward: Moments are very precious to lovers. Let's not lose any time. (Exit all but Roger into the house) Roger: Well, thank God, business is good, our lovers are happy. May Heaven make it last a long while! But what do I see? There, I believe comes Jeremy, the valet of our absent master. (Enter Jeremy) Jeremy: At last I'm home. Hey, good day, Roger--the prodigal returns. How are you? Roger: And you--dreadful apparition, how are you? Jeremy: As you see, couldn't be better. A little tired, but we had a very successful trip. Roger: What! "We" had a very successful trip? You didn't come alone? Jeremy: What a question. Of course not. Came with my master. He went to the customs house with the merchandise while I came with the personal baggage and the joyous news for his son that he is returned in perfect health. Roger: News like that will certainly rejoice him. (Low) What are we going to do? Jeremy: Something wrong? You don't look well--and you don't seem very glad to see us. Roger: I'm not. This is most troublesome. All is lost. Now tell me--will he be kept at the custom house long? Jeremy: No--he'll be here any minute. Roger: In an minute? I think I'll go nuts. Jeremy: But what the hell's the matter with you? Roger: I don't know. Oh, the cursed old man. To return at such a bad time-- and not to forewarn us. What a treacherous bastard. Jeremy: You must be up to something deep; this unexpected return hasn't upset your plans too much, has it? Roger: Oh, no! They'll all mixed up--by all the devils in hell! Jeremy: Too bad. Roger: Jeremy, my poor, Jeremy, help me to arrange things, I beg you. Jeremy: Me-- What do you want me to do? Roger: Go--rest. Go in. You'll find good company--nothing to upset you. They'll make you drink Champagne. Jeremy: Not hard to get me to do that. Roger: Tell Mr. Edward that his father is back--but not to worry, I will wait for him here--and try to do all I can. I will sell myself to the devil if I know what! Tell him not to worry, and as for you, begin by getting drunk and go to bed. Jeremy: I will obey your orders exactly, don't fret. (Exit Jeremy into the house) Roger: Come, Roger, pull yourself together my boy: courage! Here we have a violent father returning impromptu from a long trip; a son in the midst of an orgy; the house in disorder full of cooks and caterers in preparation for an impending wedding--and all we have to do is prevent this from being discovered. Ah, here comes the old man. Let's stand aside a little and think of a way to prevent him from entering his own house. (Enter Mr. Richly) Richly: Now after all my work and all the risks I've run-- See: by Heaven's grace, my voyage has a happy ending. I return to my dear old home and I believe my son will be very happy to see me back and in good health. Roger: (aside) Not as happy as we would be to know you are well--but elsewhere. Richly: Children owe a good deal to fathers who work tirelessly to leave them well off. Roger: (aside) Yes; but not to those who return so inopportunely. Richly: I don't wish to delay anymore entering home and giving my son the pleasure of knowing I'm safely returned. I believe the poor boy will die of joy to see me. Roger: (aside) It wouldn't surprise me if he's already half dead just knowing you're here. But it's necessary to meet him. (Aloud) What do I see? Just Heaven--am I awake--is it a ghost? Richly: I believe if I am not deceived, that it's Roger. Roger: Indeed, it is Mr. Richly himself--or else the devil in his shape. Seriously speaking, is it you, my dear master? Richly: Yes, it's me, Roger. How've you been? Roger: As you see, sir, very much at your service like a faithful servant, bright eyed and bushy-tailed--and always ready to obey you. Richly: That's good news. Let's go in. Roger: We weren't expecting you and I assure you, you have fallen on us from the clouds, as it were. Richly: No, I came by carriage from Portsmouth where my ship happily arrived several days ago. But now-- Roger: How well you look! What a face! How stout! The air in Spain must do wonders for men of your age. You ought to stay there, sir--for your health-- (Low) and our safety. Richly: And how is my son? Has he taken good care of the business? Is it profitable under his management? Roger: Oh, as to that, why I tell you, he has done so well--you wouldn't believe how he's into money. Your business is in a state that would astonish you--my word on it. Richly: You really make me happy, Roger, to give me such fine news. He's stored up a big pile of money, eh? Roger: Not at all, sir. Richly: Not at all? How's that! Roger: No, I tell you this boy is the best manager you could wish. He follows your footsteps. He drives your money like a race horse. If he can make a buck he will work day and night. Richly: That comes from setting kids a good example. I'm dying with impatience to hug him. Come along, Roger. Roger: He's not inside, sir, and if you are in a hurry to see him, I suggest-- (Enter Mr. Andre) Andre: Good day, Roger-- Roger: Your servant, Mr. Andre, your servant. (Low) Here's a villainous loan shark who picks a fine time to come demand his money. Andre: You know, Mr. Roger, I've been here everyday lately without finding your master. If he cannot pay me today, tomorrow I will swear out a warrant against him and you know it very well. Roger: (aside) This will ruin us. Richly: What's this all about? Roger: I will explain everything to you when we are alone. Nothing to be concerned about! Andre: A mere business of one hundred pounds owed to me for which I have a receipt and a judgement which I intend to put into execution. Richly: What's he talking about, Roger? Roger: He's a fiend who will do just what he says. Richly: Edward owes you--? Andre: Yes, indeed, Mr. Edward Richly, a child whose father is off somewhere and who will be pleasantly surprised on his return when he learns of the life his son has led in his absence. Roger: This doesn't look too good. Andre: The son is a gambler, a spendthrift, and a wencher, while they say the father is a villain, a miser, and a tightass. Richly: What do you intend to say to this miser and tightass? Andre: I don't want to talk to you, I want to speak to the father of Mr. Edward Richly who is in two words an imbecile and a fool. Richly: Roger-- Roger: He's telling you the truth, sir. Mr. Edward does owe him-- Richly: And you told me of his exemplary conduct. Roger: Yes, sir. It's a result of his careful management that he owes this money. Richly: What--borrow money from a loan shark. (To Mr. Andre) I see by looking at you, sir, that you're in the right line. Andre: Yes, sir, and I believe that you are also in the same profession. Roger: (aside) How easily honest men recognize each other. Richly: You dare to say this is the result of his superior management! Roger: Peace! Don't say a word. When you know the bottom of this thing you will be enchanted. He has bought a house--a mansion for ten thousand pounds-- Richly: A house for ten thousand? Roger: And easily worth fifteen. He didn't have enough cash, so in order not to lose the bargain, he borrowed money from this honest swindler you see here. You are not so angry as you were, I bet. Richly: On the contrary, I'm overjoyed. Oh, sir, this Mr. Edward who owes you the money is my son. Roger: And this gentleman is the father--got it? Andre: I've overjoyed as well. Richly: Don't worry about your money. I approve what my son has done. Come back tomorrow and you will have your money--in cash. Andre: I'm your servant, sir. (Exit Mr. Andre, delighted) Richly: Now tell me in what part of town is the house located? Roger: In what part of town? Richly: Yes, there are several neighborhoods. This one here for example. Roger: Well, indeed, it's also located in this quarter. Richly: Good--so much the better. Where exactly? Roger: Hold on--(pointing) Do you see that house with an arbor where the windows have been repainted? Richly: Yes, well--? Roger: That's not it. But a little farther off. The one with the big gatehouse which is right next to the other one. Well, it's a little behind that on the next street. Cattycornered to it. Richly: I don't see that one from here. Roger: I can't help that. Richly: Isn't that the home of Mrs. Prim? Roger: Right. Mrs. Prim. Couldn't remember her name. Good buy, isn't it? Richly: Absolutely. But why did the stupid woman sell off her inheritance? Roger: One can't foresee everything that will happen in life as the philosophers say. She's been very unfortunate--she's gone plum crazy. Richly: Gone crazy? Roger: Raving. Her family tried to stop her. And her son who is a rake gave his house for a fraction of the money hers was worth. (Low) I'm getting in deeper and deeper. Richly: But she doesn't have any son that I know of. Roger: She doesn't have a son? Richly: No. I'm sure of it. Roger: Must have been her daughter then. Richly: I'm irritated by this mischance. But I've amused myself long enough. Open the door for me, will you? Roger: (low) Ouf! Now we've reached the crisis. Richly: What's the matter? Has something happened to my son? Roger: No, sir. Richly: Has someone stolen something in my absence? Roger: Not at all. (Low) What will I tell him? Richly: Explain everything. Speak. Roger: I an hardly keep from crying. Don't go in, sir. Your house--this dear house--which you love--has for the last six months-- Richly: Well--my house--for the last six months-- Roger: The devil is haunting the place, sir. He made us take up residence elsewhere. Richly: The devil is in my house? Roger: Yes, sir. Haunts the place. In fact, that's what has forced your son to buy another house. We couldn't live there any more. Richly: You're kidding me. It isn't possible. Roger: There's no sort of malicious trick they haven't put on me. Sometimes they mock me when I'm unable to move my feet. Sometimes they shave my beard with a red hot razor--and without fail every night they affront me with the stench of sulfur. Richly: And now I say again, you're putting me on. Roger: Not at all, sir. What hasn't happened to me? We've brought the best exorcists in London. There's no way to force them out; this spirit is furiously tenacious--he's the one that possesses women when they have the devil in them. Richly: A horrible thought has occurred to me. Tell me, I beg you, have they been in the wine cellar? Roger: Alas, sir, they forage everywhere. Richly: I am lost. I buried fifty thousand pounds in that wine cellar. Roger: Fifty thousand pounds! Sir, there are fifty thousand pounds in your house? Richly: In the wine cellar. Roger: In the wine cellar. That's exactly where they hold their Sabbath.-- Oh, if only we had known this. And where in the wine cellar if you please? Richly: To the left as you enter. Under a big block of stone near the door. Roger: Fifty thousand pounds under a big block of stone! You should have told us--we could have saved you from this unlucky pass. It's on the left as you go in, you say. Richly: Yes. The place is easy to find. Roger: I'll easily find it. But you know, sir, that it's worth your life-- you're risking your neck to go in there? And the whole sum is in gold? Richly: All in pure gold. Roger: (aside) Good. Easier to carry. (Aloud) Oh, as to that, sir, since we know the cause of the evil it won't be hard to find a remedy. I believe we'll--manage. Leave it to me. Richly: I have trouble believing all you tell me. You tell me so many stories about these matters that I don't know what to believe. I'll trust you for now, but I'll find out what's what. What reversals one sees in life! One can't make a little money without men or the devil trying to get it away from you. The devil is not going to have it! (Exit Richly) (Enter Lucy) Lucy: Ah, my poor Roger. Is it true that Mr. Edward's father has returned? Roger: Only too true, but to console us, I have found a treasure. Lucy: A treasure? Roger: In the wine cellar, as you enter--to the left under a large black stone--a sack which contains fifty thousand pounds. Lucy: Fifty thousand pounds. Roger: Yes, child, and I tell you that will be plenty--run find the sack, the sack--hurry! Lucy: But-- Roger: The devil take you with your buts. Mr. Richly will return. Save yourself--hide, quickly. To the treasure. To the treasure. (Exit Lucy) We are about to have a nice explanation. Now to navigate your ship and bring it into port. (Reenter Richly) Richly: You see I wasn't long. I found my porters near here and I've told them to wait because it seems a good idea to store my goods in the house my son has bought. Roger: A new fix! Richly: I don't recognize the place too well, so you can take me there yourself. Roger; I want to, sir, but-- Richly: But what! The Devil isn't master there, too, is he? Roger: Mrs. Prim is still living there. Richly: Still living there? Roger: Yes, indeed. It's agreed that she will stay out her term, and--as her mind is weak--she gets in a furious state whenever anyone talks to her about vacating. She's really crazy, you see. Richly: I'll talk to her in a way that will calm her down. Roger: You! (Aside) All is lost. Richly: You're making me very impatient. I absolutely want to speak to her, I tell you. Roger: Well, in that case--talk to her--because happily, here she comes. But remember she's a basket case. Mrs. Prim: (entering) Well, here's Mr. Richly returned, it seems. Roger: (low to Mrs. Prim) Yes, Madam, indeed it is he--but he's lost his wits. His ship was wrecked and he drank salt water. It turned his head. Mrs. Prim: What a shame--the poor man! Roger: If he happens by chance to accost you, he may say something odd. Don't pay any attention. We're going to have him locked up. (To Richly) If you speak to her, have a little patience with her weakness. Think of her as a clock that's a bit cuckoo. Richly: Leave her to me. Mrs. Prim: There's something strange and distracted about his manner. Richly: How her looks have changed. She has haggard eyes. Mrs. Prim: Well--it's Mr. Richly. You've come back to England, eh? Richly: Ready to render you my devoirs. Mrs. Prim: I'm very distressed about the misfortune you've suffered. Richly: I have to be patient. They say devils are occupying my house. But it will be all right after we kick them out. They'll be worn out staying there. Mrs. Prim: (aside) Devils in his house! I'd better not contradict him, it might make him worse. Richly: I'd like, madam, to store some packages that I brought back with me in your house. Mrs. Prim: (aside) He doesn't realize that his ship was wrecked. What a pity. (Aloud) I am at your service and my house is more yours than mine. Richly: Oh, madam, I have no intention of abusing you of the condition you are in. (To Roger) But really, Roger, this woman is not as crazy as you said she was. Roger: She has a few good moments--but it won't last. Richly: Tell me, Mrs. Prim, have you always been as wise and as reasonable as you are now? Mrs. Prim: I don't think anybody, Mr. Richly, has ever seen me otherwise. Richly: But it that's so your family shouldn't have you locked up. Mrs. Prim: Locked up--me--have me locked up? Richly: (aside) She's totally unaware of her illness. Mrs. Prim: But if you are not ordinarily more crazy than at present, I think it's very wrong you should be put away. Richly: Me put away? (Aside) Now she's out of whack; there it is, there it is. Let's change the subject. (Aloud) Well, is it that you're irritated about their selling your house? Mrs. Prim: They sold my house? Richly: At least it's better that my son bought it at a bargain price. Mrs. Prim: My poor Mr. Richly. My house hasn't been sold, and it's not for sale. Richly: There! There! Don't upset yourself, I promise you you will always have your apartment--just as if you still owned it--and as if you were in good mental health. Mrs. Prim: What do you mean as if I was still in good mental health! Go away, you're an old madman, an old madman who shouldn't be allowed out of Bedlam--of Bedlam, my friend. Roger: (To Mrs. Prim) Are you wise to fight with a wacko? Richly: Oh, if that's your attitude, you can get out. The house belongs to me, and I'll put my luggage there in spite of you. Just look at this crazy old woman. Roger: (To Richly) What are you getting in a rage for with a woman who has lost her mind? Mrs. Prim: Just try. I'll be waiting for you. Back to your padded cell you lunatic! Hurry and lock him up, he's becoming dangerous, I'm warning you. (Exit Mrs. Prim in a huff) Roger: (aside) I don't quite know how I am going to get out of this. Squire: (entering from the house) What's all this hullabaloo? Beating on an honest man's door and scandalizing the neighborhood? Richly: Roger, what's going on? Roger: The devils in your house are a little drunk. They frolic in the wine cellar. Richly: Some kind of swindle is afoot, I'm sure of it. Squire: They say the master of this house has just returned from a long sea voyage--would you be he by any chance? Richly: Yes, sir, I am he. Squire: I congratulate you, sir. That was a beautiful trip and a wonderful lesson for a young man. You must know, sir, that your son has been learning wonderful manners while you were gone. Really fine manners. The boy is very generous. Doesn't resemble you at all. You are a villain, sir. Richly: Sir, sir! Roger: These teasing devils are insolent. Richly: You are a rogue. Squire: We were very upset, very worried--full of concern over your return. In your absence your son was ready to kill himself from malaise. In truth, he disliked everything in life. He gave up all his vanities. Everything that could attach him to this earth: wealth, furniture, honors. This boy loves you so much it's unbelievable. Roger: He would have died of worry during your absence if it hadn't been for this honest gentleman. Richly: He! How is it you're in my house, sir, if you please? Squire: Don't you understand without my telling you? I've just drunk champagne in the best company. He's still feasting which is the best way possible for him to comfort himself in your absence. Richly: This swindler will ruin me. I'm going in. Roger: Stop! I will not allow you to enter. Richly: I can't go in to my own house? Squire: No. The company is not ready to receive you. Richly: What do you mean? Squire: It wouldn't be proper for a son who knows how to live and who has been learning manners from me to receive his father in a house which has nothing in it but the four walls. Richly: What--four walls? My beautiful paintings which cost me three thousand pounds--are they gone? Squire: We got eighteen hundred for them. Not a bad sale. Richly: Not a bad sale. Masterpieces like that. Squire: Bah! The subject was lugubrious. The fall of Troy with a villainous wooden horse that had neither mouth nor tail. We made a friend out of the buyer. Richly: Ah, gallowsbird. Squire: Weren't there a couple of other paintings that represented something? Richly: Oh, yes. They were originals by a master some think to be Leonardo-- they represented the Rape of the Sabines. Squire: Right. We got rid of them, too--because of delicacy of conscience. Richly: Delicacy of conscience! Squire: A wise, virtuous, religious man like Mr. Richly--and to have immodest nude Sabine women about him--fie! Nudity is not for the young. (Reenter Mrs. Prim) Mrs. Prim: Ah, truly, I have just been warned of some nice business, Mr. Richly. They say your son is marrying my niece. Richly: I don't know about your niece, but my son is a rogue, Mrs. Prim. Roger: Yes, a rake who has led me astray and who has caused-- Squire: Let's not complain about each other or speak ill of those who are not present. One shouldn't condemn people without hearing them first. Pay attention, if you please, Mr. Richly. You've got to look on the bright side. If you are happy, the whole world will be happy. Besides, it's not your fault. And you can't do anything about it but kick up a fuss. If you are patient no one will laugh at you. Richly: Go to the devil with your sophistries. But what do I see. They're running off with my fifty thousand pounds. Mrs. Prim: It's that bitch of a Lucy and my niece. Richly: And my swindler son. (Enter Edward and the others) Edward: Daddy, it's no longer necessary to abuse your credulity. All this has been due to the zeal of Roger to keep you out of the house while I married Belinda. I ask you to pardon my past behaviour. Bless this marriage, I beg you. (Low) Then you can have your fifty thousand back, and I promise to be better in the future. Richly: Ah, gallowsbird, do you mock me? Roger: It's true, sir. Mrs. Prim: Belinda is my niece--and if your son has married her, I'll give her a dowry which will satisfy you. Richly: Can you do that? Aren't you under restraint? Roger: That was only my trick. Richly: What the house--? Roger: Part of the same thing. Richly: What a misfortune! But if you will give me my money back, I've got enough sense of humor to give my consent, if you want it. It's the only way to prevent worse from happening. Squire: Well, said. That pleases me. Shake, Mr. Richly--you're a brave man. I want to drink with you. Let's go back in and have more to drink and eat. You know it was a lucky thing you came just in time for the wedding. CURTAIN 
58653	----	THE REVEALING PATTERN By Alvin Heiner _The Reamer mansion was on trial. It announced its own verdict--guilty!_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was a man easily smiled at; a little birdlike individual carrying an umbrella and wearing upon his pink face a look remindful of happy secrets about to be revealed. He came to my desk during the midafternoon lull and said, "I am Professor Jonathan Waits. I have come to avail myself of your facilities." I had never heard it put quite that way before, but from Professor Waits, it did not sound stilted. It was the way you would expect him to put it. He beamed at the ceiling and said, "What a fine old library, my dear. I must bring Nicholas some time." I gave him the smile reserved financial supporters and unknown quantatives and asked, "Could I be of service?" He didn't get to it immediately. "I understand this library is fairly crammed with old records--data on the historical aspects of this area. Personal histories and such." He had a way of radiating his own cheerful mood. "Oh yes," I assured him. "It's an exceptional day when we don't sweep a D.A.R. or two out of the aisles come closing time." This, according to his laugh, was quite good. He said, "I'm sure we'll get on splendidly, Miss--?" "--Hopstead." "Are you a native?" "A New Englander from way back," I assured him. "Some of my ancestors used to drink buttered rum with Captain Rogers." "Then possibly you'd like to know about my work." "I certainly would." And, strangely enough, I did. "I am a researcher into the--well, the unusual." "Psychic research?" I inquired, wanting him to know we New Englanders were not dullards. "No. Nothing to do with the supernatural at all. My work is to prove that all occurrences, however mysterious, are the logical result of previous actions of individuals; that superstitions are the result, not so much of ignorance, but lack of knowledge." While I wrestled with that one, he said, "Maybe I could be a trifle more explicit." "That would help." His bright little eyes got even brighter. "Do you know, by chance, of the Reamer mansion over in Carleton?" I certainly did. It was some thirty miles from Patterson, but as a child, I'd visited the place. All children within the radius had visited the Reamer mansion at least once. It was an ancient fifteen room cockroach trap with such a history of death and violence behind it as to cause the kids to walk on tiptoe through its silent rooms. I told the professor I knew about it. "It has been vacant for fifteen years," he observed. "And will be vacant for twice fifteen more, I imagine." "That's just the point. Superstition. Otherwise solid and sane people wouldn't dream of moving into the Reamer mansion. And it's so silly." "It is?" "Of course. And that's why I'm here. I intend to prove, so the most stubborn will understand, that the house itself has nothing whatsoever to do with its own grim past; that the people who lived in it are to blame." It was a dull day and he was such an apparently sincere little man that I decided to keep the conversation alive. "I'm afraid you'll have a hard time proving it. Let's see--the first one was old Silas Reamer. He committed suicide there. That was sometime around 1925. Then--" "--His son, Henry Reamer, was found dead under mysterious circumstances two years later. Murder was obvious, but nothing has ever been done about it." I frowned in mock severity. "I don't like the way you put that, Professor. Do you imply that we New Englanders condone violence?" "Oh, not at all. There were just--no clues, from what I've learned. The next unfortunate, a renter named Miles McCormick, was found dead along with his wife and child as a result of lethal gas from a faulty stove." "That happened the year I was born. We have the old newspapers here, telling about it." "Those reports, along with other material are what I wish to study," Professor Waits said, then went on. "The house stood vacant for five years, until a Johnathan Hays bought it." "But Johnathan Hays never moved in. He died of a heart attack while carrying a chair through the front door." He beamed on me. "You are a remarkably alert young woman; well up in local history." "With no credit to me. You'd be hard put finding a citizen around here who doesn't know the history of the Reamer mansion." "Not 'of the Reamer mansion', my dear. Of the people who just happened to reap their ill-fortune there." "You insist the house had nothing to do with it?" "Nothing whatever." * * * * * "Professor--I wonder if you know how big a bite you've taken? If you go up in the hills hereabouts you'll find whole families living in dirt-floor houses. You'll find children who never heard of a bath or a telephone. But you won't find one person who would live in the Reamer mansion for a salary paid promptly every Saturday morning." "Nonetheless," Professor Waits replied, "the so-called jinx of the mansion, or any other maligned locality, is a matter of monstrous coincidence. The truth lies hidden in the lives of the people involved. I've been ferreting out that truth." "You mean this isn't a beginning, Professor?" He grasped his umbrella in a manner indicating he meant to spear a dragon in case there were any around, and said, "Oh my no! I've been tracing the lives of the principals in this drama for some time. It involves long, tedious work. I must not only dig into the lives of the unfortunates themselves, but also into those of kin; even--in some cases--friends." "What did you find out about the murder?" He evaded neatly. "I am not seeking a killer as such. Relative to that facet of the case, I am more interested in Henry Reamer himself. A very wise man once said, 'If you would understand violence, look also into the heart of the murdered'. A man carries the seeds of his destiny in his own soul." "And you intend to prove it?" "I am finding more proof every day. Soon I shall publish a paper which will startle the thinking world." I could see the Professor wasn't one to be backed into any corners. "And how can I help in this work?" "I am tracing at the moment, certain details in the life of Mabel Tutworthy, an aunt of Silas Reamer. Unauthenticated legends indicate she killed an eight-point buck once, with her bare hands, and dragged it home across ten miles of forest." "I've heard that, and it's probably true. You think it has something to do with what happened to Silas?" "--_And_ his son Henry." "I think you'll find what you want in that section by the south window. It's devoted to local history." "Thank you, my dear." He moved away, reminding me somehow, of a happy retriever going into a lake after a duck. Halfway to the shelves, he halted suddenly and turned. "Did you know that seventy percent of the accidents happen to twenty percent of the people?" I didn't, but I refused to admit such backwardness. "I certainly do. Amazing, isn't it?" "That is one of the pillars upon which my work is based." "And there are others?" "Seven in all." He didn't tell me what the other six were. Instead he disappeared into local history and left me with the latest best seller I was reading under the counter lest some child come in and be stripped of all innocence by one glance. It was two hours before Professor Waits reappeared. He carried a small blue notebook in one hand and a stub pencil in the other. He was positively beaming. "A gold mine," he said. "A veritable gold mine. Did you know that Ezekial Webb, a cousin of William Tutworthy was gored by a bull in the year 1862?" "No--really?" Then I was truly ashamed of myself. He was such a pleasant, sincere little man and he got such fun out of life. But he misinterpreted my boorishness for true enthusiasm and said, "It's a fact! Imagine! Walking in here and finding one of the links I've hunted for months. I'm indebted to you, my dear, for directing me to that book shelf." I could have told him he was under no obligation; that I got, each week, the coolie stipend of twenty eight dollars for doing just that; but I didn't want him starting an investigation into peonage system practiced in libraries and schools. Then something in the little man's manner, sobered me. "Professor--exactly why are you doing this?" He blinked. "I have plenty of money. I have the time. It interests me. And I feel it a worthy occupation; gathering knowledge through which people may know the true causes of misfortune; may throw off the yoke of superstition." "You feel, then, that nothing happens by chance?" "My dear," he said, solemnly, "in this ordered universe there can be no such thing. Action and achievement--cause and result. The revealing pattern of each man's actions is in the pasts of himself and his antecedents." "And by proving this you will exonerate the Reamer mansion of all guilt?" He smiled. "You are a most intelligent young lady. Most intelligent! I shall see a great deal of you in the weeks to come." * * * * * It was not a distasteful prospect. I liked the Professor and was glad he liked me. After he left I went back and found not a single book out of place. I liked him even more. Two weeks passed before I saw Professor Waits again. He came in out of the sunshine, carrying his black umbrella and wearing the same black string necktie. I was busy at the time, finding an acceptable book for Mrs. Winsolow's little Freddie who was in bed with the pip. When I got clear, Professor Waits was deep in his research and I did not disturb him. He came pattering out just before closing time and I was struck by the somber--almost sad--expression he wore. "Did you have trouble finding what you wanted, Professor?" "Oh no. The records are most voluminous. It's just--well, the _nature_ of my discoveries." "Bad?" "Very bad, Miss Hopstead. Do you know who Henry Reamer's murderer was?" "No." "Miles McCormick, the renter who died there so tragically with his family." I didn't quite know how to respond; whether I should faint or scream for the police. I settled for a philosophical comment. "A case of justice by a higher power." "You mean McCormick's death?" "Of course." "On the contrary. There was no connection at all between the two events. McCormick and his wife and child died because they violated a certain law, but not necessarily a law on the statute books." "I'm afraid I don't quite follow that." "Look at it this way, Miss Hopstead. You are walking through a dark room. A door is standing open. You come into violent contact with the edge of it. What happens?" "A broken nose? A black eye." "Precisely. The fact you didn't know the door was there didn't protect you from the consequences." This of course, I was forced to concede. "Now let's go a step further by taking, as example, a lower mentality than our own. A horse, knowing nothing of the laws of electricity, would step on a high voltage wire and never know why it was electrocuted. In such a case, the animal would violate a law it did not know existed." I was beginning to see what he was driving at. "You mean--" "We are far above the horse in mentality and understanding but there are still many laws we do not understand. That is what my work involves." I insisted upon being heard. "You mean a lot of apparently innocent things we do are really electric wires." He beamed. "Exactly. When we reap misfortune it is because we violate some law. Ignorance of that law doesn't change the end-result one iota." "And you're trying to find out what these--these booby traps are?" "Oh I know many of them already. My paper will surprise the world. I'm working on a more advanced phase of the problem now. I am tracing a pattern of interlocking violations to show that the scene of the end-results can be only sheerest coincidence. I want to banish once and for all the superstition-stigma attached to scenes of repeated misfortune and violence." "The Reamer mansion." "That's right. And now I must be going, Miss Hopstead." He gave me the departing smile and started for the door. "Professor Waits." "Yes?" "About Mabel Tutworthy. Did she really drag that buck ten miles." "No. It was only a fawn. And she killed it less than a mile from her cabin." "And the murder of Henry Reamer. What proof--?" "Nothing the police would be interested in. It was the end-result of a cause they won't understand until my work is published and given study." He opened the door, looked around, smiled. "This is certainly a fine old building. I _must_ bring Nicholas with me the next time." With that, he was gone. * * * * * I found myself looking forward to his next visit. I looked and looked and a month passed and a tall, serious-faced youth came into the library and waited until I'd finished checking in Mrs. Garvey's returns. "I understand," he said, "that you have an immense store of local history in this library?" "The section by the south window." "Thank you." He peered at me through thick lenses. "Thank you Miss--" "--Hopstead." "Miss Hopstead. I am Nicholas Worthy. Possibly you knew a friend of mine. Professor Waits? I am carrying on his work." "Carrying on--? Did something happen to--?" "Oh. Then you didn't hear. It was most tragic. Professor Waits died of pneumonia. A great loss--a great loss." I was deeply shocked. My feeling was that of losing a close friend. "No, I hadn't heard. It must have been very sudden." "It was. He was advanced in years, you know, and after he fell, pneumonia set in quickly. They were unable to save him." "The Professor had an accident?" "Yes. He fell down the main staircase of the Reamer mansion and broke his hip." 
23738	----	THE THING FROM THE LAKE by ELEANOR M. INGRAM Author of "From the Car Behind", "The Unafraid", etc. Copyright, 1921, by J. B. Lippincott Company Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company at the Washington Square Press Philadelphia, U. S. A. CHAPTER I "As well give up the Bible at once, as our belief in apparitions."--WESLEY. The house cried out to me for help. In the after-knowledge I now possess of what was to happen there, that impression is not more clearly definite than it was at my first sight of the place. Let me at once set down that this is not the story of a haunted house. It is, or was, a beleaguered house; strangely besieged as was Prague in the old legend, when a midnight army of spectres unfurled pale banners and encamped around the city walls. Of course, I did not know all this, the day that my real-estate agent brought his little car to a stop before the dilapidated farm. I believed the house only appealed to be lived in; for deliverance from the destroying work of neglect and time. A spring rain was whispering down from a gray sky, dripping from broken gutters and eaves with a patter like timid footsteps hurrying by, yet even in the storm the house did not look dreary. "There, Mr. Locke, is a bargain," the agent called back to me, where I sat in my car. "Finest bit in Connecticut for a city man's summer home! Woodland, farm land, lake and a house that only needs a few repairs to be up-to-date. Look at that double row of maples, sir. Shade all summer! Fine old orchard, too; with a trifle of attention." I nodded, surveying the house with an eagerness of interest that surprised myself. A box-like, fairly large structure of commonplace New England ugliness, it coaxed my liking as had no other place I had ever seen; it wooed me like a determined woman. And as one would long to clothe beautifully a beloved woman, I looked at the house and foresaw what an architect could do for it; how creamy stucco; broad white porches and a gay scarlet roof would transform it. "Come inside," my agent urged, hope in his voice as he observed my face; "let me show you the interior. I brought the keys along. Of course, the rooms may seem a bit musty. No one has lived in it for--some time. It's the old Michell property; been in the family for a couple of hundred years. Last Michell is dead, now, and it's being sold for the benefit of some religious institute the old gentleman left it to. Trifle wet to walk over the land today! But I've a plan and measurements in my portfolio." I said that we would go in. If he had but known the fact, the place was already sold to me; before I left my car, before I entered the house, before I had seen the hundred-odd acres that make up the estate. There was a narrow, flagged path to the veranda, where the planking moved and creaked under our weight while my companion unlocked the front door. Rather astonishingly, the air of the long-closed place was neither musty nor damp, when we stepped in. Instead, there was a faint, resinous odor, very pleasant and clean; perhaps from the cedar of which the woodwork largely consisted. The house was partially furnished. Not, of course, with much that I would care to retain, but a few good antiques stood out among their commonplace associates. A large bedroom on the north side, which I appointed as my own at first sight, held an old rosewood set including a four-posted, pineapple-carved bed. I threw open the shutters in this room and looked out. I received the first jar to my satisfaction. On this side of the place, the grounds ran down a slight slope for perhaps half a block to the five-acre hollow of shallow water and lush growth which the agent called a lake. From it flowed a considerable creek, winding behind the house and away on its journey to the Sound. For that under-water marsh I felt a shock of violent dislike. "You don't care for the lake?" my companion deprecated, at my elbow. "Fine trout in that stream, though! I'd like you to see it in the sunshine." "I should care more for it if it was a lake, not a swamp," I answered. "Oh, but that is only because the old dam is down," he exclaimed eagerly. "That lets all the water out, you see. Why, if the dam were put back, you'd have as pretty a lake for a canoe as there is in the State! Its natural depth is four or five feet all over, and about eight or ten where the stream flows through to the dam. Even yet, a few wild duck stop there spring and fall, and when I was a boy I've seen heron. Put back the dam, Mr. Locke, and I'll guarantee you'll never say swamp again!" "We will try it," I said. "Now let us find a lawyer and see how quickly I can be put in possession." We drove back to the little town from which we had that morning started out, and where my agent lived; my sleek car following his small one with somewhat the effect of a long-limbed panther striding behind an agitated mouse. It appeared that the sale was simply consummated. I do not mean that all the formalities were completed in a day. But by nightfall I could feel myself the owner of the place. Perhaps it was the giddiness of being a land-owner for the first time, or perhaps it was the abject wretchedness of the only hotel in town that inspired the whim which seized me during my solitary dinner. I had spent one night here, and did not welcome the prospect of a second. A return to New York was not practicable, because I had arranged to meet several contractors and an architect at the farm, next morning, to discuss the alterations I wanted made. Why not drive out to my new house this evening and sleep tonight in the rosewood-furnished bedroom? The idea gained favor as I contemplated it. I could go over the house tonight and sketch more clearly what I wanted done, while I would be on the ground when my men arrived next morning. There was an allure of camping out about it, too. In the end I went, of course. It was dark when I stabled my roadster in the barn that was part of my new possessions; where the car seemed to glitter disdain of the hay-littered, ragged shelter. Equipped with a flashlight, suitcase and bundle, I followed a faint path that wound its way to the house through wet blackberry vines whose thorns had outlived the winter. My steps broke the blank silence that brooded over the place. At this season there was no insect life; nor any other stirring thing within hearing or sight. But just as I stepped upon the veranda, I heard a vague sound from the lake that lay a few hundred feet to the north. There was no wind, yet the water had seemed to move with a sound like the smacking of soft, glutinous lips. Or as if some soft body drew itself from a bed of clinging mud. I wondered idly if the tide could run this far back from Long Island Sound. The house reiterated the impression of welcoming me. I shut and locked the old door behind me, and went up to the room I had chosen as my own. There I unshuttered and opened the windows, lighted one of the candles I had brought and set it on a little bookcase filled with dingy volumes, and threw my blankets on the bed. I had moved in! My pleasant sense of proprietorship continued to grow. Before I thought of sleep, I had been through the house several times from cellar to attic and accumulated a list of things to be done. Back in my room, an hour passed in revising the list, by candle-light. Near ten o'clock, I rolled myself in a dressing-gown and my blankets, spread an automobile robe over the four-posted bed, and fell asleep. CHAPTER II "Beware of her fair hair, for she excels All women in the magic of her locks." --SHELLEY (_Trans._). It trailed suavely through my fingers, slipping across my palm like a belt of silk. It glided with the noiseless haste of a thing in flight. Quite naturally, even in the dazed moment of awakening I closed my hand upon it. It was soft in my grasp, yet resilient; solid, yet supple. If I may speak irrationally, it felt as if it must be fragrant. It was a strange visitor to my experience, yet I recognized its identity unerringly as a blind man gaining sight might identify a flower or a bird. In brief, it was--it only could be an opulent braid of hair. When I grasped it, it ceased to move. In the dense darkness of my bedroom, I lay still and considered. I was alone, or rather, should have been alone in the old house I had bought the day before. The agent assured me that it had been unoccupied for years. Who, then, was my guest? A passer-by seeking refuge in a supposedly deserted house would hardly have moved about with such silent caution. A tramp of this genus would be a rarity indeed. I had nothing with me of value to attract a thief. The usual limited masculine jewelry--a watch, a pair of cuff-links, a modest pin--surely were not sufficiently tempting to snare so dainty a bird of prey as one wearing such plumage as I held. I have not a small fist, yet that braid was a generous handful. How did it come to trail across my bed, in any case? And why was its owner locked in silence and immobility? Surely startled innocence would have cried out, questioned my grasp or struggled against it! My captive did neither. I began to paint a picture against the darkness; the picture of a crouching woman, fear-paralyzed; not daring to stir, to sob or pant or shiver lest she betray herself. Or, perhaps, a woman who was not hushed by panic, but by deliberation. A woman who slowly levelled a weapon, assuring her aim in the blank darkness by such guides as my breathing and the taut direction of her imprisoned tresses. An ugly woman could not have such hair as this. Or, could she? I had a doubtful recollection of various long-haired demonstrators glimpsed in drugshop windows, who were not beautiful. Yes, but they would never have found themselves in such a situation as this one! Only resolve or recklessness could bring a woman to such a pass; and with spirit and this hair no woman could be ugly. How quiet she was! I suddenly reflected that she must be thinking the same thing of me, since neither of us had moved during a considerable space of time. Possibly she fancied me only half-aroused, and hoped that I would relapse into sleep without realizing upon what my drowsy grasp had closed. No doubt it would have been the course of chivalry for me to pretend to do so, but it was not the course of curiosity. The deadlock could not last indefinitely. Apparently, though, it must be I who should break it. As quietly as possible, I brought my left hand forward to grope along that silken line which certainly must guide me to the intruder herself. My hand slipped along the smooth surface to the full reach of my arm; and encountered nothing. Check, for the first attempt! The candle and matches I had bought in the village were also beyond my reach, unless I released my captive and rolled across the bed toward the little bookcase where I had placed them beside the flashlight. If I should speak, what would she do? And--a new thought!--was she alone in the house? There came a gentle draw at the braid, instantly ceasing as I automatically tightened my hold. The pretense that I slept was ended. I spoke, as soothingly and kindly as I could manage. "If you will let me strike a light, we can explain to each other. Or, if you will agree not to escape----?" In spite of my efforts, my voice boomed startlingly through the dark, still room. No reply followed, but the braid quivered and suddenly relaxed from its tension. She must have come closer to me. Delighted by so much success attained and intrigued by the novelty of the adventure, I moved slightly, stretching my free arm in the direction of the flashlight. "I am not a difficult person," I essayed encouragement. "Nor too dull, I hope, to understand a mistake or a necessity. Nor am I affiliated with the police! Permit me----" I halted abruptly. A cool edge of metal had been laid across the wrist of my groping hand. As the hand came to rest, palm uppermost, I could feel, or imagined I could feel my pulse beating steadily against the menacing pressure of the blade. The warning was eloquent and sufficient; I moved no further toward my flashlight. Of course, if I had lifted my right hand from its guard of the braid, I could easily have pinioned the arm which poised the knife before I suffered much harm. But I might have lost my captive in the attempt; an event for which I was not ready, yet. "Check," I admitted. "Although, it is rather near a stalemate for us both, isn't it?" The knife pressed closer, suggestively. "No," I dissented with the mute argument. "I think not. I do not believe you could do it; not in cold blood, anyway!" "You do not know," insisted the closer pressing blade, as if with a tongue. "No, I do not know," I translated aloud. "But I am confident enough to chance it. What reason have you for desperate action? I would not harm you. Have I not a right to curiosity? This is my house, you know. Or perhaps you did not know that?" A sigh stirred the silence, blending with the ceaseless whisper of the rain that had recommenced through the night. The braid did not move in my right hand, nor did the blade touching my left. "Speak!" I begged, with an abrupt urgency that surprised myself. "You are the invader. Why? What would you have from me? If I am to let you go, at least speak to me, first! This is--uncanny." "There is magic in the third time of asking," came a breathed, just audible whisper. "Yet, be warned; call not to you that which you may neither hold nor forbid." "But I do call--if that will make you speak to me," I returned, my pulses tingling triumph. "Although, as to not holding you----" "You fancy you hold me? It is not you who are master of this moment, but I who am its mistress." Her voice had gained in strength; a soft voice, yet not weak, used with a delicate deliberation that gave her speech the effect of being a caprice of her own rather than a result of my compulsion. Yet, I thought, she must be crouched or kneeling beside me, on the floor, held like the Lady of the Beautiful Tresses. "Still, I doubt if you have the disposition to use your advantage," I began. "You mean, the cruelty," she corrected me. "I am from New York," I smiled. "Let me say, the nerve. If you pressed that knife, I might bleed to death, you know." "Would you hear a story of a woman of my house, and her anger, before you doubt too far?" "Tell me," I consented; and smiled in the darkness at the transparent plan to distract my attention from that imprisoned braid. She was silent for so long that I fancied the plan abandoned, perhaps for lack of a tale to tell. Then her voice leaped suddenly out of the blackness that closed us in, speaking always in muted tones, but with a strange, impassioned urgency and force that startled like a cry. The words hurried upon one another like breaking surf. "See! See! The fire leaps in the chimney; it breathes sparks like a dreadful beast--it is hungry; its red tongues lick for that which they may not yet have. Already its breath is hot upon the wax image on the hearth. But the image is round of limb and sound. Yes, though it is but toy-large, it is perfect and firm! See how it stands in the red shine: the image of a man, cunningly made to show his stalwartness and strength and bravery of velvet and lace! The image of a great man, surely; one high in place and power. One above fear and beyond the reach of hate! "The woman sits in her low chair, behind the image. The fire-shine is bright in her eyes and in her hair. On either side her hair flows down to the floor; her eyes look on the image and are dreadfully glad. Ha, was not Beauty the lure, and shall it not be the vengeance? "The nine lamps have been lighted! The feathers have been laid in a circle! The spell has been spoken; the spell of Hai, son of Set, first man to slay man by the Dark Art! "The man is at the door of the woman's house. Yes, he who came in pride to woo, and proved traitor to the love won--he is at her door in weakness and pain. "As the wax wastes, the man wastes! As the mannikin is gone, the man dies! "On her doorstep, he begs for life. He is coward and broken. He suffers and is consumed. He calls to her the love-names they both know. And the woman laughs, and the door is barred. "The door is barred, but what shall bar out the Enemy who creeps to the nine lamps? "See, the fire shines through the wax! The image is grown thin and wan. Three days, three nights, it has shrunk before the flames. Three days, three nights, the woman has watched. As the fire is not weary, she is not weary. As the fire is beautiful, she is beautiful. "The man is borne to her door again. He lifts up his hands and cries to her. But now he begs for death. Now he knows anguish stronger than fear. And the woman laughs, and the door is barred. "The fire shines on a lump of wax. The man is dead. From her chair the woman has arisen and stands, triumphant. "_But what crouches behind her, unseen? The lamps are cast down! The pentagram is crossed! The Horror takes its own._" The impassioned speech broke off with the effect of a snapped bar of thin metal. In the silence, the steady whisper of rain came to my ears again, continuing patiently. I became aware of a rich yet delicate fragrance in the air I breathed. It was not any perfume I could identify, either as a composition or as a flower scent. If I may hope to be understood it sparkled upon the senses. It produced a thirst for itself, so that the nostrils expanded for it with an eagerness for the new pleasure. I found myself breathing deeply, almost greedily, before answering my prisoner's story. "'Sister Helen,'" I quoted, as lightly as I could. "And do you think Rossetti had no truth to base his poem upon?" her quiet voice flowed out of the darkness, seeming scarcely the same speech as the swift, irregular utterance of a moment before. "Do you think that all the traditions and learning of the younger world meant--nothing?" "Are you asking me to believe in witchcraft and sorcery?" "I ask nothing." "Not even to believe that you will press the knife if I refuse to free you?" "Not even that; now!" Compunction smote me. Her voice sounded more faint, as if from fatigue or discouragement. It seemed to me that the blade against my wrist had relaxed its menace of pressure and just rested in position. I seemed to read my lady's weariness in the slackened vigilance. Perhaps she was really frightened, now that her brave attempt to lull me into incaution had failed. "Listen, please," I spoke earnestly. "I am going to set you free. I apologize for keeping you captive so long! But you will admit the provocation to my curiosity? You will forgive me?" A sigh drifted across the darkness. "I ask no questions," I urged. "But will you not trust me to make a light and give what help I can? You are welcome to use the house as you please. Or, if you are lost or stormbound, my car is in the old barn and I will drive you anywhere that you say. Let us not spoil our adventure by suspicion. In good faith----" I opened my hand, releasing the lovely rope by which I had detained my prisoner. Then, with a quickening pulse, I waited. Would she stay? Would she spring up and escape? Would she thank me, or would she reply with some eccentricity unpredictable as her whim to tell me that tale? She did none of these things. The braid of hair, freed entirely, continued to lie supinely across my open palm. The coolness of the blade still lightly touched my wrist. She might be debating her course of action, I reflected. Well, I was in no haste to conclude the episode! When the silence had lasted many moments, however, I began to grow restive. Anxiety tinged my speculations. Suppose she had fainted? Or did she doubt my intentions, and was her quietness that of one on guard? I stirred tentatively. Two things happened simultaneously with my movement. The braid glided away from me, while the knife slipped from its position and tinkled upon the floor. I started up, perception of the truth seizing my slow wits, and reached for my flashlight. There was no one in the room except myself. Down my blanket was slipping a severed braid of hair, perhaps a foot in length, jaggedly cut across at the end farthest from my hand. Leaning over, I saw on the floor beside the bed a paper-knife of my own; a sharp, serviceable tool that formed part of my writing kit. Before going to bed, I had taken it from my suitcase to trim a candle-wick, and had left it upon the bookstand. Now I understood why her voice had sounded more distant than seemed reasonable while I held her beside me. No doubt she had hacked off the detaining braid almost as soon as I grasped it. The knife she had pressed against my wrist to keep me where I lay while she made ready for flight; or amused herself with me. Flight? Say rather that she had leisurely withdrawn! Perhaps she had not even heard my magnanimous speech offering her the freedom that she already possessed. If she had stayed to hear me, probably she had laughed. Perhaps she was still in the house. I rose and lighted a candle, under the impulsion of that idea, reserving my flashlight for the search. But there was no one in any of the dusty, sparsely furnished rooms and halls through which I hunted. The ancient locks on doors and windows were fastened as I had left them, although my lady certainly had entered and left at her pleasure. Puzzled and amused, I finally returned to my bedchamber. There was some difference in that room. I was conscious of the fact as soon as I entered and closed the door behind me. The candle still burned where I had left it, flickering slightly in some current of air. There was no change that the eye could find, no sound except the rain, yet I felt an extreme reluctance to go on even a step from where I stood. What I wanted to do was to tear open the door behind me, to rush out into the hall and slam the door shut between this room and myself. Why? I looked around me, sending the beam of the flashlight playing over the quiet place. Nothing, of course! I walked over to the bookcase, took up the braid I had left there, and sat down in an old armchair to study my trophy. On principle and by habit I had no intention of being mastered by nerves. It was humiliating to discover that I could be made nervous by the mere fact of being in an unoccupied farmhouse after midnight. The braid was magnificent. It was as broad as my palm, yet compressed so tightly that it was thick and solid to the touch. If released over someone's shoulders, it would have been a sumptuous cloak, indeed! In what madness of panic had the girl sacrificed this beauty? How she must hate me, now the panic was past! The color, too, was unique, in my experience; a gold as vivid as auburn. Or was it tinged with auburn? As I leaned forward to catch the candle-light, a drift of that fragrance worn by my visitor floated from her braid. At once I knew what had changed in the room. The air that had been so pure when the house was opened, now was heavy with an odor of damp and mould that had seeped into the atmosphere as moisture will seep through cellar walls. One would have said that the door of some hideous vault had been opened into my bedchamber. This stench struggled, as it were, with the volatile perfume that clung about the braid; so that my senses were thrust back and forth between disgust and delight in the strangest wavering of sensation. I made the strongest effort to put away the effect this wavering had upon me. I forced myself to sit still and think of normal things; of the men whom I was to see next morning, of the plans I meant to discuss with them. Useless! The stench was making me ill. A wave of giddiness swept over me, and passed. My heart was beating slowly and heavily. Something in my head pulsed in unison. I felt a frightful depression, that suddenly burst into an attack of fear gripping me like hysteria. I wanted to shriek aloud like a woman, to cover my eyes and run blindly. But at the same time my muscles failed me. Will and strength were arrested like frozen water. As I sat there, facing the door of the room, I became aware of Something at the window behind my back. Something that pressed against the open window and stared at me with a hideous covetousness beside which the greed of a beast for its prey is a natural, innocent appetite. I felt that Thing's hungry malignance like a soft, dreadful mouth sucking toward me, yet held away from me by some force vaguely based on my own resistance. And I understood how a man may die of horror. Yet, presently, I turned around. Weak and sick, with dragging effort I turned in my chair and faced the black, uncurtained window where I felt It to be. Nothing was there, to sight or hearing. I sat still, and combated that which I knew _was_ there. In the profound stillness, I heard the wind stir the naked branches of the trees, the flowing water through the fragments of the one-time dam, the sputtering of my candle which needed trimming. Sweat ran down my face and body, drenching me with cold. It crouched against the empty window, staring at me. After a time, the presence seemed not so close. At last, I seemed to know It was gone. In the gush of that enormous relief my remaining strength was swept away like a swimmer in a torrent and I collapsed half-fainting in my chair. When I was able, I rose and walked through the house again. Again the rooms showed nothing to my flashlight except dull furniture, walls peeling here and there from long neglect, pictures of no merit and dreary subject. I had expected nothing, and I found nothing. It was on my way upstairs to my bedroom that a sentence from the invisible lady's story came back to my mind. "What crouches behind her, unseen? The Horror takes Its own----" The bedroom door opened quietly under my hand. The rain had ceased and a freshening breeze came from the west, filling the room with sweet country air. The candle had burned down. While I stood there, the flame flickered out. After a brief indecision, I made my way to the bed, rolled myself in the blankets, and laid down between the four pineapple-topped posts. This time I kept the flashlight at my hand. But almost at once I slept, and slept heavily far into a bright, windy March morning. CHAPTER III "Wide is the seat of the man gentle of speech." --INSTRUCTION OF KE' GEMNI. On the second day after my return to New York, my Aunt Caroline Knox called me up on the telephone. There are reasons why I always feel myself at a disadvantage with Aunt Caroline. The first of these brings me to a trifling matter that I should have set down before, but which I have made a habit of ignoring so far as possible in both thought and speech. As was Lord Byron, I am slightly lame. I admit that is the only quality in common; still, I like the romantic association. Now, my limp is very slight, and I never have found it interfered much with things I cared to do. In fact, I am otherwise somewhat above the average in strength and vigor. But from my boyhood Aunt Caroline always made a point of alluding to the physical fact as often as possible. She considered that course a healthful discipline. "My nephew," she was accustomed to introduce me. "Lame since he was seven. Roger, do not scowl! Yes; run over trying to save a pet dog. A mongrel of no value whatever!" Which would have left some doubt as to whether she referred to poor Tatters or to me, had it not been for her exceeding pride in our family tree. The second reason for my disadvantage before her, was her utter contempt for my profession as a composer of popular music. Today her voice came thinly to me across the long-distance wire. "Your Cousin Phillida has failed in her examinations again," she announced to me, with a species of tragic repose. "In view of her father's intellect and my--er--my family's, her mental status is inexplicable. Although, of course, there is your own case!" "Why, she is the most educated girl I know," I protested hastily. "I presume you mean best educated, Roger. Pray do not quite lose your command of language." I meant exactly what I had said. Phillida has studied since she was three years old, exhaustively and exhaustedly. A vision of her plain, pale little face rose before me when I spoke. It is a burden to be the only child of a professor, particularly for a meek girl. "She has studied insufficiently," Aunt Caroline pursued. "She is nineteen, and her position at Vassar is deplorable." "Her health----" I murmured. "Would not have hampered her had she given proper attention to athletics! However, I did not call up to hear you defend Phillida in a matter of which you are necessarily ignorant. Her father and I are somewhat better judges, I should suppose, than a young man who is not a student in any true sense of the word and ignores knowledge as a purpose in life. Not that I wish to wound or depreciate you, Roger. There is, I may say, a steadiness of moral character beneath your frivolity of mind and pursuit. If my poor brother had trained you more wisely; if you had been _my_ son----" "Thank you, Aunt," I acknowledged the benevolent intention, with an inward quailing at the clank of fetters suggested. "Was there something I can do for you?" "Will you meet Phillida at the Grand Central and bring her home? I cannot have her cross New York alone and take a second train out here. Her father has a lecture this afternoon and I have a club meeting at the house." "With pleasure, Aunt! What time does her train get in?" "Half after four. Thank you, Roger. And, she looks on you as an elder brother. I believe an attitude of cool disapproval on your part might impress upon her how she has disappointed the family." "Leave it to me, Aunt. May I take her to tea, between trains, and get out to your place on the six o'clock express?" "If you think best. You might advise her seriously over the tea." "A dash of lemon, as it were," I reflected. "Certainly, Aunt, I could." "Very well. I am really obliged!" "The pleasure is mine, Aunt." But that it was going to be Phillida's, I had already decided. She would need the support of tea and French pastry before facing her home. As for treating her with cool disapproval, I would sooner have spent a year at Vassar myself. It was my intention to meet her with a box of chocolates instead of advice. Phil was not allowed candy, her complexion being under cultivation. On the occasions when we were out together it had been my custom to provide a box of sweets, upon which she browsed luxuriously, bestowing the remnants upon some street child before reaching her home. From the telephone I turned back to that frivolous pursuit of which my aunt had spoken with such tactfully veiled contempt. She was not softened by the respectable fortune I had made from several successful musical comedies and a number of efforts which my publishers advertise as "high-class parlor pieces for the home." In fact, she felt it to be a grievance that my lightness should be better paid than the Professor's learning. In which she was no doubt right! Ever since my return from my newly purchased farm in Connecticut, however, I had not been working for money or popular approval, but for my own pleasure. There was a Work upon which I spent only special hours of delicious leisure and infinite labor. It held all that was forbidden to popular compositions; depth and sorrow and dissonances dearer than harmony. I called it a Symphony Polynesian, and I had spent years in study of barbaric music, instruments and kindred things that this love-child of mine might be more richly clothed by a tone or a fancy. Aunt Caroline had interrupted, this morning, at a very point of achievement toward which I had been working through the usual alternations of enjoyment and exasperation, elevation and dejection that attend most workmen. Pausing only to set my alarm-clock, I hurried into recording what I had found, in the tangible form of paper and ink. I always set the alarm-clock when I have an engagement, warned by dire experiences. Aunt Caroline had summoned me about eleven in the morning. When the strident voice of the clock again aroused me, I had just time to dress and reach the Grand Central by half-past four. I recognized that I was hungry, that the vicinity was snowed over with sheets of paper, that the piano keys had acquired another inkstain, and my pipe had charred another black spot on the desk top. Well, it had been a good day; and Phillida's tea would have to be my belated luncheon or early dinner. Even so, it was necessary to make haste. It was in that haste of making ready that I uncovered the braid of glittering hair which I had brought from Connecticut. I use no exaggeration when I say it glittered. It did; each hair was lustrous with a peculiar, shining vitality, and crinkled slightly along its full length. With a renewed self-reproach at sight of its humbled exile and captivity, I took up the trophy of my one adventure. While I am without much experience, such a quantity seemed unusual. Also, I had not known such a mass of hair could be so soft and supple in the hand. My mother and little sister died before I can remember; and while I have many good friends, I have none intimate enough to educate me in such matters. Perhaps a consciousness of that trifling physical disadvantage of mine has made me prefer a good deal of solitude in my hours at home. The faint, tenacious yet volatile perfume drifted to my nostrils, as I held the braid. Who could the woman be who brought that costly fragrance into a deserted farmhouse? For so exquisite and unique a fragrance could only be the work of a master perfumer. There was youth in that vigorous hair, coquetry in the individual perfume, panic in her useless sacrifice of the braid I held; yet strangest self-possession in the telling of that fanciful tale of sorcery to me. On that tale, told dramatically in the dark, I had next morning blamed the weird waking nightmare that I had suffered after her visit. The horror of the night could not endure the strong sun and wind of the March morning that followed. Like _Scrooge_, I analyzed my ghost as a bit of undigested beef or a blot of mustard. Certainly the thing had been actual enough while it lasted, but my reason had thrust it away. That was over, I reflected, as I laid the braid back in the drawer. But surely the lady was not vanished like the nightmare? Surely I should find her in some neighbor's daughter, when my house was finished and I went there for the summer? She could not hide from me, with that bright web about her head whose twin web I held. It had grown so late that I had to take a taxicab to the Terminal, just halting at a shop long enough to buy a box of the chocolates my cousin preferred. But when I reached the great station and found my way through the swirl of travelers to the track where Phil's train should come in, I was told the express had been delayed. "Probably half an hour late," the gateman informed me. "Maybe more! Of course, though, she may pull in any time." Which meant no tea for Phillida; instead, a rush across town to the Pennsylvania station to catch the train for her home. As I could not leave my post lest she arrive in my absence, it also meant nothing to eat for me until we reached Aunt Caroline's hospitality; which was cool and restrained rather than festive. I foresaw the heavy atmosphere that would brood over all like a cold fog, this evening of Phil's disgraceful return from the scholastic arena. Ascertaining from the gateman that the erring train was certain not to pull in during the next ten minutes, I sought a telephone booth. "Aunt Caroline, Phil's train is going to be very late, possibly an hour late," I misinformed my kinswoman, when her voice answered me. "I have had nothing to eat since breakfast, and she will be hungry long before we reach your house. May I not take her to dinner here in town?" "Please do not call your cousin 'Phil'," she rebuked me, and paused to deliberate. "You had no luncheon, you say?" "None." "Why not? Were you ill?" "No; just busy. I forgot lunch. I am beginning to feel it, now. Still, if you wish us to come straight home, do not consider me!" I knew of old how submission mollified Aunt Caroline. She relented, now. "Well----! You are very good, Roger, to save your uncle a trip into the city to meet her. I must not impose upon you. But, a quiet hotel!" "Certainly, Aunt." "Phillida does not deserve pampering enjoyment. I am consenting for your sake." "Thank you, Aunt. I wonder, then, if you would mind if we stopped to see a show that I especially want to look over, for business reasons? We could come out on the theatre express; as we have done before, you remember?" "Yes, but----" "Thank you. I'll take good care of her. Good-bye." The receiver was still talking when I hung up. There is no other form of conversation so incomparably convenient. The train arrived within the half-hour. With the inrush of travelers, I sighted Phillida's sober young figure moving along the cement platform. She walked with dejection. Her gray suit represented a compromise between fashion and her mother's opinion of decorum, thus attaining a length and fulness not enough for grace yet too much for jauntiness. Her solemn gray hat was set too squarely upon the pale-brown hair, brushed back from her forehead. Her nice, young-girl's eyes looked out through a pair of shell-rimmed spectacles. She was too thin and too pale to content me. When she saw me coming toward her, her face brightened and colored quite warmly. She waved her bag with actual abandon and her lagging step quickened to a run. "Cousin Roger!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Oh, how good of you to come!" She gripped my hands in a candid fervor of relief and pleasure. "I am so glad it is you," she insisted. "I was sorry the train could not be later; I wished, almost, it would never get in--and all the time it was you who were waiting for me!" "It was, and now you are about to share an orgy," I told her. "I have your mother's permission to take you to dinner, Miss Knox." "Here? In town? Just us?" "Yes. And afterward we will take in any show you fancy. How does that strike you?" She gazed up at me, absorbing the idea and my seriousness. To my dismay, she grew pale again. "I--I really believe it will keep me from just dying." I pretended to think that a joke. But I recognized that my little cousin was on the sloping way toward a nervous breakdown. "No baggage?" I observed. "Good! I hope you did not eat too much luncheon. This will be an early dinner." She waited to take off the spectacles and put them in her little bag. "I do not need them except to study, but I didn't dare meet Mother without them," she explained. "No; I could not eat lunch, or breakfast either, Cousin Roger. Nor much dinner last night! Oh, if you knew how I dread--the grind! I should rather run away." "So we will; for this evening." "Yes. Where--where were you going to take me?" We had crossed the great white hall to street level, and a taxicab was rolling up to halt before us. Surprised by the anxiety in the eyes she lifted to mine, I named the staid, quietly fastidious hotel where I usually took her when we were permitted an excursion together. "Unless you have a choice?" I finished. "I have." She breathed resolution. "I want to go to a restaurant with a cabaret, instead of going to the theatre. May I? Please, may I? Will you take me where I say, this one time?" Her earnestness amazed me. I knew what her mother would say. I also knew, or thought I knew that Phillida needed the mental relaxation which comes from having one's own way. In her mood, no one else's way, however, wise or agreeable, will do it all. "All right," I yielded. "If you will promise me, faith of a gentlewoman, to tell Aunt Caroline that I took you there and you did not know where you were going. My shoulders are broader than yours and have borne the buffeting of thirty-two years instead of nineteen. Had you chosen the place, or shall I?" To my second surprise, she answered with the name of an uptown place where I never had been, and where I would have decidedly preferred not to take her. "They have a skating ballet," she urged, as I hesitated. "I know it is wonderful! Please, please----?" I gave the direction to the chauffeur and followed my cousin into the cab. It seemed a proper moment to present the chocolates from my overcoat pocket. When she proved too languid to unwrap the box, I was seriously uneasy. "You cannot possibly know how dreadful it is to be the only child of two intellectual people who expect one to be a credit," she excused her lack of appetite, nervously twitching the gilt cord about the package. "And to be stupid and a disappointment! Yes, as long as I can remember, I have been a disappointment. If only there had been another to divide all those expectations. If only you had been my brother!" "Heaven forbid!" I exclaimed hastily. "That is----" "Don't bother about explaining," she smiled wanly, "I understand. But you are distinguished, and you look it. I never will be, and I am ugly. Mother expects me to be an astronomer like Father and work with him, or to go in for club life and serious writing as she does. I never can do either." "Neither could I, Phil." "You are clever, successful. Everybody knows your name. When we are out, and people or an orchestra play your music, Mother always says: 'A trifle of my nephew's, Roger Locke. Very original, is it not? Of course, I do not understand music, but I hear that his last light opera----' And then she leans back and just _eats up_ all the nice things said about your work. She would never let you know it, but she does. And that is the sort of thing she wants from me. I--I want to make cookies, and I love fancywork." The taxicab drew up with a jerk before the gaudy entrance to Silver Aisles. I imagine Phillida had the vaguest ideas of what such places were like. When we were settled at a table in a general blaze of pink lights, beside a fountain that ran colored water, I regarded her humorously. But she seemed quite contented with her surroundings, looking about her with an air I can best describe as grave excitement. At this hour, the room was not half filled, and the jazz orchestra had withdrawn to prepare for a hard night's work. After I had ordered our dinner, I glanced up to see her fingers busied loosening the severe lines of her brushed back hair. "Everyone here looks so nice," she said wistfully. "I wish my hair did shine and cuddle around my face like those women's does. Do--do I look queer, Cousin? You are looking at me so----?" "I was thinking what pretty eyes you have." Her pale face flushed. "Really?" "Most truthfully. As for the hair, isn't that a matter of bottled polish and hairdressers? But you remind me of a question for you. Isn't a braid of hair this wide," I laid off the dimensions on the table, "this long, and thick, a good deal for a woman to own?" "Show me again." I obeyed, while she leaned forward to observe. "Not one girl in a hundred has so much," she pronounced judgment. "Who is she? Probably it isn't all her own, anyhow!" "It is not now, but it was," I said remorsefully. "How could you tell? Did you measure it?"--with sarcasm. "Do you remember the maxim we used to write in copybooks? 'Measure a thousand times, and cut once?' One has to be cautious!" "I cut it first, and then measured." "What? Tell me." At last she was interested and amused. There was no reason why I should not tell her of my midnight adventure. We never repeated one another's little confidences. She listened, with many comments and exclamations, to the story of the unseen lady, the legend of the fair witch, the dagger that was a paper-knife by day and the severed tresses. She did not hear of the singular nightmare or hallucination that had been my second visitor. My reason had accounted for the experience and dismissed it. Some other part of myself avoided the memory with that deep, unreasoning sense of horror sometimes left by a morbid dream. The dinner crowd had flowed in while we ate and talked. A burst of applause aroused me to this fact and the commencement of the first show of the evening. The orchestra had taken their places. "They will hardly begin with their best act," I remarked, surprised by Phillida's convulsive start and rapt intentness upon the stretch of ice that formed the exhibition floor. "Your ballet on skates probably will come later." "I did not come to see the ballet," she answered, her voice low. "No? What, then?" "A--man I know?" Once when I was a little fellow, I raced headlong into the low-swinging branch of a tree, the bough striking me across the forehead so that I was bowled over backward amid a shower of apples. I felt a twin sensation, now. "Here, Phillida?" "Yes." "Someone from your home town or your college town?" I essayed a casual tone. "Neither. He belongs here, and they call him Flying Vere. He--Look! Look, Cousin!" I turned, and saw that the first performer was upon the ice floor. He came down the center like a silver-shod Mercury. In the silence, for the orchestra did not accompany his entrance, the faint musical ringing of his skates ran softly with him. My first unwilling recognition of his good looks and athletic grace was followed by an equally reluctant admission of his skill. Reluctant, because my anger and bewilderment were hot against the man. My little cousin, my pathetic, unworldly Phillida--and this cabaret entertainer! At the mere joining of their names my senses revolted. What could they have in common? How had she seen him? Having seen him, it was easy to understand how he had fascinated her inexperience. Only, what was his object? He had seen us, where we sat. I saw his dark eyes fix upon her and flash some message. Her plain little face irradiated, her fingers unconsciously twisting and wringing her napkin, she leaned forward to watch and answer glance for glance. I would rather not put into words my thoughts. Yet, I watched his performance. In spite of myself, he held me with his swift, certain skill, his vitality and youth. He was gone, with the swooping suddenness of his appearance. The jazz music clattered out. Phillida turned back to me and began to speak with a hushed rapture that baffled and infuriated me. "You understand, Cousin Roger? Now that you have seen him, you do understand? No! Let me talk, please. Let me tell you, if I can. It began last summer, at the school where I was cramming for college work. Oh, how tired I was of study! How tired of it I am, and always shall be! I think that side of me never will get rested. Then, in the woods, I met him. He was stopping at a hotel not far away. I--we----" I waited for her to go on. Instead, she abruptly spread wide her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "After all, I cannot tell you. Not even you, Cousin! He--he liked me. He treated me just as a really, truly girl who would have partners at dances and wear fluffy frocks and curl her hair. He thought I was pretty!" The naïve wonder and triumph of her cry, the challenge in her brown eyes, to my belief, were moving things. I registered some ugly mental comments on the rearing of Phil and the kind of humility that is _not_ good for the soul. "Why not?" I demanded. "Of course!" She shook her head. "No. Thank you, but--no! Not pretty, except to him. Only to him, because he loves me." I do not know what impatience I exclaimed. She checked me, leaning across the table to grasp my hand in both hers. "Hush! Oh, hush, dear Cousin Roger! For it is quite too late. We were married six months ago; last autumn." When I could, I asked: "Married legally, beyond mistake? Were you not under eighteen years old?" "I was eighteen years and a half. There is no mistake at all. We walked over to the city hall in the nearest town, and took out our license, and were married." "Very well. I will take you home to your father and mother, now; then see this man, myself. If there is indeed no flaw in the marriage and it cannot be annulled, a divorce must be arranged. Any money I have or expect to have would be a small price to set you free from the miserable business. But the first thing is to get you home. We will start now." She detained my hand when I would have signalled our waiter. Her eyes, shining and solemn as a small child's, met mine. "No, Cousin, please! I am not going home any more. At least, not alone. I asked you to bring me here where he is, because I am going to stay with my husband." "Never," I stated firmly. "Yes." "Not if I have to send for your father and take you home by force." "You cannot. I am of age." "Phillida, I am responsible for you to your parents tonight. Let me take you home, explain things to them, and then decide your course." "But that is what I most do not want to do!" she naïvely exclaimed. "You will not?" "I'm sorry. No." "Then I must see the man." "Not--hurt----?" I recalled the man we had just seen on the skating floor, with a qualm of quite unreasonable bitterness. That anxiety of Phillida's had a flavor of irony for me. "Hardly," I returned. "There are fortunately other means of persuasion than physical force." "Oh! But you cannot persuade him to give me up." I was silent. At which, being a woman, she grew troubled. "How could you?" she urged. "You have had no opportunity of judging what influence money has on some people, Phil." She laughed out in relief. "Is that all? Try, Cousin." "You trust him so much?" "In everything, forever!" "Then if I succeed in buying him off, promise me that you will come home with me." "If he takes money to leave me?" "Yes." "I should die. But I will promise if you want me to, because I know it never will happen. Just as I might promise to do anything, when I knew that I never would have to carry it out." "Very well," I accepted the best I could get. "I will go find him." "There is no need. He is coming here to our table as soon as he is free." "I will not have you seen with him in this place." "But I am going to stay here with him," she said. Her eyes, the meek eyes of Phillida, defied me. My faint authority was a sham. What could be done, I recognized, must be done through the man. We sat in silence, after that. Presently, her gaze fixed aslant on me as if to dare my interference, she drew up a thin gold chain that hung about her neck and ended beneath her blouse. From it she unfastened a wedding ring and gravely put the thing on her third finger, the school-girl romanticism of the gesture blended with an air of little-girl naughtiness. She looked more fit for a nursery than for this business. I could tell from the change in her expression when the man was approaching. I rose, meaning to meet him and turn him aside from our table. But Phillida halted me with one deftly planted question. "You would not leave me alone in this place, Cousin?" Certainly I would not leave her alone at a table here; not even alone in appearance while I had my interview with the man close at hand. Yet it seemed impossible to speak before her. She calmly answered my perplexity. "You must talk to him here, of course. I--want to listen to you both. Indeed, I shall not interfere at all, or be angry or hurt! I know how good you mean to be, dear; only, you do not understand." I sat down again, perforce. When the man's shadow presently fell across our table, it did not soothe me to see Phil thrust her hand in his, her small face enraptured, her fingers locking about his with a caress plain as a kiss. She said proudly, if tremulously: "Cousin Roger, this is my husband. Mr. Locke, Ethan dear." He said nothing. His hesitating movement to offer his hand I chose to ignore. I admit that my spirit rose against him to the point of loathing as he stood there, tall, correct in attire--the focus of admiring glances from other diners--in every way the antithesis of my poor Phillida. "Sit down," I bade curtly, when he did not speak. "Miss Knox insists that we have our interview here. I should have preferred otherwise, but her presence must not prevent what has to be said." "It won't prevent anything I want to say, Mr. Locke," he answered. He spoke with a drawl. Not the drawl of affectation, nor the drawl of South or West so cherished by the romantic, but the slow, deliberate speech of New England's upper coasts. It had the oddest effect, that honest, homely accent on the lips of a performer in this place. Phil drew him down to the third chair at the table. After which, she folded her hands on the edge of the cloth as if to signify to me how she kept her promise of neutrality, and looked fixedly at her glass of water instead of at either of us. Plainly, all action was supposed to proceed from me. "My cousin has just told me of her marriage," I opened, as dryly concise as I could manage explanation. "It is of course impossible that she should adopt your way of living, as she seems to have in mind. You may not understand, yet, that it also is impossible for you to adopt hers. No doubt you have supposed her to be the daughter of wealthy people, or at least people of whom money could be obtained. You were wrong. Professor Knox has nothing but his modest salary. Her parents are of the scholarly, not of the moneyed class. She has no kin who could or would support her husband or pay largely to be rid of him. Of all her people, I happen to be the best off, financially. It happens also that I am not sentimental, nor alarmed at the idea of newspaper exploitation for either of us. It is necessary that all this be plainly set forth before we go further. "Now, for your side: you have involved Miss Knox to the extent of marriage. To free her from this trap into which her inexperience has walked is worth a reasonable price. I will pay it. I shall take her home to her father and mother tonight, and consult my lawyer tomorrow. He will conduct negotiations with you. The day Miss Knox is divorced from you without useless scandal or trouble-making, I will pay to you the sum agreed upon with my lawyer. If you prefer to make yourself objectionable, you will get nothing, now or later." He took it all without a flicker of the eyelids, not interrupting or displaying any affectation of being insulted. I acknowledge, now, that it was an outrageous speech to make to a man of whom I knew nothing. But it was so intended; summing up what I considered an outrageous situation brought about by his playing upon a young girl's ignorance of such fellows as himself. Phillida's usually pale cheeks were burning. Several times she would have broken in upon me with protests, if Vere had not silenced her by the merest glances of warning. A proof of his influence over her which had not inclined me toward gentleness with him! When I finished there was a pause before he turned his dark eyes to mine, and held them there. "Honest enough!" he drawled, with that incongruous coast-of-Maine tang to his leisureliness. "I'll match you there, Mr. Locke. I don't care whether you make fifty thousand a year with your music writing, or whether you grind a street-piano with a tin-cup on top. It's nothing to me. I guess we can do without your lawyer, too. Because, you see, I married Mrs. Vere because I wanted her; and I figure on supporting her. If her folks are too cultivated to stand me, I'm sorry. But they won't have to see me. So that's settled!" He was honest. His glance drove that fact home to me with a fist-like impact. There was nothing I was so poorly prepared to meet. Phillida's hands went out to him in an impulsive movement. He covered them both with one of his for a moment before gently putting them in her lap with a gesture of reminder toward the revellers all about us. The delicacy of that thought for her was another disclosure of character, unconsciously made. Worthy or unworthy, he did love Phil. I am not too dully obstinate to recognize a mistake of my own. Whatever my bitterness against the man, I had to accord him some respect. I sat for a while striving to align my forces to attack this new front. "I don't blame you for thinking what you said, Mr. Locke," his voice presently spoke across my perplexity. "I can see the way things came to you; finding me here, and all! I'm glad to have had this chance to talk it out with one of my wife's relations. I'd like them to know she'll be taken care of. Outside of that, I guess there is nothing we have to say to each other." "I suppose I owe you both an apology," I said stiffly. "Oh, that's all right--for both of us! I can see how much store you set by her." "But what are you going to do with her, man?" I burst forth. "Do you expect to keep her here; sitting at a table in this place and watching you do your turn, making your fellow performers her friends, seeing and learning----?" I checked my outpouring of disgust. "Or do you propose to shut her up in some third-class boarding house day and night while you hang around here? Good heavens, Vere, do you realize what either life would be for an nineteen-year-old girl brought up as she has been?" He colored. "As for bringing up," he retorted, "I guess she couldn't be a lot more miserable than her folks worried her into being. But--you're right about the rest. That's why I was going to leave her with her folks yet a while, until I had a place for her. I mean, while I saved up enough to get the place." "But I wrote to him when I failed in my exams, Cousin Roger," Phillida broke in. "I told him that I would not go home. I could not bear it. I was coming to him, and he would just have to keep me with him or I should _die_. Indeed, I do not care about places. I think it will be lovely fun to sit here and watch him, or go behind the scenes with him and make friends with the other people. I--I am surprised that you are so narrow, Cousin Roger, when all your own best friends are theatrical people and artists and you think so highly of them." I answered nothing to that. The distance between the stage and this class of cabaret show was not to be traversed in a few seven-league words. I looked at Vere, who returned my look squarely and soberly. "You needn't worry about her being here, Mr. Locke," he said. "I know better than that! But she has to come to me; it's her right, don't you think? I'll promise you to take her to a better place as soon as I can manage." "What kind of a place?" "I'm saving to get a place in the country," he answered diffidently. "I'm a countryman, and Phillida thinks she'd like it." "You?" I exclaimed, unable to smother my derision and unbelief. My glance summed up his fastidious apparel and grooming, the gloss on his curling dark hair and the dubious diamond on his little finger. He reddened through his clear, dark skin, but his eyes were not those of a man taken in a lie. "Did you take notice of what I do here?" He asked me, with the first touch of humility I had seen in him. "I couldn't dance or sing or do parlor tricks. I wasn't bred to parlors or indoors. But I learned to skate pretty fancy from a boy up. My folks' farm was on one side of a lake and the schoolhouse on the other. About November that lake used to freeze solid. My brother and I used to skate five miles to school, and back again, before we were six years old. We lived on skates about half the year, I guess. Well--you don't care about the rest; how the farm was just about big enough to support my elder brother and his family, and I came to New York. Nor how I found New York pretty well filled up with folks who knew considerably more than I did. It was the manager of this place who advertised for expert skaters, who dressed me up like this, and paid me the first living wages I'd had in the city. All the same, I was bred a farmer, and I mean to get back to it. Always have! You're a man, Mr. Locke, and I'd hate you to think I was a shimmy dancer on ice and nothing else, or I wouldn't mention it. My father would have taken the buggy-whip to me, I guess, if he'd lived to see me in this rig. Soon as I've enough put by, I'll shed this perfumed suit and the cheap jewelry and take my wife where she can have a chance to forget I ever wore them." "But I _like_ them," put in Phillida ardently. "Please do not fuss so, Ethan; because I really do." "Do you?" I turned upon her. "Are you sure, then, that it is not all this cabaret glamour you really are in love with? Would you care for him as an ordinary, hard-working fellow in a pair of overalls and a flannel shirt? No applause, no lights, no stage?" She laughed up at me. "You have forgotten that I met Ethan while he was on a vacation from his work here, and roughing it. When I married him, I had hardly seen him in anything except his Navy flannel shirt, scrubby trousers, and funny blunt-toed shoes." "You served in the war?" I asked him. He nodded. "Yes. On a submarine chaser. Got pneumonia from exposure and was invalided home just before the Armistice." "And you came back here?" "I came here," he corrected me. "I enlisted from Maine. I was discharged in New York. That was when I couldn't find anything I could do, until this skating trick came along." I sat thinking for a time; as long thoughts as I could command. The obvious course was to send for Phillida's father. Yet what could that vague and learned gentleman do that I could not? I visioned the Professor standing in this riotous, gaudy restaurant, swinging his eye-glasses by their silk ribbon and peering at Vere in helpless distaste and consternation. It was practically certain that Phil would refuse to go home with him. What if she did go home? I could picture the scene there, when the truth came out. The mortification of her people, the gossip in the little town, her outcast position among the girls and boys with whom she had grown up--what a martyrdom for a sensitive spirit! Of course, the only possible thing considered by Aunt Caroline would be a prompt divorce. If Phillida refused to consent to a divorce, how could she live at home as the wife of a man her parents had pronounced unfit to receive? If she yielded and gave up Vere, would she be much better off? An embarrassment to her family, the heroine of a stolen marriage and Reno freedom, what chance of happiness would she have in her conventional circle? Especially as she neither was a beauty nor the dashing type of girl who might make capital of such a reputation. Probably she would bury herself in nunlike seclusion, stay in her room when callers came, and wear a veil when she went out to walk. Meanwhile, she would break her heart for Vere. Could matters be any worse if she tried life with him, even if the experiment eventually proved a failure and ended in a divorce instead of beginning there? Might not her parents be spared much they most dreaded, if their friends could be told simply that Phillida had made a love match and was with her husband? Finally, Phillida was a human creature with the right to manage her own life. Had any of us the right to lay hands upon her existence and mould it to our fancy? I looked up from my revery to find the eyes of both of them fixed on me as if I held their doom balanced upon my palm. Perhaps, in a sense, I did. "Phil, will you come home to your father and mother, and consider all this a bit more before you decide?" I asked her. I thought I knew the answer to this, and I did. "No, Cousin Roger," she refused firmly. "Please forgive me. I know how kind you mean to be, but--no! I shall stay with Ethan. If ever you love anyone, you will understand." I accepted the decision. There was no reason why I should think of the woman who had spoken to me across the darkness in a voice of melody and power, or why I should seem to feel again the exquisite, live softness of her braid within my hand. But it was so. "Very well," I said. "Vere, it is to you, then, as Phillida's husband, that I must address any plans. I do not pretend to like the course she has taken. I do not know what action her parents may take, although I believe they will listen to my advice. Putting all that aside, she refuses to come with me and you agree that she cannot stay here. "I have just bought a farm in Connecticut, intending to use it as a summer home. There are some alterations and repairs being made, but little is to be changed inside the house and it is in perfectly livable shape. Here is my offer. Take Phillida there, and I will make you manager of the place. I will pay all reasonable expenses of putting the land into proper condition and getting such stock and equipment as you judge best; all expenses and up-keep of the house and whatever salary usually is drawn by such managers of small estates. I shall be there, on and off, but you and Phillida must take charge of everything. I am neither a farmer nor a housekeeper, and do not wish to be either. I bought the place only because New York is too hot to work in during three months of the year, and I hate summer resorts. Keep my room ready, and you will find I disturb you little. Of course, hire what servants are necessary. "Now, if you make the place self-supporting inside of five years, I will deed the whole thing to you two. To put it better, if you succeed in making the farm pay a living for yourselves, I will make it over to you and withdraw. If you fail--well, I suppose you will be no worse off than you are now!" They were stricken speechless. Perhaps my attitude had not pointed to such a conclusion of our interview. Phillida told me long afterward that she expected me to bid them good-evening and abandon them forever, as my mildest course; with alternative possibilities such as summoning a policeman and having Vere haled to prison. Seeing their condition, I rose. "I will stroll about and leave you a chance to talk it over," I declared; although there are few ordeals I dislike more than displaying my limp about such public rooms. Vere stopped me, rising as I rose. "No need of that, for us," he answered, facing me across the little table. "About giving us your farm, Mr. Locke, that's for the future! Just now, the manager's job is plenty big enough to thank you for. I wish I could say it better. If you'll stay here with Phillida for ten minutes, until I can get back, I'll be obliged." "Where are you going?" "To resign here, and get my outfit into a suitcase." He had taken up my challenge like a man, at least. There were none of the hesitations and excuses to stay in town that I had half expected. It pleased me that he decided for Phil as well as himself. Some of my ideas about marriage are antiquated, I admit. I nodded to him, and sat down again. It is unnecessary to record the childish things Phillida tried to say to me, while he was gone. "I am so happy," was her apology for threatened tears. "I never knew anyone--except Ethan--could be so kind. And--and, will you tell Father and Mother?" "Yes." I winced, though, at that prospect. "Give me that little bag you carry on your wrist." She obeyed, wide-eyed. "You do tote a powder-puff. I did not know whether Aunt Caroline permitted it. Rub it on your nose," I advised, passing the bit of fluff to her. While she complied, almost like a normally frivolous girl, I used the moment to transfer a few banknotes to the bag, so some need might not find her penniless. Vere came back in not much more than the promised ten minutes. He had changed to gray street clothes and carried a suitcase. I noted that the diamond had disappeared from his finger and his curly head looked as if it had been held under a water-faucet and vigorously toweled to lessen the brilliantine gloss. "If you'll tell us where your farm is, Mr. Locke, we'll start," he volunteered. Phillida looked up at him with eyes of adoring trust. "I had the porter at the Terminal check my suitcase to be called for. We shall have to get it, dear." In spite of myself, I smiled at their amazing promptitude. There was both reassurance and pathos in its unconscious youth. All this eagerness pressing forward--where? They did not know, nor I. Certainly we did not dream how strange a goal awaited one of us three, or on what weird, desolate path that traveler's foot was already set. "You had better go to a good hotel for tonight," I modified their plan. "Tomorrow is time enough to go out to the farm, by daylight. Phil has had enough excitement for one day. I will write full directions for the trip, Vere, on the back of this timetable of the railroad you must take." They were enchanted with this suggestion. Indeed, they were in a state of mind to have assented if I advised them to sit out on a park bench until morning. Yet, when I had put them and their scanty luggage into a taxicab, I suffered a bad pang of misgiving. What responsibility was I assuming in letting my little-girl cousin go like this? What did I know of this man, or where he would take her? I think Phillida divined something of my trouble, for she leaned out the door to me and held up her face like a child's to be kissed. "I am so _happy_," she whispered. I turned to Vere; who had a long envelope in readiness to put in my hand. "I guess you might like to have these for a while, Mr. Locke," he said, with one of his slow, straightforward glances. With which farewells I had to be content, and watch their taxi swing out into the bright-dark flow of traffic where it was lost from my sight. After which, I entered another taxicab by my unromantic self and was driven to that railroad station where I would find a train bound to the college town that was the home of Aunt Caroline and her husband. One always thought of Phil's parents in that order, although the Professor was a moderately distinguished scientist and his spouse merely masterful in her own limited circle. The envelope Vere had given me contained their marriage certificate, his release from the Navy, and his membership card in the American Legion. CHAPTER IV "Fair speech is more rare than the emerald found by slave maidens on the pebbles."--PTAH-HOTEP. At ten o'clock, next morning, I was summoned from my sleep by the bell of the telephone beside my bed. It was not a pleasant sleep, although I had not returned to my apartment until dawn. Nightmare doubts galloped ruthless hoofs over any repose. Phillida's voice came over the wire to me like the morning song of a bird. "Good-morning, Cousin Roger. We are going to take the train in a few moments. But I could not leave New York without telling you how happy I am. Are you--did I wake you up? I was afraid that I might, but Ethan said you would like me to call, even so." "My dear, it was the kindest thought you ever had," I told her fervently. "Was it?" she hesitated. "Then--were they pretty dreadful to you at home?" "Quite!" "Do you suppose they will _do_ anything dreadful about us?" "No. Nothing." It did not seem necessary to tell her that Aunt Caroline did not know where the runaways had gone, and was thereby debarred from hasty action. Phillida's father had privately agreed with me in this. "I am so very happy, Cousin Roger!" "I am glad, Phil." "And you will come to the farm soon?" "Soon," I promised. So the nightmares of immediate anxiety for her galloped themselves away, routed for that time. Like my gold-fish when their bowl has been unduly shaken, I sank down again into the quieted waters of my little world and absorption in my own affairs. There have been hours when I wondered if I was of more importance than they, as a matter of cosmic fact. A month passed before I kept my promise to go to the farm in Connecticut. As a first reason, I wanted to leave my young couple alone for a period of adjustment. Also, I was curious to see how they would handle the business left to them. I held telephone conversations with Phillida, and with various contractors now and then. I sent out the furnishings for my own room. Everything else I purposely left to the experimenters. There was a second reason, more obscure. I wanted to keep for a while the little mystery of the lady who had come to the farmhouse room in the dark of the night. She was pure romance, a rare incident in a prosaic age. My table had been bare of such delicately spiced morsels, and I relished the savor of this one upon my palate. I was not quite ready to find her in the matter-of-fact daughter of some neighbor, who had sought shelter from the storm in that supposedly empty house and probably mistaken me for a tramp. Perhaps I was equally reluctant to go back and prove that the adventure was ended, that she had been a bird of passage who had gone on with no thought of return. With all these delays, and the fact that my work really kept me busy in town, April was verging toward May when I finally saw the last of my luggage put into the car and started on my fifty-mile drive to the house by the lake. I did not take this first visit very seriously, or intend it to be over long. To be a constraint upon the household I had established, or assume a right there, was far from the course I planned. It was not certain Vere and I would be comfortable housemates. But to stay away altogether would have hurt Phillida as much as to stay too long, I considered. Probably a week would be about enough for this time. So lightly, so ignorantly, I stepped from the first great division of my life into the second; not hearing the closing of the gate through which there was no turning back. CHAPTER V "The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'." --THE COURTIN'. I arrived at noon, when a bright sun set the country air afloat with motes like dust of gold. The place seemed drenched in golden light. Even the young grass had gold in its green, and the lake glittered hot with yellow sparkles. The house was transformed. The cream-colored stucco that hid its homely walls, deep, arched porches that took the place of the old shallow affairs, scarlet Spanish tiles where bleached shingles had been--all united in giving it the gayest, most modern air imaginable. A gravel drive curved in beneath the new porte-cochère, inviting the wheels of my car to explore. Grass had been put in order, flower-beds laid out. The new dam was up, and the miniature lake no longer suggested a swamp. If the place had appealed to me in its dreary neglect, now it held out its arms to me and laughed an invitation. As I stepped from my car, I heard running feet and a girl sped around the veranda to meet me. She cast herself into my arms before I fairly realized this was Phillida. A Phillida as new to my eyes as the house! After the first greetings I held her off to analyze the change. She was tanned and actually rosy. The corners of her once sad little mouth turned up instead of down and developed--I looked twice--yes, developed a dimple. The dull hair I always had seen brushed plainly back, now was parted on one side and fluffed itself across her forehead and about her cheeks with an astonishing effectiveness. She was attired in a China-blue linen frock with a scarlet sash knotted in front quite daringly, for Phillida. "Why, Phil, how pretty we are!" I admired. She looked up at me like a praised little girl, and smoothed the sash. I noticed she wore above her wedding ring that "diamond" which once had adorned Vere's finger so distastefully to me. It shone bravely in the sunlight with quite a display of fire. Tracing my gaze, she held out her hand for me to see. "Yes, it was his, Cousin Roger. Of course, we have not very much money yet, and I do not care about all the engagement rings that ever were thought of. But, I was afraid people up here might notice that I had none and think slightingly of Ethan. So I asked him, and we went to a jeweler, who made it smaller to fit me. It is not a false stone, you know. It is a white topaz, and I love it better than the biggest diamond." "Then you are still happy?" "Forever and ever, world without end," she answered solemnly. We went in. Sun and sweet wind had worked white magic in the long-closed house. Quaint furniture, no longer dust-grimed but lustrous with cleanliness and polish, had quite a different air. Fresh upholstery in cheerful tints, fresh paper on the walls, good rugs, order and daintiness everywhere changed the interior out of my recognition. Already the atmosphere of home and cheer was established. "Come see your rooms," Phillida invited, enraptured by my admiration. "They are so pretty!" She ran up the stairs, around the passage, and ushered me into the room of graceful adventure and grotesque nightmare. I stopped on the threshold. I had ordered the partition removed between the two chambers on this side, giving me one large room. This, with the little bathroom attached, occupied the entire large frontage of the house. This long, spacious room; floors covered by my Chinese rugs, walls echoing the rugs' smoke-blue, my piano in a bright corner, my special easychairs and writing-table in their due places, welcomed me with such familiar comfort that I could not identify the neglected chamber where I had slept one night in the old bed with the four pineapple-topped posts. The windows were opened, and white curtains with their over-draperies of blue silk were swinging in and out on a fresh breeze where the Horror of my dream had seemed to press itself against the black panes. Decidedly, I must have had a bad attack of indigestion that night! "See how nice?" Phillida was urging appreciation at my side. "We swung those lovely old hangings from the arch, so they can be drawn across the bedroom end of your room, if you like. Although I do not know why you _should_ like, everything is so pretty! Your long Venetian mirror came safely, and all your darling lamps. And--and I hope you like it so well, Cousin Roger, that you will stay here always!" When she left me alone, I walked to the different windows, contemplating the stretches of lawn dotted with budding apple trees and the lake that lay beyond shining in the sun. Was Phillida's charming wish to become a fact, I wondered? Could this rest and calm hold me content here, where I had meant merely to pause and pass on? I looked at the yellow country road meandering past the lake into unseen distance. Should I ever see my Lady of the Beautiful Tresses come that way, or travel that road to where she lived? If I did meet her, would she forgive me the loss of her braid? There would be a test for the sweetness of her disposition! When a chiming dinner-gong summoned me downstairs, I found Vere awaiting me beside Phillida. We shook hands, and he made some brief, pleasant speech about their having expected me sooner. If pale, timid Phil had become a surprising butterfly, Vere had taken the reverse progress toward the sober grub. I like him better in outing clothes, although he showed even more the unusual good looks which so unreasonably prejudiced me against him. If he felt any strain in our meeting, his slow, tranquil trick of speech and manner covered it. I hope I did as well! It was then I discovered that his wife's pet name for him fitted like a glove. She called him "Drawls." The luncheon was good; cooked and served by a middle-aged Swedish woman named Cristina. Afterward, I was conducted into the kitchen by the lady of the house, to view the new fittings and improvements. Most odd and pretty it was to see Phillida in that rôle of housewife, and to watch her pride in Vere and deference to him. Let me record that I never saw the daughter of Aunt Caroline fail in this settled course toward her husband. Whether it was born of revulsion from her mother's hectoring domestic methods, or of consciousness that outsiders might rate Vere below his wife in station and education, so her respect for him must forbid their slight, I do not know. But I never saw her oppose him or speak rudely to him before other people. I suppose they may have had the usual conjugal differings, neither of them being angelic. If so, no outsider ever glimpsed the fact. We spoke of nothing serious on that first day. They both showed me the various improvements finished or progressing, indoors or out. We dined as agreeably as we had lunched. Quite early, afterward, I excused myself, and left together the two who were still on their honeymoon. At the door of my room, I pushed a wall-switch that lighted simultaneously three lamps. In this I had repeated the arrangement used by me for years in my city apartment. I have a demand for light somewhere in my make-up, and no reason for not indulging it. There flashed out of the dusk a large lamp upon my writing-table, a tall floor-lamp beside the piano, and a reading-lamp on a stand beside my bed at the far end of the room. All three were shaded in a smoke-blue and rose-color effect that long since had caught my fancy for night work; the shades inset with imitation semi-precious stones, rough-cut things of sapphire, tourmaline-pink and baroque pearl. I lay emphasis upon this, to make clear how normal, serene and even familiar in effect was the room into which I came. Yet, as I closed the door behind me and stood in that softly brilliant radiance, a shudder shook me from head to foot with the violence of an electric shock. A sense of suffocation caught at my throat like an unseen hand. Both sensations were gone in the time of a drawn breath, leaving only astonishment in their wake. Presently I went on with the purpose that had brought me upstairs; lifting a portfolio to the table and beginning to unpack the work which I had been doing in New York. As I laid out the first sheets of music, there drifted to my ears that vague sound from the lake I had heard on my first night visit here, while I stood on the tumble-down porch. The sound that was like the smack of glutinous lips, or some creature drawing itself out of thick, viscid slime. As before, I wondered what movement of the shallow waters could produce that result. Not the tide, now, for the new dam was up and the lake cut off from Long Island Sound. The pouring of the waterfall flowed on as a reminder of that fact. The sound was not repeated. The dusk outside the windows offered nothing unusual to be seen. I finished my unpacking and sat down at my writing-table. I am not accustomed to heed time. There never has been anyone to care what hours I kept, and I work best at night. Midnight was long past when I thought of rest. I declare that I thought of nothing more; not even recalling the vague unease felt on entering the room. A day spent in the fresh air, followed by an evening of hard work and journeyings between the piano and table, had left me utterly weary. When I lay down, it was to sleep at once. CHAPTER VI "I have made a story that hath not been heard; A great feat of arms that hath not been seen!" --AMENEMHE'ET. I woke slowly. It seemed that I struggled to wakefulness as a spent swimmer struggles toward shore. Up, up through deep poles of sleep I dragged myself, driven by some dimly sensed necessity. Peril had stolen upon me in my unconsciousness, a stalking beast. I knew that with nightmare certainty. It was as if my soul stood affrighted beside my brain, wailing upon its ally to arouse and stand with it against the menace. And my brain answered, but with infinite difficulty; like a drugged warrior who hears the clang of battle and forces numbed limbs to stir, arise and grasp the sword. I was awake. Suddenly; the swimmer reaching the surface! How shall I describe Fear incarnate? The Horror was at the open window opposite the foot of my bed, staring in upon me with slavering covetousness of the prey It watched. I lay there, and felt It seek for me across the darkness with tentacles of evil that groped for some part of me upon which It might lay hold. The room was still. Between the draperies, the window showed nothing to the eye except a dark square faintly tinged with the night luminance of the sky. There was nothing to see; nothing to hear. But gradually I became aware of a hideous odor of mould and mildew, of must and damp decay that loaded the air with disgust. I lay there, and opposed the approach of the Thing with all the will of resistance in me. The sweat poured from my whole body, so that I lay as in water and the drenched linen of my sleeping-suit clung coldly to me. It could not pass the defense of my will. I felt the malevolent fury of Its striving. Like the antennæ of some monstrous insect brushing about my body, I felt Its evil desires wavering about my mental self, examining, searching where It might seize. It had not yet found the weakness It sought. If It did----? The sickening, vault-like air I must breathe fought for It. So did the darkness. All this time, or the time that seemed so long, I had no more command of my body than a cataleptic patient. Every ounce of force in me had rushed to support the two warriors of the battle: the brain and will that opposed the clutching menace. But now, as I grew more and more fully awake, out of very loathing and danger I drew determination. Slowly, painfully, I began to free my right arm and hand from this paralysis. As I advanced in resolution, the Thing seemed to recoil. Inch by inch, I moved my hand across the bed toward my reading-lamp on the stand beside me. In proportion as I moved, the dreadful tentacles drew back and away. A last effort, and the chain was in my fingers. I jerked spasmodically. Rosy light from the lamp flashed over the room. All the quiet comfort of the place sprang into view as if to reassure me; the piano open as I had left it, the table strewn with my evening's work, each bit of furniture, each drapery or trinket undisturbed. The Thing was gone. In the hush I heard my panting breath and the tick of my watch on the stand. It was two o'clock in the morning. As I mechanically read the hour, a cock somewhere shrilled its second call before dawn. The Horror had been true to the legendary time of apparitions. Weak and chilled, I presently made an attempt to rise. But at the movement, a wave of sickness swept through me. The room seemed to rock and swing. I had just time to recognize the grip of faintness before I fell back on the pillow. * * * * * Vivifying sweetness was in my nostrils, which expanded avidly for this new air. Perfume that was a tonic, a subtle elixir; that sparkled upon the senses, sank suavely and healingly through me, so that I seemed to draw refreshment with each breath. Reluctantly, I aroused more and more in response to this unusual stimulant; which somehow gave delicious rest yet drew me from it into life. I could have sworn someone had touched me. With some exclamation on my lips, I started up; to find myself in darkness. The lamps I had left lighted burned no longer. This time there was no terror in my awakening. No Thing of nightmare pressed against my window-space. The fragrance persisted; the ghastly smell of mould and corruption was gone. But I wanted light for all that! Reaching for the lamp beside me on its stand, I found the little chain. I felt the chain draw in my fingers and heard the click that should have meant light; but no answering brightness sprang up. Instead, across the dark came a voice; a voice low-pitched, soft without weakness, keen with exultation: "Victory! Victory! You have no need of light--who conquered in darkness! The Enemy has fled. It has covered the Unspeakable Eyes from the eyes of a man. By the will of a man Its will has been forbidden. It has dragged Itself back to the Barrier and cowers there for this time. Oh, soldier on the dreadful Frontier, be proud, putting off your armor tonight! Be proud, and rest." Those practical people who are never unnerved by the intangible, may gauge if they can the weirdness of this address following my first experience, and then smile their contempt of me. For I confess to a moment of uncanny chill. The voice was that of the woman who had trailed her braid of hair into my grasp, the night I first slept here. But, how did she know of the Thing's visit to me? I had not spoken nor uttered a cry throughout Its visitation. How could she have knowledge of that silent struggle between It and me, or of my escape so narrowly won. How, unless she too----? I groped for a glass of water left on my stand. I drank, and felt my dry throat relax. "Who are you?" I asked. A sigh trembled toward me. "I am one who stands on the threshold of your beautiful world, as a traveler stands outside a lighted palace, gazing where she may not enter, and feeling the winter about her." "Do not suppose me quite a superstitious fool," I said bruskly. "You are a woman. The woman who left a very real braid of hair in my hands, not long ago, to save herself from capture!" "Yes. Yet, I am neither more nor less real than the One which came for you a while since." "Then my nightmare was real? A thing of flesh and blood, or clever mechanism? You know it. Perhaps you produced it?" The rush of my angry suspicion dashed in useless heat against her cool melancholy. "Real? What is real?" she challenged me. "Turn to the sciences that you should understand better than I, and ask. Stretch out your arm. For a million years men have vowed you touch empty air. They saw and felt it empty. But now a child knows air swarms with life. In that thin nothingness, crowd and move the distributors of death, disease, health, vigor--existence itself. The water you have just tasted is pure and clear in the glass? Pure? Each drop is an ocean of inhabitants clean and unclean. I speak commonplaces. But is there no knowledge not yet commonplace? Oh man, with all the unfathomed universe about us, _dare_ you pronounce what is real?" "What is natural," I began. She interrupted me. "Doubtless what is not natural cannot and does not exist. Have you, then, measured Nature? He was a great thinker, one of deep knowledge, who compared Man to a child wandering on the shore of a vast ocean and picking up a pebble here and there." "Of what would you convince me? And, why?" "Of what? Danger! Why? Would you watch a man enter a jungle where some hideous beast crouched in ambush, while you neither warned nor armed him? I am here to turn you back. I am the native of that country who runs to cry warning to a stranger; to put into his hand the weapon of understanding." So solemn, so urgent a sincerity was in her voice, that again chill touched me. The clammy dampness of my garments hung on my limbs as a reminder of the Thing, real or unreal, that twice had made Its presence felt beyond denial. Wild as her words might be, their incredible suggestion was matched by my experience. I sought with my eyes for her, before answering. The room was dark, yet the darker bulk of furniture loomed out enough to be distinguishable. No figure was visible, even traced by the direction of her voice. I was certain that any movement to seek her would mean her flight. "Do you mean that you want me to go away from this place?" I questioned. The sigh came again, just audibly. "Yes. Why should you die?" Was I wrong in fancying the sigh regretful? Did I not hear a wistful reluctance in her tone? Excitement ran along my veins like burning oil on flowing water. The woman hidden in the dark, the association of her voice with the strange, exquisite fragrance I breathed, the thought of beauty in her born of that lovely braid of hair I had seized--all blended in a spell of human magic. I have said I was a man much alone, and a lame man who craved adventure. "Just now," I said, "you spoke of some victory. You called me--soldier." "Is it not victory to have driven back the Dark One? Is he not a soldier who, aroused in the night to meet dreadful assault, sets his face to the enemy and battles front to front? Before the Eyes men and women have died or lost reason, or fled across half the world, broken by fear. What are the wars of man with man, compared with a man's battle against the Unknown? I honor you! I salute you! But--soldier alone on the forbidden Frontier, go! Join your fellows in the world alloted to you; live, nor seek to tread where mankind is not sent." "How can there be wrong in facing a situation that I did not cause?" "There is no wrong. There is danger." "What danger?" I persisted. "Can you ask me?" she retorted with a hint of impatience. "You who have felt Its grope toward your inner spirit?" I shuddered, remembering the brush of those antennæ, exploring, examining! But I persisted, beyond my every-day nature. Her speech was for me like that liquor distilled from honey that inflamed the Norsemen to war fury. "You say I came off victor," I reminded her. "Yes. But can you conquer again, and again, and again? Will you not feel strength fail, health break, madness creep close? Will you not be worn down by the Thing that knows no weariness and fall its prey at last?" "It will come--often?" "Until one conquers, It will come." I forced away a qualm of panic. "How can you know?" I demanded. "Ask me not. I do know." "But, look here!" I argued. "If as you say, this creature was not meant to meet mankind, how can It come after me this way?" She seemed to pause, finally answering with reluctance: "Because, two centuries ago one of the race of man here broke through the awful Barrier that rears a wall between human kind and those dark forms of life to which It belongs. For know that a human will to evil can force a breach in that Barrier, which those on the other side never could pass without such aid." I neither understood nor believed. At least, I told myself that I did not believe her wild, legendary explanation of the nightmare Thing that visited me. I did not want to believe. Neither did I wish to offend her by saying so! "You will go," she presently mistook my silence for surrender. "You are wise as well as brave. Good go with you! Good walk beside you in that happy world where you live!" "Wait!" I cried sharply. Her voice had seemed to recede from me, a retreating whisper at the last word. "No! I will not go. I must--I will know more of you. You are no phantom. Who are you? Where--when can I see you in daylight?" "Never." "Why not?" "I came to hold a light before the dreadful path. The warning is given." "But you will come again?" "Never." "What? The Thing will come, and not you?" "What have I to do with It, who am more helpless before It than you? Go; and give thanks that you may." "Listen," I commanded, as firmly as I could. "I am not going away from this house without better reason. All this is too sudden and too new to me. If you have more knowledge than I, you have no right to desert me half-convinced of what I should do." "I can stay no longer." "Why can you not come again?" "You plan to trap me," she reproached. "No. Word of honor! You shall come and go as you please; I will not make a movement toward you." "Not try--to see me, even?" she hesitated. "Not even that, if you forbid." There was a long pause. "Perhaps----" drifted to me, a faint distant word on the wind that had begun to stir the tree-branches and flutter through my room. She was gone. There sounded a click whose meaning did not at once strike me, intent as I was upon the girl. Twice I spoke to her, receiving no reply, before judging that I might rise without breaking my promise. Then I recognized the click of a moment before, as that of the electric switch beside my door. No doubt she had turned off my lights at her entrance and now restored them. I pulled the chain of my reading-lamp, and this time light flashed over the room. I had known no one would be there, and no one was. Yet I was disappointed. As I drew on my dressing-gown I heard a clock downstairs strike four. Not a breath or a step stirred in the house. The damp freshness of coming dawn crept in my windows, bringing scents of tansy and bitter-sweet from the fields to strive against the unknown fragrance in my room. The melancholy depression of the hour weighed upon me. Beneath the gentle strife of sweet odors, my nostrils seemed to detect a lurking foulness of mould and decay. I sat down at my desk, to wait beside the lamp for the coming of sunrise. CHAPTER VII "For it is well known that Peris and such delicate beings live upon sweet odours as food; but all evil spirits abominate perfumes."--ORIENTAL MYTHOLOGY. The breakfast bell, or rather Phillida's Chinese chimes, merrily summoned me to the dining-room; a homely spell to exercise the phantoms of the night. My little cousin, rosy beyond belief, trim in white middy blouse and blue skirt, was already in her place behind the coffeepot. Vere sat opposite her at the round table. They were holding hands across the rolls and bacon and eggs, their glances interlocked in a shining content that made my solitariness rather drab and dull to my own contemplation. At my clumsy step the picture dissolved, of course. Vere rose while Phillida welcomed me to my chair and went into a young housewife's pretty solicitude about my fruit and hot eggs. The sun glinted across the table. The very servant had a smiling air of enjoying the occasion. I never had a more pleasant breakfast. A big brindle cat purred on the window-sill beside Phillida; no dainty Persian or Angora, but a battered veteran whose nicked ears and scarred tail proved him a battling cat of ring experience. "I planned to have a wee white kitten," Phil explained, while putting a saucer of milk before the feline tough. "One that would wear a ribbon, you know. You remember, Cousin Roger, how Mother always forbade pets because she believed animals carry germs? I meant to have a puss, if ever I had a home of my own. This one just walked into the kitchen on the first day we came here. Ethan said it was a lucky sign when a cat came to a new home. He gave it the meat out of his sandwiches that we had brought for lunch, and it stayed. So I decided to keep it instead of a kitten. It really is more cat!" What footing was here for dreary terrors? In a mirror across the room I glimpsed my own countenance looking quite as usual. No over-night white hairs appeared; no upstanding look such as the legend gave to Sir Sintram after he met the Little Master. After the meal, Vere asked me to walk over to the lake with him. We strolled through the old orchard toward the dam. This was my side of the house. In passing, I looked up at the window against which the Thing had seemed to press Itself with sickening lust for me. Phillida was framed in the open square, and shook a dustcloth at us by way of greeting and evidence of her busyness. The wide, shallow lake lay almost without movement, except at the head of the dam. There the water poured over with foam and tumult, an amber-brown cataract some twenty-odd feet across, to rush on below in a winding stream that grew calmer as it flowed. "We must put our lake in order, Vere," I observed, as we stood on a knoll at the head of the dam. "All this growth of rank vegetation ought to be pulled up, the banks graded and turfed perhaps, the bottom cleaned up. Water-lilies would look better than cat-tails." To my surprise, he did not assent. Instead, he set his foot on a boulder and rested his arm upon his knee; looking into the clear water. "Mr. Locke, I just about hate saying what I have to," he told me in his sober, leisurely fashion. "I expect you won't like it; not at all. Well--best said before you get deeper in. I can't see my way to make farming this place pay." I was bitterly disappointed. Even at the worst estimate of Vere, I had imagined he would stick the thing out a little longer than this. Poor Phillida's time of happiness should have lasted more than these few weeks. But the call of New York, of the "lounge lizard's" ease and unhealthy excitement had won already, it seemed. I said nothing at all. The blow was too sore. "There are too few acres of arable land, and they're used up," Vere was continuing. "I've seen plenty of impoverished, run-out farms in New England. You could pour money into the soil out of a gold pitcher these five years to come, before it began to pay you back. And then your money might better have been put anywhere in bank, for profit! I saw that, the first week here. Since then I've been looking around for something better to do." "And have found it, of course," I said bitingly. "Or else you would be drawing your salary as manager and saying nothing to me of all this! Well, where does poor Phil go, and when?" He turned his dark-curled head and regarded me with calm surprise. "I didn't exactly know that my wife was going anywhere, Mr. Locke." "What? You do not mean to leave the farm?" "Not unless you're tired of our bargain. I've been calculating how to make it pay. That won't be by planting corn and potatoes and taking a wagon-load into town! If you think I'm wrong, call in any practical man who knows this sort of business. We've got to think closer to win here. That's why I'd like to set the lake to work instead of just prettying it up." "The lake, Vere? There isn't enough water-power over the dam to do any more than run a toy, is there?" He motioned me nearer to where he stood gazing down. "Notice what kind of water this is, Mr. Locke? Brown like forest water, sort of green-lighted because the bottom is like turf; neither mud nor sand, but a kind of under-water moss? You see? It's pure and clean, with a little fishy smell about it. Matter of fact, it is forest water! Comes from way off yonder, the stream does, before it spreads out into our lake, here. I borrowed a boat and followed back two miles before it got too shallow for me. Boys have caught trout here three times since I've been watching." "Well?" "My father was fish-warden in our district. I learned the business. If you're willing, I can start some trout-raising that ought to pay well. You know, the State is glad to help game preserving, free." He proceeded to give me a brief lecture on the subject, in his quiet, unpretentious manner; producing notes and diagrams from his pockets. He had written to various authorities and exhibited their replies. He knew exactly what the State would do, what he himself must do, and what investment of money would be required. I listened to him in admiration and astonishment. From fish raising, he went on to discuss each acre of the farm; its best use in view of its situation, condition, and our needs. We could afford so much labor, it appeared, and no more. We must have certain apparatus; methodically listed with prices. If we used a certain sheltered south field for a peach orchard, the trees planted should be such an age and have giant-powder blast deep beds for them in order that they might soon bear fruit. When at last he ended his deceptive speech that sounded so lazy while implying so much energy, and turned his black eyes from the papers on his knee to my face, I had been routed long since. "Vere," I said abruptly, "did you know that I thought you were going to desert the farm, when you began to speak?" He nodded. "Yes, I guess so. You don't exactly like me; haven't had any occasion to! You don't judge me a fit match for your cousin. Well, neither would anyone else, yet!" He began to gather his papers together, his attention divided with them while he finished his answer: "There will be plenty of time before that 'yet' runs out. Mighty pleasant time, thanks to you, Mr. Locke! Phillida and I expect to enjoy building things up as much as we'll enjoy it after they're all built. Meantime, I prize what you're doing all the more because I know how you feel. Now, if you'd be interested to look over these plans or submit them to someone you've confidence in, for inspection, I'll just turn them over to you." He had so accurately measured me that I was disconcerted. It was quite true that he was compelling my respect, while my first dislike of him still obstinately lurked in the background of my mind. I felt ungenerous, but I would not lie to him. "I am a queer fellow, Vere," I said. "Leave that to time, as you say! As for the plans, they are far beyond my scope. A city man, it has been my way to 'phone for an expert when anything was to be done, or to buy what I fancied and pay the bills. In this case, you are the expert. The plans seem brilliant to me. Certainly they are moderate in cost. Keep them, and carry them out as soon as that may be done. You are master here, not I." We walked back together through the sun and freshness of the early spring morning. As we neared the house Phillida's voice hailed us. She was at my window again, leaning out with her hair wind-ruffled about her face. "Cousin Roger," she summoned me, "I have found out what makes your room as sweet as a garden of spices. See what it is to be a composer completely surrounded by royalties, able to buy the most gorgeous scents to lay on one's pillow! And all enclosed in antique gold!" She held up some small object that shone in the sunlight. "Throw it down," I begged, startled into excitement. She complied, laughing. Vere sprang forward, but I made a quicker step and caught the thing. It was one of those filigree balls of gold wrought into openwork, about the size of a walnut, that fine ladies used to wear swung from a chain or ribbon and call a pomander. The toy held a chosen perfume or essence supposed to be reviving in case miladi felt a swoon or megrim about to overwhelm her; as ladies did in past centuries and do no longer. Whose gentle pity had brought this pomander to my pillow, to help me from that faintness which had followed my struggle with the Thing? Whose was the exquisite, individual fragrance contained in the ball I held? I had a vision of a figure, surely light and soft of movement, haloed with such matchless hair as the braid I had captured, stealing step by timid step across my room; within my reach while I lay inert. Perhaps her face had bent near mine in her doubt of my life or death; hidden eyes had studied me in the scanty starlight. Oh, for Ethan Vere's good looks and athlete's grace, to lure my lady from her masquerade! "Where did you buy it, Cousin Roger? 'Fess up!" Phillida's merry voice coaxed me. "It was given to me," I slowly answered. "I cannot offer it to you, Phil. But I will buy any other pretty thing you fancy, instead, next time I go to town." She made a gesture of disclaim. "I did not mean _that_! Only, do tell me what the perfume is?" "I was going to ask if you knew." "No. Something very expensive and imported, I suppose. Perhaps whoever gave it to you had it made for herself alone, as some wealthy women do. It is the most clinging, yet delicately refreshing scent I ever met." "Tuberose," suggested Vere. "Drawls, no. How can you? Like an old-fashioned funeral!" she cried. "Tuberose didn't always go to funerals," he corrected her teasingly, as she made a face at him. "I remember them growing in my Aunt Bathsheba's garden. Creamy looking posies, kind of kin to a gardenia, seems to me! Thick-petalled, like white plush, and holding their sweet smell everlastingly. But Mr. Locke's perfumery isn't just that, either. There was something else grew in that garden--I can't call to mind what I mean. Basil, maybe?" "The basil plant, that feeds on dead men's brains," quoted Phil with a mock shiver. "You _are_ happy in your ideals, Drawls!" He laughed. "Well, that garden smelled pretty fine when the dew was just warming up in the sun, mornings--and so does this little gilt ball! I'll guess Mr. Locke's lady never got it from France. Smells like old New England." There was no reason why a vague chill should creep over me, or the sunshine seem to darken as if a thin veil drifted between me and the surrounding brightness. Let me say again that no place could have been more unlike the traditional haunted house. There hung about it no sense of morbidity or depression. Yet, what was I to think? I was not sick or mad; and the Thing had come to me twice. I turned from the married lovers and made my way to the veranda, where I might be alone to consider the pomander whose perfume was like a diaphanous presence walking beside me. Seated there, in one of the deep willow-chairs Phillida had cushioned in peacock chintz and marked especially mine by laying my favorite magazines on its arm, I studied my new trophy of the night. There was a satisfaction in its material solidity. It was real enough, resting in my palm. Yes; but it was not ordinary among its quaint kind! As I picked out the design of the gold-work, that fact was borne in upon my mind. Here was no pattern of scroll or blossom or cupids and hearts. The small sphere was belted with the signs of the Zodiac, beautiful in minute perfection. All the rest of the globe was covered with lace-fine work repeating one group of characters over and over. I was not learned enough to tell what the characters were, but the whole plainly belonged to those strange, outcast academies of astrology, alchemy--magic, in short. It contained what appeared to be a pinkish ball; originally a scented paste rolled round and dried, I judged by peering through the interstices of the gold. Had the old-world trinket been left to bewilder me? Why, and by whom? What interest had my lady of the dark in elaborately deceiving me? Why muffle her identity in mystery? Why the indefinable quaintness of language, the choice of words that made her speech so different from even the college-bred Phillida's? She urged me to leave the house. If she, or anyone associated with her wanted the place left vacant for some reason, why did not the Thing and the warning come to others of our household group? Vere, Phillida, the Swedish woman, Cristina--all had lived here for weeks without any experiences like mine. I had not been told to leave my room, but the house. The danger, then, was only for me? Well, was I to run away, hands over my eyes, at the first alarm? The gray cat came purring about me and presently leaped upon my knee. On impulse, I offered the pomander to its nostrils. The unwinking yellow eyes shut, the beast's powerful claws closed and unclosed with convulsive pleasure, it breathed with that thirsty eagerness for the scent so familiar to my own senses. "Better than catnip, Bagheera?" I questioned. "You wouldn't bolt from it, either, would you?" Phillida's battered pet relaxed luxuriously, by way of answer, sniffed toward the hand I withdrew, and composed itself to sleep. I put the pomander in my waistcoat pocket. I could not deny as mere nightmare the Thing which had visited me. Better confront that fact! It was real. Only, real in what sense? What human agency could produce an effect so frightful, an illusion so hideous that I could scarcely bear to recall it here in full daylight, without the use of a sight or sound to confuse the brain? Had the girl told the truth in her wild explanation? A truth hinted at by alchemists, Pythagoreans, Rosicrucians, pale students of sorcery and magnificent charlatans, these many centuries? Were there other races between earth and heaven; strange tribes of the middle spaces whose destinies were fixed and complete as our own, but between whose lives and ours were fixed barriers not to be crossed? Had I met one of these beings, inimical to man as a cobra, intelligent as man, hunting Its victim by methods unknown to us? Was I a cheated fool, or a pioneer on the borders of a new country? Could I meet that Thing tonight, and tomorrow night? Could I bear the agony of Its presence, the stench of death and corruption that was Its atmosphere? At the mere memory my forehead grew wet. The postman's buggy had stopped at our mailbox. Phillida ran down to meet the event of the morning. Her laughing chatter came back to me while she waited, fists thrust in middy pockets, for the old man to sort our letters from his bags. It did not appear so hard to make a woman happy, I mused. A man might attempt it with hope, if he could but persuade her to try him. My lady had promised to come again. Perhaps, with patience----? Phillida came across the lawn with an armful of gaudy-covered catalogues and a handful of letters. "Catalogues for Ethan; letters for you," she called in advance of her arrival. "What an important person you are, Cousin Roger! It always gives me a quivery thrill to realize _who_ you are as well as how nice you are. Now, isn't that a jumbled speech to tumble out of me?" I took her tanned little hand along with the letters; letters that were so many voices summoning me back to pleasant, busy Manhattan. "It is a fine speech for a humble person to answer, Phil! But does that sort of thing matter to you women? What do you love Vere for, at bottom? Because he is strong and supple and has curly hair? No?" as she shook her head. "Because he has worn the uniform, then; proved his courage in war at sea? Because he had the glamour about him of real adventure and cabaret glitter? Or because he took you away from a life you hated? Or, perhaps, because he is kind and loves you? No! For none of these reasons? Why, then, love Ethan Vere?" She stopped vigorously shaking her head in repeated denial, and smiled at me triumphantly. "Because he _is_ Ethan Vere," she promptly responded. "Oh, Cousin Roger, you clever people are so stupid! It would not make any difference at all if Drawls were ugly, or never had been a sailor, or could not skate or do things, or had not been able to make me happy. It is something very much bigger than all that!" "And all the divorce courts, Phil? The breach of promise suits, and the couples who make each other miserable?" "But they never had anything," she said. "Perhaps they will have it, some day. Don't you know, Cousin Roger, that the most important things in the world are those most people never know about?" I was not sure whether I knew that, or not. After last night, I was not sure of many things. Still, if such gifts were given as she believed, if it was merely a question of being Ethan Vere--or Roger Locke----? But I had never seriously considered leaving the adventure. CHAPTER VIII "The heart is a small thing, but desireth great matters. It is not sufficient for a kite's dinner, yet the whole world is not sufficient for it."--HUGO DE ANIMA. That evening Vere and I settled the business details of the developments he had planned. Also while we three were quietly together, I launched a discussion that had been gathering in my mind all day while I watched Phillida. "You are doing as efficient work as Vere," I told her. "In fact, you are a most moderate pair! I gave you an open bank account, Phil; and you have furnished the house for so little that I am amazed. And it is all so gay, so freshly pretty! Being an ignorant man, the details are beyond me. But--one servant? Aren't you working yourself too hard? I had expected you to need several. Of course, we are not counting Vere's outdoor force." She turned in her low chair beside the lamp and glanced toward the window behind her, before replying. I noticed the action, because a moment before Vere had turned precisely the same way. "It is good of you to think of those things, Cousin Roger," she declared. "But, I want to be a real wife to Drawls. I do, indeed! And I have it all to learn because I was not brought up for that. Look at this dish-towel I am hemming. Cristina would laugh at the stitches if she dared, yet they are better than when I began. Some day I shall sew fine things. So it is with all my housekeeping. I think we should begin as we mean to go on, so I have furnished the house for--us. Perhaps if it had been for you alone, I should have chosen satin-wood and tapestry instead of willow and cretonne. The same way about Cristina. If Ethan and I are to save and earn this lovely place, as you offered, we cannot afford more than one maid. You understand what I am trying to explain, don't you?" "Yes," I assented. "Surely! What were you looking for, just now, behind you?" "I? Oh, nothing! I just fancied someone had passed by the window and stared in. I can't imagine what made me fancy that. Unless the cat----" She hesitated. "Bagheera is asleep under Mr. Locke's chair," Vere observed casually. "Truly, Cousin Roger, I love the way we are living," she resumed. "It is very miserable of me, I daresay, not to be more intellectual after all Father and Mother labored with me. But it is so! I want to live this way all my life; to be busy, and plan things with Ethan, and make them come true together." Under cover of the table she put her hand into Vere's, and silence held us a little while. I watched Bagheera the cat, who sat beside my chair staring with unblinking yellow eyes toward the window across the room. Did I imagine a slight uneasiness in those eyes, a wary readiness in gathered limbs and muscles bulking under the old cat's scant fur? Now the tail twitched with a lashing movement. Presently Bagheera looked away and relaxed. A moment more, and he curled down, composing himself to sleep. "You like the place, Phil?" I questioned. "You do not find it lonely here, or in any way depressing?" The candor of her surprise told me that no dweller between the worlds had visited her. "Cousin Roger? This darling house? Why?" I passed that question safely, and after a few minutes bade them good-night. They had a fashion of gazing at one another that made it a matter of necessary kindness to leave them alone together. As I made my solitary way upstairs, I will not deny a growing excitement, or that dread fought with my resolution. Who would keep tryst with me tonight? The Horror or the lady? Both; as each time before? If so, which one would come first, and what might be my measure of success or failure? If some trick were being played upon me, I meant to pluck it out of the mystery. The quietly pleasant room received me without a hint of the unusual. I lighted the lamps and sat down to my work. The house was still by ten o'clock, all lights out except mine. At midnight I lay down in the dark, the pomander under my pillow. Whether I put the gold ball there from sentiment, or from some absurd fancy about its perfume and mystic carving being somehow a talisman against evil, or because I feared the trinket might be taken from me during the night, I should be troubled to answer. I did place it there, and lay lapped in its sweet odor while the moments dragged past; heavy, slow-footed moments of strain and dreadful expectation scarcely relieved by a hope uneasy as fear. The cock crowed for the first hour; and for the second. I slept, at last. When I awoke, level sun-rays were striking across the world. Nothing had happened. CHAPTER IX "These Macedonians are a rude and clownish people that call a spade a spade."--PLUTARCH. Next morning, I took my car and began a systematic investigation of the neighborhood. There proved to be few houses within reasonable distance where such a woman as my lady could be lodged. However, I made my cautious inquiries even where the quest seemed useless, resolved to leave no chance untried. No better plan occurred to me than exhibition of the pomander with a vague story of wishing to return it to a young lady with red-gold hair. But nowhere did a native show recognition of the top or the description. On my way home I overtook a familiar, travel-stained buggy that inspired me with a fresh disrespect for my own abilities. Why had I not put my question to our rural mail deliverer in the beginning? Surely here was a man who knew everyone and went everywhere! The old white horse rolled placid eyes toward the car that drew up beside it, then returned to cropping the young grass by the roadside. The postman looked up from the leather sack open before him, and nodded to me. "Morning, Mr. Locke," he greeted. "Now let me get the right stuff into this here box, an' I'll sort your family's right out for you. There's a sample package of food sworn to make hens lay or kill 'em, for Cliff Brown here, that's gone to the bottom of the bag. I don't know but Cliff's poultry'd thank me to leave it be! Up it's got to come, though!" "Will it make them lay?" I asked, watching the ruddy old face peering into the sack. "I guess it might, if Cliff told 'em they'd have to lay or eat it, judgin' from the smell that sample's put in my bag." "Not as sweet as this?" I suggested, and leaned across to lay the pomander in his gnarled hand. The familiar expression of acute, almost greedy pleasure flowed into his face. His nostrils expanded with eager intake of the perfume that seemed an elixir of delight. He said nothing, absorbed in sensation. "Do you know of a lady who wears that scent?" I asked. "A lady with bright fair hair, colored like copper-bronze?" "Not I!" he denied briefly. "No one at all like that--with hair warmer in shade than ordinary gold color, and a lot of it?" "No. Not around here, nor anywhere I've been! What do you call this perfumery, Mr. Locke?" "I have no idea," I answered, sharply disappointed. "No one knows except the young lady I am trying to find. Are you sure you cannot help me at all? There is no newcomer in the neighborhood, no visitor at any house who might be the one I am looking for?" He shook his head, giving back the pomander with marked reluctance. "No one who might be able to tell more than yourself?" I persisted. A gleam of humor lit his eyes. He dropped a cardboard cylinder into Mr. Clifford Brown's mailbox and began to sort out my letters. "Far as that goes, I guess Mis' Hill don't miss much of what goes on around here. When she hears a good bit of tattle, she has her husband hitch up, and she goes drivin' all day. Ain't a house she knows that don't get to hear the whole yarn! You know Mis' Royal Hill? Mis' Vere gets butter and cheese from her. Might ask her!" I thanked him and drove on. Mrs. Hill, garrulous wife of the farmer who owned the place next to ours, was on her porch when I came to a halt before the house. She granted me more interest than the other natives upon whom I had called that morning; inviting me into her parlor to "set," when she had identified me. But she knew nothing of the object of my quest. "I guessed you must be the new owner up to the Michell place," she observed, her beady, faded brown eyes busy with my appearance, picking up details in avid, darting little glances suggestive of a bird pecking crumbs. "Cliff Brown said a lame feller had bought it. I don't see as that little limp cripples you much, the way you can rampus 'round in that fast automobile of yours! Now, I'm perfectly sound, and I wouldn't be paid to drive the thing. You'd ought to get the other fellow to run it for you; the handsome one. I guess you like to do it, though? Writer, ain't you? Books or newspapers?" I rallied my scattered faculties to answer the machine-gun attack. "Music?" she echoed, her narrow, sun-dried face wrinkling into new lines of inquisitiveness. "They said you had a piano in your bedroom, but I thought they were just foolin' me! Seems I never heard of havin' a piano upstairs. Most folks like to show 'em off in the parlor. Must be kind of funny, takin' your company upstairs to play for 'em. But then it's kind of a funny thing for a man to take to, anyhow! I got a niece ten years old next August who can play piano so good there don't seem anythin' left to learn her, so----! But there ain't no use of you drivin' 'round here lookin' for a fair-headed girl, Mr. Locke. The Slav folk down in the shanties by the post road are about the only light-complected ones in this neighborhood. Somehow, we run mostly to plain brown. Senator Allen has two girls, but they're only home from a boardin' school for vacation. How do you like your place?" "Very much," I assured her. "Only, I do not know a great deal about it, yet. Its history, I mean. Are there any interesting stories about the house? You know, we city people like a nice legend or ghost story to tell our friends when they come to visit us." She chuckled, swinging in her plush-covered rocking-chair, arms folded on her meagre breast. "Guess you'll have to make one up! I never heard of none. The Michell family always owned it--and they were so stiff respectable an' upright everyone was scared of 'em! Most of the men were clergymen in their time. The last, Reverend Cotton Mather Michell, went abroad to foreign parts for missionary work with the heathen, twenty-odd years ago; an' died there. He never married, so the family's run out. The Michells were awful hard on women; called 'em vessels of wrath an' beguilers of Adam. Preached it right out of the pulpit--so I guess no girl in these parts could have been hired to wed with him, if he'd wanted. His mother died when he was born, so he'd had no softenin' influence. After news came of his death, the house was shut up 'till you bought it. My, how you've changed it, already! I'd admire to go through it." When I had invited her to call on Phillida and inspect our domicile, and paid due thanks for information received, she followed me out to the car. "All this land 'round here is old and full of Indian relics," she remarked. "Over to the Sound where the swamps used to be, there was lots of fightin' with savages. An' they say a witch was stoned to death where the Catholic convent stands now, on the road up above your place. So I guess you can figure out a story to tell your company, if you like." "A convent?" I repeated, my attention caught by a new possibility. "Do they, perhaps, have visitors there, ladies in retreat for a time, as convents often do abroad?" Mrs. Hill laughed, shaking her tightly-combed head. "No hope of your girl there," she chuckled. "They're the strictest sisterhood in America, folks say. Poor Clares, I think they're called. No one, not even their relations, ever see their faces after they join. They're not allowed to talk to each other, even. Just stay in their cells, an' pray, even in the middle of the night, an' shave their heads an' live on a few vegetables an' dry bread." I laughed with her. Certainly no convent would harbor my lady of marvelous tresses and magical perfume, of wild fancies and heretical theories. That thought of mine was indeed far afield. But where, then, was I next to seek? I made a detour and used some strategy to gain a view of the Senator's daughters. They proved to be brunettes who wore their locks cropped after the fashion of certain Greenwich villagers. My disappointment was not great; my lady was not suggestive of a boarding-school miss. But I had hoped to find somewhere a trace of the copper-bronze head whose royalty of hair I had shorn as the traitors shore King Childeric's Gothic locks. I drove home with a sense of blankness upon me. Suppose she never came again? Suppose the episode was ended? Not even freedom from the Thing could compensate for the baffled adventure. Think of the lame feller with an Adventure! CHAPTER X "Plato expresses four kinds of Mania--Firstly, the musical; secondly, the telestic or mystic; thirdly, the prophetic; and fourthly, that which belongs to Love."--PREFACE TO ZANONI. For myself, I have always found that excitement stimulates imagination. There are others, I know, who can do no creative work except when all within and without is lulled and calm. Perhaps I have too much calm as an ordinary thing! That evening, when I went to my room, lighted my lamps and closed my door, I stood alone for awhile breathing the mingled sweetness of the country air and the pomander ball. In that interval, there came to me, complete and whole as a gift thrust into my hand, the melody which an enthusiastic publisher since assured me has reached every ear in America. As to that extravagant statement, I can only measure by the preposterous amount of money the melody has brought me. Perhaps there is a magic about it. For myself, I cannot hear it--ground on a street-organ, given on the stage, played on a phonograph record or delicately rendered by an orchestra--without feeling again the exaltation and enchantment of that night. I flung myself down at my writing-table, tossing my former work right and left to make room for this. If it should escape before I could set it down! If the least of those airy cadences should be lost! At three o'clock in the morning I came back to realization of time and place. The composition was finished; it stood up before me like a flower raised over-night. Eight hours had passed since I sat down to the work, after dinner. I was tired. As I began to draw into a pile the sheets of paper I had covered with notes, weariness gripped me like a hand. Eight hours? If I had shoveled in a ditch twice that long I could have felt no more exhausted. Yielding to drained fatigue of mind and body, I dropped my head upon the arms I folded upon the table. My hot, strained eyes closed with relief, my stiff fingers relaxed. Rest and content flowed over me; my work was done, and good. Rest passed into sleep, no doubt. The sleep could not have been long, for not many hours remained before dawn. When I started awake and lifted my head, I found the room in darkness. A perfume was in the air, and the sense of a presence scarcely more tangible than the perfume. Even in the first dazed moment, I knew my lady had come again. "Do not rise!" her murmuring voice cautioned me. "Unless you wish me to go?" "No!" "I am here because I promised to come. It was not wise of you to ask that of me." "Then I prefer folly to wisdom," I answered, steadying myself to full wakefulness. "Or, rather, I am not sure that you can decide for me which is which!" "Why? After all, why? Just--curiosity?" "You, who speak so learnedly of magic and sorcery," I retorted, smiling under cover of the darkness, "have you never heard of the white magic conjured by a tress of hair, a perfume ball, and a voice sweeter than the perfume? An image of wax does not melt before a witch's fire so easily as a man before these things." "My hair pleased you?" she questioned naïvely. "Or so easily as a woman melts before admiration!" I supplemented. "I am delighted to prove you human, mystic lady. Please me? Could anyone fail to be pleased with that most magnificent braid? But how can either you or I forgive the cruelty that took it from its owner? Why did you cut it off?" "So little of it! And I did not know you, then." "Little? That braid?" "It reached below my knee, now it is but little less," she answered with indifference. "We all have such hair." I gasped. My imagination painted the picture of all that shining richness enwrapping a slim young body. It was fantastic beyond belief to sit there at my desk, beneath my fingers the tools of sober, workaday life, and stare into the dark room that held the reality of my vision. She was there, but I could not rise and find her. She was opposite my eyes, but my promise forbade me to touch the lamp and see her. "Who are 'we'?" I slowly followed her last sentence. A sigh answered me. On the silence, a memory floated to me of the story she had told while I held her prisoner that first night: "_The woman sits in her low chair. The fire-shine is bright in her eyes and in her hair. On either side, her hair flows down to the floor._" Yes, by legend young witches had such hair; sylphs, undines and all of the airy race of Lilith. I thrust absurdities away from me and offered a quotation to fill the pause: "'I met a lady in the meads' 'Full beautiful; a faery's child.' 'Her hair was long, her foot was light,' 'And her eyes were wild.'" She did not laugh, or put away the suggestion. When I had decided that she did not mean to reply, and was seeking my mind for new speech to detain her with me, she finally spoke what seemed another quotation: "'A spirit--one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom Josephus and Michael Psellus of Constantinople may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.' Have you read the writings of the learned Jew or of the Platonist, you who are so very bold?" "Neither," I meekly admitted. "But neither ancient gentleman could convince me that you are unhuman." Her answer was just audible: "Not I--but, It!" Now I was silenced, for dreadful and uncanny was that whisper in the dark to a man who had met here in this room What I had met. "Tell me more of this Thing without a name," I urged, mastering my reluctance to evoke even the idea of what the blood curdled to recall. "Why does It hate me?" "What can I tell you? Even in your world, does not evil hate good as naturally as good recoils from evil? But this One has another cause also!" She hesitated. "And you yourself? How have you challenged and mocked It this very night? Here, where It glooms, you have dared bring the high joy of the artist who creates? Oh, brave, brave!--he who could await alone the visit of the Unspeakable, in the chamber into which the Loathsome Eyes have looked, and write the music of hope and beauty!" I started, with a hot rush of surprise and pleasure. She had heard my work. She approved it. More than that, not to her was I the lame fellow who ought to get a better man to drive his car! "Nor should you, who have two worlds of your own," she added in a lower tone, "doubt the existence of many both dark and bright. Go, then, out of this haunted place where a human madness broke through the Barrier. Be satisfied with the victories you have had. Let the visits of the Dark One fade into mere nightmare; and know I am no more a living woman than Franchina Descartes." "Who was she?" "Have you not read that early in the seventeenth century there appeared in Paris the philosopher Descartes, accompanied by the figure of a beautiful woman? She moved, spoke, and seemed life itself; but Descartes declared she was an automaton, a masterpiece of mechanism he himself had made. Yet many refused to believe his story, declaring he had by sorcery compelled a spirit to serve him in this form. He called her Franchina, his daughter." "And the truth?" "I have told you all the record tells. She was soon lost. Descartes took her with him upon a journey by sea; when, a storm arising, the superstitious captain of the vessel threw the magic beauty into the Mediterranean." "Thank you. But, are you fairy or automaton?" "Do not laugh," she exclaimed with sudden passion. "You know I would say that I have no part in the world of men and women. Not through me shall the ancient dread seize a new life. A little time, now, then the doors will close upon me as the sea closed over Franchina. I will not take with me the memory of a wrong done to you. I shall never come to this house after tonight. If you would give me a happiness, promise me you will leave, too." I had known we should come to this point. After a moment, I spoke as quietly as I could: "Tell me your name." She had not expected that question. I think she might have withheld the answer, given time to reflect. But as it was, she replied docilely as a bidden child: "Desire Michell." The name fell quaintly on both hearing and fancy, with a rustle of early New England tradition. Desire! I repeated it inwardly with satisfaction before I answered her. "Thank you. Now, I, Roger Locke, do promise you, Desire Michell, that I will not leave this house until these matters are plainer to my understanding, whether you go or stay. But if you go and come no more, then I surely shall stay until I find a way to trace you or until the Thing kills me." "No!" "Yes." There was a pause. Then, to my utter dismay, I heard her sobbing through the dark. "Why do you tempt me?" she reproached. "Is it not hard enough, my duty? For me it is such pleasure to be here--to leave for a while the loneliness and chill of my narrow place! But you, so rich in all things, free and happy--how should it matter to you if a voice in the dark speaks or is silent? Let me go." Wonder and exulting sense of power filled me. "I can keep you, then?" I asked. "I am--so weak." "Desire Michell, I am as alone as you can be, in my real life. I have gone apart from much that occupies men and women; gaining and losing in different ways. One of the gains is freedom to dispose of myself without grief or loss to anyone, except the perfunctory regret of friends. Will you believe there is no risk that I would not take for a few hours with you? Even with your voice in the dark? Come to me as you can, let us take what time we may, and the chances be mine." "But that is folly! You do not know. To protect you I must go." "I refuse the protection. Stay! If there is sorrow in knowing you, I accept it. I understand nothing. I only beg you not to turn me back to the commonplace emptiness of life before I found you. Indeed, I will not be sent away." "If I yield, you will reproach me some day." "Never." "It could only be like this--that we should speak a few times before the gates close upon me." "What gates?" "I cannot tell you." "Very well," I took what the moment would grant me. "That is a bargain. Yet, what safety lies in secrecy between us? If we are to help each other, as I hope, would not plain openness be best? You will tell me no more about yourself? Very well. Tell me something more about the enemy in the dark whom I am to meet. You have hinted that It has a special motive for fixing hate upon me beyond mere malignance toward mankind. What is that motive?" "Ask me not," she faintly refused me. "I do ask you. My ignorance of everything concerned is a heavy drawback in this combat. Arm me with a little understanding. What moves It against me?" The pause following was filled with a sense of difficulty and recoil, her struggle against some terrible reluctance. So painful was that effort, somehow clearly communicated to me, that I was about to devour my curiosity and withdraw the question when her whisper just reached my hearing: "Jealousy!" "Jealousy? Of what? For whom?" "For--me." The monstrous implication sank slowly into my understanding; then brought me erect, gripping the edge of the table lest I forget restraint and move toward her. "By what right?" I cried. "By what claim? Desire Michell, what has the Horror to do with you?" The vehemence and heat of my cry struck a shock through the hushed room distinct as the shattering of crystal. There was no answer, no movement; no rebuke of my movement. I was alone. With that confession she had fled. My cry had been louder than I knew. Presently I heard a door open. Steps sounded along the hall from the rooms on the opposite side of the house. Someone knocked hesitatingly. "Are you all right, Mr. Locke?" Vere's voice came through the panels. I crossed to the door and opened it. He stood at the threshold, an electric torch in his hand. "We thought you called," he apologized. "I thought maybe you were sick, or wanted something; and no light showed around your door." I found the wall switch and turned on the lamps. As on the last occasion, she had switched the lights off there, beyond my reach unless I broke my promise not to move about the room while she remained my guest. "Come in," I invited him. "Much obliged to you and Phillida for looking me up! I had been working late and dropped asleep in my chair, with a nightmare as the result." It was pleasant to have his normal presence, prosaic in bathrobe and pajamas, in my cheerfully lighted room. His dark eyes glanced toward the music-scrawled papers scattered about, then returned to meet my eyes smilingly. "We heard some of that work," he admitted. "Phil and I--well, I guess we were guilty of sitting on the stairs to hear you play it over. I never listened to a tune that took hold of me, kind of, like that one. We'd certainly prize hearing all of it together, sometime, if you didn't mind." The warmth of achievement flowed again in me. I crossed to the piano to assemble the finished sheets, answering him with one of those expressions of thanks artists use to cloak modestly their sleek inward vanity. I was really grateful for this first criticism that soothed me back to the reality of my own world. Across the top of the uppermost sheet of music, in small, square script quaint as the pomander, was written a quotation strange to me: "We walk upon the shadows of hills across a level thrown, and pant like climbers." I did not know that I had read the words aloud until Vere answered them. "So we do! I guess there is more panting over shadows and less real mountain-climbing done by us humans than most folks would believe. Most roads turn off to easy ways before we reach the hills we make such a fuss about. Who wrote that, Mr. Locke?" "I don't know," I replied vaguely, intent upon Desire Michell's meaning in leaving this to me. He nodded, and turned leisurely to go. "Kind of seems to me as if he must have felt like you did when you wrote that piece tonight," he observed diffidently. "As if trouble did not amount to much, taken right. I'll get back to Phil, now. She might be anxious." Could that be what Desire had meant me to understand? Was there indeed some quality of courage----? That is why my most successful composition from the standpoint of money and popularity went to the publisher under the title, "Shadows of Hills." Of course no one connected the allusion. The general interpretation was best expressed by the cover design of the first printing: a sketch of a mountain-shaded lake on which floated a canoe containing two young persons. I was well pleased to have it so. But--in what land unknown to man towered the vast mountains in whose shadow I panted and strove? Or was my foot indeed upon the mountain itself? I did not know. I do not know, now. CHAPTER XI "If the Dreamer finds himself in an unknown place, ignorant of the country and the people, let him be aware that such place is to be understood of the Other World."--ONEIROCRITICA ACHMETIS. In the morning I drove down to New York. There were affairs demanding attention. Also, I was pressed by an eagerness to get my over-night work into the hands of the publisher. To be exact, I wanted to put the manuscript out of reach of the Thing at the house. Without reason, I had awakened with that instinct strong within me. The atmosphere of the city was tonic. Merely driving through the friendly, crowded streets was an exhilaration. The practical employment of the day broomed away fantastic cobwebs. In the evening I turned toward Connecticut with a feeling of leaving home behind me. But I would not stay away from the house for a night, risking that Desire Michell might come and find me missing. She might believe I had been seized by cowardice and deserted. She might never return. I will not deny that I had lied to her. There was no intention in me of accepting her fleeting visits as the utmost she could give. I meant to snatch her out of darkness and mystery, to set her in the wholesome sunlight where Phillida flitted happily. If I could prevent, those gates of which she vaguely spoke never should close between us. But it was plain that I must tread warily. Once frightened away, how could she be found? Her home, her history, even her face, were unknown to me. Tracing her by a perfume and a tress of hair had been tried, and failed. Of her connection with the Dark Thing I refused to think too deeply. Her connection with me must come first. It was not until I passed the cottage of Mrs. Hill, glimmering whitely in the starlight, where the road made an angle toward the farm, that I recalled our talk in her "best room." "_The Michell family always owned it. The Reverend Cotton Mather Michell went to foreign parts for missionary work twenty years ago and died there----_" My lady of the night was Desire Michell. A clue? "_He never married, so the family's run out._" It was damp here in the hollow where the road dipped down. A chill ran coldly over me. Arrived at the garage which had taken the place of our tumble-down barn, I put the car away as quietly as possible. Ten o'clock had struck as I passed through the last village, and our household was asleep. Moving without unnecessary noise, I crossed to the house. Bagheera, the cat, padded across the porch to meet me and rubbed himself around my legs while I stooped to put the latch-key in the lock. As the key slid in place, I heard the waterfall over the dam abruptly change the sound of its flow, swelling and accelerating as when a gust of wind hurries a greater volume of water over the brink. But there was no wind. Immediately followed that sound from the lake which I can liken to nothing better than the smack of huge lips unclosing, or the suck of a thick body drawing itself from a bed of mud. The cat thrust himself violently between my feet and pressed against the house-door uttering a whimpering mew of urgency. Startled, I looked in the direction of the lake. At this distance it showed as a mere expanse of darkness, only the reflection of a star here and there revealing the surface as water. What else could be shown, I rebuked my nerves by querying of them; and turned the key. Bagheera rushed into the hall when the door opened wide enough to admit his body. I followed more sedately and closed the door behind us both. Now I was not acquainted with Bagheera's night privileges. Did Phillida allow him in the house, or not? After an instant's consideration, I bent and picked him up from his repose on the hall rug. He should spend the night shut in with me, out of mischief yet comfortable. Purring in the curve of my arm, he was carried upstairs without objection on his part. Until we reached my room! On its threshold I felt his body stiffen; his yellow eyes snapped open alertly. Cat antipathy to a strange place, I reflected, amused, as I switched on the lights. "All right, Bagheera," I spoke soothingly, and put him upon the rug. He bounded erect, fur bristling, tail lashing from side to side after the fashion of a miniature panther. When I stooped to stroke him, he eluded my hand. In a gliding run, body crouched, ears flattened, he sped toward the doorway, was through it and gone. Well, I decided, he could not be pursued all through the house. It would be easier to explain him to Phillida next morning. I was tired; pleasantly tired. The day had been filled with the enthusiasm and congratulations of my associates, with conferences and plans for launching the new music via theatres and advertising. It ought to "go big," they assured me. In my optimism of mood, I wondered if I had not already driven off the Dark Thing, since the girl had come to me the night past without It appearing before or afterward. Perhaps, woman-timid, she exaggerated the danger and It had retreated after the second failure to overpower me. I fell asleep with a tranquil conviction that nothing would disturb my rest this night. * * * * * Stillness enveloped me, absolute, desolate. Silence contained me. Yet the thought of another scorched against my understanding in a burning communication of intelligence. "Man," It commanded, "I am here. Fear!" And I knew that which was my body did fear to the point of death, but that which was myself stood up in revolt. "Crouch," It bade. "Crouch, pygmy, and beg. Fear! The blood crawls in the veins, the heart checks, the nerves shrink and wither--man, your life wanes thin and faint. Down--shall your race affront mine?" My heart did stagger and beat slow. Life crept a sluggish current. But there was another force that stiffened to resistance, and gathered itself to compact strength within me. "No," my thought refused the dark intelligence. "I am not yours. Command your own, not me." "Weakling, you have touched that which is mine. Into my path you have dared step. Back--for in my breath you die!" The air my lungs drew in was foul and poisonous. With more and more difficulty my heart labored. Confused memories came to me of men found dead in their beds in haunted rooms. Would morning find me so? Better that way than to yield to the Thing! Better---- I struggled erect; or fancied so. Now I saw myself as one who stood with folded arms fronting a breach in a colossal wall. Huge, immeasurably huge that cliff reared itself beyond the sight and ranged away on either side into unknown distances, dully glistening like gray ice, unbroken save in this place. The gray strand on which I stood was a narrow strip following the foot of the wall. Behind me lay a vast, unmoving ocean banked over with an all-concealing mist. Not a ripple stirred along that weird beach, or a ray changed the fixed gray twilight. And I was afraid, for my danger was not of the common dangers of mankind, but that which freezes the blood of man when he draws near the supernatural; the ancient fear. I stood there, while sweat poured painfully from me, and fronted my enemy who pressed me hard. The Thing was at the breach, couched in the great cleft that split the Barrier, darkness within darkness. Unseen, I felt the glare of Its hate beat upon me. From It emanated deathly cold, like the nearness of an iceberg in the night, with an odor of damp and mold. "Puny earth-dweller, lost here," Its menace breathed, "what keeps you from destruction? For you the circle has not been traced nor the pentagram fixed, for you no law has been thrust down. Trespass is death. Die, then." Only my will held It from me, and I felt that will reel in sickened bewilderment. I had no strength to answer, only the steadfast instinct to oppose. The Thing did not pass. There in the breach It ravened for me, thrust Itself toward me, pressed against the thin veil of separation between us. I saw nothing, yet knew where It raised Itself, gigantic in formlessness more dreadful than any shape. Its whispered threats broke against me like an evil surf. "Man, the prey is mine. Would you challenge me? The woman is mine by the pact of centuries. Save yourself. Escape." The woman? Startled wonder filled me. Was I then fighting for Desire Michell? Out of the air I was answered as if her voice had spoken; certainty came to grip me as if with her small hands. She had no help but in me. If I fell, she fell. If I stood firm----? Exultant resolve flared strong and high within me. My will to protect leaped forward. The Thing shrank. It dwindled back through the gap in the Barrier. But as It fled, a last venomous message drifted to me: "Again! And again! Tire but once, pygmy----!" * * * * * I was sitting up in bed in my lighted room, my fingers clutching the chain of the lamp beside me. Was some dark bulk just fading from beyond my window? Or was I still dreaming? I was trembling with cold, drenched as with water so that my relaxing hand made a wet mark on the table beneath the lamp. This much might have been caused by nightmare. But what sane man had nightmares like these? When I was able, I rose, changed to dry garments and wrapped myself in a heavy bathrobe. There was an electric coffee service in my room kept for occasions when I worked late into the night. I made strong black coffee now and drank it as near boiling as practicable. Presently the blood again moved warmly in my veins. Then I knew that the chill in the room was not a delusion of my chilled body. I was warm, yet the air around me remained moist and cold, unlike a summer night. It seemed air strangely thickened and soiled, as pure water may be muddied by the passage of some unclean body. In this atmosphere persisted a fetid smell of mold and decay, warring with the homely scent of coffee and the fragrance of the pomander beneath my pillow. I was more shaken, more exhausted by this encounter with the unknown than by either of my former experiences. A fact which drove home the grim farewell of my enemy! _Tire but once, pygmy----!_ Desire herself had foretold that the dark Thing would wear me down. Well, perhaps! But not without fighting for Its victory. At least I would be no supine victim. Already I had forced my way--where? Where was that Barrier before which I had stood? Awe sank coldly through me at memory of that colossal land where I was pygmy indeed, an insolent human intruder upon the unhuman. What other shapes of dread stalked and watched beyond that titanic wall? By what swollen conceit could I hope to win against Them? I would not consider escape by flight, even if the end had been certain destruction. But my head sank to my hands beneath the weight of a profound depression and discouragement. It was the hour before dawn, traditionally the worst for man. The hour superstition sets apart for its own, when the life flame burns lowest. At a distance a dog had treed some little wood creature, and bayed monotonously. There was a weakness at the core of my strength. I waged this combat for the sake of Desire Michell. _But what was she to whom the Thing laid claim by the pact of centuries?_ Darkness began to tinge with light. Pale gray filtered into the dusk with grudging slowness. As day approached I saw that a fog enfolded the house in vapor, stealing into the room in coils and swirls like thin smoke. The lamps looked sickly and dim. I forced away my languor, rose and walked to the nearest window. Something was moving up the slope from the lake; a dim shape about which the fog clung in steamy billows. My shaken nerves thrilled unpleasantly. What stirred at this empty hour? What should loom so tall? A moment later the figure was near enough to be distinguished as Ethan Vere, bearing several long fishing-rods over his shoulder. "Vere!" I hailed him, with mingled relief and utter disgust with myself. "Anything going on so early?" He looked up at me--I never saw Vere startled--and came on to stop beneath the window. Taking off his cap, he ran his fingers through his black curls, pushing their wetness from his forehead. I noticed how the mists painted him with a spectral pallor. "Good morning, Mr. Locke," he greeted me. "Just as I've been thinking, there are some big snapping-turtles about the lake and creek. I guessed there'd be some war between them and me before that water was safe for use! One of the fellows dragged a duck under, drowned it and started feeding right before my eyes, just now." "We will have to get a canoe." He nodded placid assent. "That'll look pretty on the lake. Phillida will like it. But I guess I'll keep a homely old flat-bottomed punt out of sight around some corner for work. The other craft goes over too prompt for jobs like mine, and don't hold enough. I'm going to fetch my rifle, now. I'd admire to blow that duck-eater's ugly head off." "I will get into some clothes and be right with you," I invited myself to the hunt. "I'd like to have you," he replied with his quaint politeness. There were times when I could visualize Vere's New England mother as if I had known her. The human interlude had been enough to dispel the black humors of the night. When I was ready to go out, I opened the drawer that held the copper-bronze braid and took it into my hand. How vital with youth its crisp resilience felt in my clasp, I thought; young, too, were its luxuriance and shining color. Nonsense, indeed, to fancy ghostliness here or the passing of musty centuries over the head that had worn this tress! A flood of reassurance rose high in me. Whatever the Thing might be, I would trust the girl Desire Michell. Yes, and for her I would stand fast at that Barrier until victory declared for the enemy or for me. Until It passed me, It should not reach her. I went downstairs to join Vere. The brightening mist was cool and fresh. There was neither horror nor defeat in the promise of the morning. CHAPTER XII "In vain I called on Rest to come and stay. We were but seated at the festival Of many covers, when One cried: 'Away!'" --ROSE GARDEN OF SA'ADI. Now I entered a time of experiences differing at every point, yet interwoven closely, so that my days might compare to a rope whose strands are of violently contrasted colors. The rope would be inharmonious, startling to the eye, but strong to bind and hold. As I was bound and held! All day I lived in the wholesome household atmosphere evoked by Vere and Phillida. It is impossible to describe the sunny charm they created about the commonplace. Our gay, simple breakfasts where Phillida presided in crisp middy blouse or flowered smock; where the gray cat sat on the arm of Vere's chair, speculative yellow eye observant of his master's carving, while the Swedish Cristina served us her good food with the spice of an occasional comment on farm or neighborhood events--how perfect a beginning for the day! How stale beside our breeze-swept table was any board at which I had ever sat! I do declare that I have never seen a more winning face than the bright one of my little cousin whom her world had pronounced "plain." Vere and I basked in her sunbeams gratefully. Afterward, we each had our work. Of the three, Vere was the most industrious; slow, steady and unsparing of himself to a degree that accomplished surprising results. Phillida flitted over the place indoors and out, managing the house, following Vere about, driving to village or town with me on purchasing trips for our supplies. I did rather more of my own work than usual, that summer, and consequently had more of the commercial side to employ me. A healthy, normal life? Yes--until the hours between midnight and dawn. I never knew when I laid down at night whether I should sleep until sun and morning overlay the countryside; whether the whispering call of Desire Michell would summon me to an hour more exquisite than reality, less satisfying than a dream, or whether I should leap into consciousness of the Loathsome Eyes fixed coldly malignant upon me while my enemy's inhuman hate groped toward me across the darkness Its presence fouled. For my two guests kept their promises. If I speak briefly of the coming of the Thing during this time, I do so because the mind shrinks from past pain. It came again, and again. It craftily used the torture of irregularity in Its coming. For days there might be a respite, then It would haunt me nights in succession until my physical endurance was almost spent. I have stood before the breach in that Barrier, fighting that nightmare duel, until the place of colossal desolation, last frontier the human race might hope to keep, became as well known to me as a landscape on earth. Yet the effect of the Thing's assaults upon me never lessened. On the contrary, the horror gained in strength. A dreadful familiarity grew between It and me. Communication flowed more readily between us with use. I will not set down, perhaps I dare not set down the intolerable wickedness of Its alternate menaces and offered bribes. Contact with Its intelligence poisoned. There were nights when It was dumb, when all Its monstrous power concentrated and bore upon me, Its will to destroy locked with my will. My victory was that I lived. * * * * * In the shadow, Desire Michell and I drew closer to one another. How can I tell of a love that grew without sight? So much of the love of romance and history is a matter of flower-petal complexions, heart-consuming eyes, satin lips, and all the form and color that make beauty. How can I make clear a love that grew strong and passionately demanding, knew delicate coquetries of advance and evasion, intimacy of minds like the meeting of eyes in understanding--all in the dark? The blind might comprehend. But the blind have a physical communication we had not; touch has enchantments of its own. Every night, near midnight, I switched off the lights and waited in the chair at my writing-table, where I was accustomed to work. If she had not come by two o'clock, I learned to know she would not visit me that night. I might sleep in that certainty. A strange tryst I kept there in the dark; listening to the flow of the waterfall from the lake, loud in that dead hour's stillness, or hearing the soft, incessant sounds of insect life awake in trees and fields. If she came--a drift of perfume, a movement slight as a curtain stirred by the wind, then an hour with such a companion as the ancient magician might have drawn out of the air to his nine mystic lamps. Strange, fantastic tales she told me, spun of fancies luminous and frail as threads of glass. She could not speak without betraying her deep learning in sciences rejected and forgotten by the modern world. Alchemy, astrology, geomancy furnished her speech with allusions blank to my ignorance; which she most gently and politely enlightened when I confessed. I learned that the Green Lion of Paracelsus was not a beast, but a recipe for making gold; that Salamandar's Feather was better known today as asbestos; and that the Emerald Table was by no means an article of furniture. I give these examples merely by way of illustration. On the other side of the shield held between us, I soon discovered that she knew no more of modern city life than a well-taught child who has never left home. She listened eagerly to accounts of theatres and restaurants. The history of Phillida and Ethan Vere seemed to her more moving and wonderful than any story she could tell me. I was amazed and humbled to find that she rated my ability to make music as a lofty art among the occult sciences. Of the evil Thing that haunted me, we came to say little. To press her with questions meant to end her visit, I found by experience. When I spoke of that strand between the Barrier and the gray mist-hidden sea, her passion of distress closed all intercourse with the plea that I go away at once, while escape was possible, while life remained mine. So for the most part I curbed my tongue and my consuming curiosity; not from consideration, but of necessity. One night I asked her how the dark Thing spoke to me, by what medium of communication. "Spirits of all orders can speak to man in every language, so long as they are face to face," she answered, with a faint surprise at my lack of knowledge. "'_When they turn to man, they come into use of his language and no longer remember their own, but as soon as they turn from man they resume their own language, and forget his._' "But they themselves are unaware of this fact, for they utter thought to thought by direct intelligence. So if angel or demon turns his back to you, Roger, you may not make him hear you though you call with great force." "How do you know that, Desire?" "But by simple reading! Do not Ennemoser and many writers record it?" "Have you spoken to such beings, Desire?" The question was rash, but it escaped me before I could check the impulse. To my relief, she answered without resentment: "No." "No? The Thing--the enemy that comes to me has never spoken to you?" "No." I was silent in amazement and incredulity. The dark creature claimed her, she declared herself helpless to escape from that dominion into normal life, and yet It never had spoken to her? It spoke to me, a stranger most ignorant, and not to the seeress who was familiar with Its existence and the lore which linked humanity to Its fearful kind? "You do not believe me," her voice came quietly across my thoughts. "I believe you, of course," I stammered. "I was only--astonished. You have described It, and the Barrier, so often; from the first night----! I supposed you had seen all I have, and more." "All you have seen? Now tell me with what eyes you have seen the Barrier and the Far Frontier? The eyes of the body, or that vision by which man sees in a dream and which is to the sight as the speech of spirits is to the hearing?" "I suppose--with the inner sight." "Then understand me when I say that I have seen with the eyes of another, by a sight not mine and yet my own." "You mean," I floundered in vague doubts and jealousy of her human associations of which I knew nothing. "You mean--hypnotism?" She laughed with half-sad raillery. "How shall I answer you, Roger? Once upon a time, the jewel called beryl was thought unrivaled as a mirror into which a magician might look to see reflected events taking place at a distance, or reflections of the future. But by and by magicians grew wiser. They found any crystal would serve as well as a beryl. Later still, they found a little water poured in a basin or held in the hollow of the hand showed as true a fantasm. So one wrote: '_There is neither crystallomancy nor hydromancy, but the magick is in the Seer himself._'" "Well, Desire?" "Well, Roger--if to see with the sight of another is hypnotism, then every man who writes a book or tells a good tale is a hypnotist; every historian who makes us see the past is a necromancer." "You read of the Thing----?" "No," she replied, after a long pause. "I knew It through sympathy with one who died as I would not have you to die, my friend Roger, of whom I shall think long in that place to which I go presently. Question me no more. When the time comes for you to throw a certain braid of hair and a pomander into the fire----" "I will never do that!" "No? Well, you might keep the pomander, which is pure gold engraved with ancient signs and the name of the Shining Dawn, Dahana, in Sanskrit characters. Also the perfume it contains is precious, being blent with the herb vervain which is powerful against evil spirits." "It is not the pomander that I should keep, nor the pomander that holds the powerful spell." "You--value the braid so much?" "I value only one other beauty as highly." "Yes, Roger?" "Yes, Desire. And that beauty is she who wore the braid." Now the darkness in the room was dense. Yet I thought I sensed a movement toward me as airy as the flutter of a bird's wing. The fragrance in the atmosphere eddied as if stirred by her passing. But when I spoke to her again, after a moment's waiting, she had gone. I am sure no housekeeper was ever more nice in her ideas of neatness than my little Cousin Phillida, and no maid more exact in carrying out orders than Cristina. Nevertheless, automobiles pass on the quietest roads, and my windows are always wide open. There is the fireplace, too, with possibilities of soot. Anyhow, there was a light gray dust overlaying the writing-table on the following morning. And in the dust was a print as if a small hand had rested there, a yard from my chair. A slim hand it must have been. I judged the palm had been daintily cupped, the fingers slender, smooth and long in proportion to the absurd size of the whole affair. My hand covered it without brushing an outline. I could not put this souvenir away with the braid and the pomander. But I could put its evidence with their witness of Desire Michell's reality. CHAPTER XIII "For may not the divell send to their fantasie, their senses being dulled and as it were asleep, such hills and glistering courts whereunto he pleaseth to delude them?"--KING JAMES' "DEMONOLOGY." Now I have to record how I walked into the oldest snare in the world. Perhaps it was the sense of her near presence brought home to me by her hand-print on the table so close to where my hand rested; perhaps it was her speech of presently leaving me to return no more. Or perhaps both these joined in urging on my determination to learn more of Desire Michell before some unknown bar fell between us. I only know that I passed into a mood of trapped exasperation at my helplessness and lack of knowledge. It seemed imperative that I should act to save us both, act soon and surely; yet inaction was bound upon me by my ignorance. Who was she? Where did she live? What bond held her subject to the Thing from the Barrier? What gates were to close between us? Why could she not put her hand in mine, any night, and let me take her away from this haunted place? Why, at least, not come to me in the light, and let me see her face to face? I was a man groping in a labyrinth while outside something precious to him is being stolen. For the first time I found myself unable to work, unable to share our household life with Phillida and Vere, or to find relaxation in driving about the countryside. Anger against Desire herself stirred at the bottom of my mind; Desire, who hampered me by the word of honor in which she had netted me so securely. It was then that my enemy from the unknown places began to whisper of the book. I encountered that enemy in a new mood. We did not meet at the breach in the mighty wall, confronted in death conflict between Its will and mine. Instead, night after night It crept to my window as at our first meeting. I started awake to find Its awful presence blackening the starlight where It crouched opposite me, Its intelligence breathing against mine. As always, my human organism shrank from Its unhuman neighborhood. Chill and repugnance shook my body, while that part of me which was not body battled against nightmare paralysis of horror. But now It did not menace or strive against me. It displayed a dreadful suavity I might liken to the coiling and uncoiling of those great snakes who are reported to mesmerize their prey by looping movements and figures melting from change to change in the Hunger Dance of Kaa. There was a book that held all I longed to know, It whispered to me. A book telling of the woman! She did not wish me to read, for fear I should grow overwise and make her mine. The book was here, in my house. I might arise and find--if I would be guided by It----! I thrust the whispers away. How could I trust my enemy? If such a book existed, which seemed improbable, there was a taint of disloyalty to Desire in the thought of reading without her knowledge. The Thing was not turned away. How could I do harm by learning what she was, unless she had evil to conceal? Did I fear to know the truth? As for the book's existence, I had only to accept guidance from It----? I persisted in refusal. But the idea of the book followed me through my days like a wizard's familiar dogging me. Where could such a volume be hidden, in what secret nook in wall or floor? How came a book to be written about the girl I supposed young, unknown and set apart from the world? Was I letting slip an opportunity by my fastidious notions of delicacy? Indecision and curiosity tormented me beyond rest. Phillida and Vere began to consider me with puzzled eyes. Cristina developed a habit of cooking individual dishes of especial succulence and triumphantly setting them before me as a "surprise"; a kindness which of course obliged me to eat whether I was hungry or not. I suspect my little cousin abetted her in this transparent ruse. I pleaded the heat as an excuse for all. We were in late August now. Cicadas sang their dry chant in the fields, where the sun glared down upon Vere's crops and painted him the fine bronze of an Indian. Our lake scarcely stirred under the hot, still air. It was after a day of such heat, succeeded by a night hardly more cool, that the lights in my room quietly went out. I was sitting at my table, some letters which required answers spread before me while I brooded, pen between my fingers, upon the mystery which had become my life. For the moment I attributed the sudden failure of light to some accident at the powerhouse. Not for long! The hateful cold that crept like freezing vapor into the room, the foul air of damp and corruption pouring into the scented country atmosphere, the frantic revolt of body and nerves--before I turned my eyes to the window I knew the monster from the Frontier crouched there. "Weakling!" It taunted me. "Puny from of old, how should you prevail? By your fear, the woman stays mine. Miserable earth-crawler, in whose hand the weapon was laid and who shrinking let it fall unused, the end comes." "The book?" I gasped, against my better judgment. "The book was the weapon." "No, or you would not have offered it to me." "Coward, believe so. Hug the belief while you may. The offer is past." Past? A madness of bafflement and frustrated curiosity gripped and shook me. "I take the offer," I cried in passion and defiance. "If there is such a book, show it to me!" The Thing was gone. Light quietly filled the lamps--or was it that I had opened my eyes? I gripped the arms of my chair, waiting. For what? I did not know. Only, all the horror I ever had felt in the presence of the Thing was slight compared to the fear that presently began to flow upon me as an icy current. There in the pleasantly lighted room, alone, I sank through depths of dread, down into an abyss of despair, down---- A long sigh of rising wind passed through the house like a sucked breath of triumph. Windows and doors drew in and out against their frames with a rattling crash, then hung still with unnatural abruptness. Absolute stillness succeeded. I felt a very slight shock, as if the ground at my feet was struck. I fled from the terror for the first time. Yes, coward at last, deserter from that unseen Frontier's defense, I found myself in the hall outside my room, leaning sick and faint against the wall. Behind me the door shut violently, yet I felt no current of air to move it. From the other side of the house there sounded the click of latch, then a patter of soft-shod feet. Phillida came hurrying down the hall toward me. She was wrapped in some silky pink-flowered garment. Her short hair stood out around her head like a little girl's well-brushed crop. She presented as endearingly natural a figure, I thought, as any man could seek or imagine. The wisdom of Ethan Vere who had garnered his love here! "Cousin?" she exclaimed. "The hall light is so dim! You almost frightened me when I glimpsed you standing there. Did the wind wake you, too? I think we are going to have a thunder storm, it is so hot and gusty. I heard poor Bagheera mewing and scratching at the door, so I was just going down to let him in before the rain comes." "Yes," I achieved. Then, finding my voice secure: "I will let in the cat. Where is Vere?" "He did not wake up, so I tiptoed out. Why?" "I do not like to have you going about the house alone at this hour." Her eyes widened and she laughed outright. "Why, Cousin Roger! What a funny idea to have about our very own house! I have one of the electric flashlights you bought for us all; see?" What could I tell her of my vision of her womanly softness and timidity brought to bay by the Thing of horror, down in those empty lower rooms? How did I know It stalked no prey but me? Its clutch was upon Desire Michell. These were Its hours, between midnight and dawn. "Tramps," I explained evasively. "Give me the light." But she pattered down the stairs beside me, kimono lifted well above her pink-flowered slippers, one hand on the balustrade. The light glinted in the white topaz that guarded her wedding ring, a richer jewel than any diamond in the sight of one who knew the tender thought with which she had set it there. No! The horror was not for her, clothed in her wholesome goodness as in armor of proof. Surely for such as she the Barrier stood unbreached and strong. When I opened the front door, Bagheera darted in like a hunted cat. A drift of mist entered with him. Looking out, I saw the night was heavy with a low-hanging fog that scarcely rose to the tree tops; a ground-mist that eddied in smoke-like waves of gray where our light fell upon it. Such mists were common here, yet I shivered and shut it out with relief. While I refastened the lock, Bagheera purred around my ankles, pressing caressingly against me as if thanking me after the manner of cats. I remembered this was not the first time he had shown this anxiety and gratitude for shelter. "Bagheera does love you," Phillida commented, stooping to pat him. "Isn't it funny, though, that he never will go into your room? He is always petting around you downstairs. When Cristina or I are doing up your quarters, he will follow us right up to the door-sill, but we can't coax him inside. Perhaps he doesn't like that perfume you always have about." A qualm ran through me, recalling the night I had taken the cat there by force and its frantic escape. But I snapped the key fast and straightened myself with sharp self-contempt. Had I fallen so low as to heed the caprices of a pet cat? Was it not enough that I had fled from my enemy after accepting the knowledge It had striven so long to force upon me? For I had that knowledge. When I had halted in the passage outside my room, in the moment before Phillida had joined me, there had been squarely set before my mental sight the place to seek the book. "Phillida, there was a bookcase in this house when it was bought," I said. "I believe it stood in my room before the place was altered. A small stand; I remember putting my candle on its top the first night I slept here. Have you seen it?" Some tone in my question seemed to touch her expression with surprise as she lifted her eyes to mine; or perhaps it was the hour I chose for the inquiry. "Oh, yes," she answered readily. "I supposed you had noticed it long ago; I mean, where it stands. The quaintest bit, a genuine antique! And holding the stuffiest collection of old books, too! I believe they may be valuable, out-of-print, early editions. If," her voice faltered wistfully, "if Father ever forgives me for being happy with Ethan, and comes to visit us, he would love every musty old volume. Do you think Mother and he ever will, Cousin Roger?" "I am sure they will, Phil. Feuds and tragic parents are out of date. They must adjust themselves gradually when they realize Vere is--himself. Before you go upstairs to him, will you tell me where to find that bookcase?" "Now? Why, of course!" She led me across the hall to her sewing room. I cannot say that she sewed there very much, but she had chosen that title in preference to boudoir or study as more becoming a housewife. She had assembled here a spinning-wheel from the attic, some samplers, a Hepplewhite sewing-table and chairs discovered about the house. Her canaries' cage hung above a great punch-bowl of flowered ware in which she kept gold-fish. A pipe of Vere's balanced beside the bowl showed that his masculine presence was not excluded. In a corner stood the bookcase. Phillida pulled the chain of a lamp bright under a shade of peacock chintz, and watched me stoop to look at the faded bindings. "Thank you, Phil," I said. "It may take some time to find the book I want. You had better hurry back to bed before Vere comes hunting for a missing wife." "Are you going to stay and hunt for the book tonight, then?" "Unless you are afraid I shall disturb your canaries?" She did not laugh. Drawing nearer, she stroked my sleeve with a caressing doubt and remonstrance. "But you have not been to bed at all, and soon it will be morning! Do you have to write your lovely music at night, Cousin Roger? You have been growing thin and tired, this summer. Are you quite well? You are so good that you should be happy, but--are you?" "Good, Phil?" I wondered, touched. "Why, how did your lazy, tune-spinning, frivolous cousin get that reputation in this branch of the family?" "You are so kind," she said simply. "Ethan says so. You know, Cousin Roger, that I was over-educated in my childhood; my brain choked with little, little stupid knowledge that hardly matters at all. We went to church Sundays because that was the correct thing to do. But I was almost a heathen when Ethan married me. He doesn't trouble about church. He doesn't trouble about the past, or life after death, or punishment for sin. He believes if one tries to be kind and straight, the big Kindness and Straightness takes care of everything. So I have learned to feel that way, too. It is a--a calm sort of feeling all the time, if you know what I mean. And that is the way you are good, although perhaps you never thought of it." "Thank you, Phillida," I acknowledged; and walked with her to the foot of the stairs. When her pink-clad figure had vanished behind her bedroom door, I went back to the sewing room and drew up a chair before the case of books. Phillida had not unreasonably stigmatized them as stuffy. They were a sober collection. Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy," an ancient copy of the Apocrypha, and a three-volume Life of Martin Luther loaded the first shelf. I looked at the second shelf and found it filled with the bound sermons of a divine of whom I had never heard. The lowest shelf held strange companions for the sedate volumes above. Erudite works on theosophy, magic, the interpretation of dreams and demonology huddled together here. Not all of them were readable by my humble store of learning. There was a Latin copy of Artemidorus, Mesmer's "Shepherd," Mathew Paris, some volumes in Greek, and some I judged to be Arabian and Hebrew. At the end of the row stood a thin, dingy book whose title had passed out of legibility. I took it out and opened the covers. Fronting the first page was a faded woodcut, the portrait of a woman. Beneath in old long-s type, dim on the yellowed paper, was printed the legend: "_Desire Michell, ye foule witch._" Closing the book, I forced reason to come forward. I was resolved that panic should not drive me again nor my defense fall from within its walls. Master of my enemy I might never be; master of my own inner kingdom I must and should be. But I was glad to be here instead of upstairs while I read; glad of the interlude in Phillida's company, and of the presence of the three sleepy canaries who blinked down at the disturbing lamp. The date stamped into the back of the book in Roman numerals was of a year in the seventeen hundreds. What connection could its Desire Michell have with the girl I knew? Perhaps she had adopted the name to mystify me. Or at most, she might be of the family of that unfortunate woman branded witch by a bigoted generation. Reopening the book, I studied the dim, stiff portrait. The face was young, delicate of line, with long eyes set wide apart; eyes that even in this wretched picture kept a curious drowsy watchfulness. The inevitable white Puritan cap was worn, but curls clustered about the brow and two massive braids descended over either shoulder. The perfumed bronze-colored braid up in my drawer----? The volume was entitled "Some Manifestations of Satan in Witchcraft in Ye Colonies," by Abimelech Fetherstone. Disregarding the satanic manifestations set forth in the other four chronicles, I turned to "Ye Foule Witch, Desire Michell." As I began to read, another breath of wind sighed through the house, sucking windows and doors in and out with the shock of sound, instantly ended, that is produced by a distant explosion. I thought a flash of lightning whipped across my eyes. But when I glanced toward the windows I saw only the smoke-like fog banked in drifts against the panes. CHAPTER XIV "Beauty is a witch--" --MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. I will tear the core out of many yellow pages of diffuse writing spiced with smug moral reflections. Desire Michell had been no traditional old hag, hideous and malevolent; no pallid, raving epileptic to accuse herself in shrieking tales of Black Men, and Sabbats, and harm done to neighbors' cattle or crops. Her father was a clergyman who brought his goods and his motherless daughter from England to the Colonies, and settled in "ye Pequot Marsh country." There he found a congregation, and they lived much respected. Their culture appeared to be far beyond that of their few, hard-working neighbors. Young Mistress Michell was reputed learned in the use of simples, among other arts, and to have been "of a beauty exceeding the custom among godly women, to so great degree that sorcery should have been suspected of her." However, sorcery was not suspected; not even when her fame spread among near-dwelling Indian tribes who gave her a name signifying _Water on which the Sun is Shining_. Admiration was her portion, then, with all the suitors the vicinity held. But from fastidiousness or ambition she refused every proposal made to her father for her. She walked aloof and alone, until another sort of wooer came to the gate of the minister's house. This man's full name was not given, apparently through the writer's cautious respect for place and influence. He was vaguely described as goodly in appearance, of high family, but not abundantly supplied with riches. However he chanced to come to the obscure settlement was not stated. He did come, saw Desire Michell, and fell as abjectly prostrate before her as any youth who never had left the village. He pressed his courtship hard and eagerly. At first he was welcome at the minister's house. But a day came when Master Michell forbade him to cross that door and rumor whispered, scandalized, that Sir Austin's suit had not been honorable to the maid. Sir Austin sulked a week at the village inn. Then he broke under the torment of not seeing Desire Michell. Their betrothal was made public, and he rode away to prepare his home for their marriage in the spring. Travel was slow in the winter, news trickled slowly across snowbound distances. With spring came no bridegroom; instead word arrived of his affair with an heiress recently come to New York from England. She was rich in gold and grants of land from the Crown. Her husband would be a man of weight and influence, it seemed. Sir Austin had married her. Desire Michell shut herself in her father's house. The clergyman did not live many months after the humiliation. Alone, the girl lived. "Student," wrote Abimelech Fetherstone, "of black and bitter arts. Or as some say, having, like Bombastus de Hohenheim, a devil's bird enchained to do her will." In his distant home, Sir Austin sickened. He burned with fever, anguish consumed him. Physicians were called to the bedside of the rich man. They could not diagnose his ailment or help him. He screamed for water. When it was brought, his throat locked and he could not swallow. He raved of Desire Michell, beseeching her mercy. In his times of sanity, he begged and commanded his wife and servants to send for the girl. In her pardon he saw his sole hope of life. Finally, he was obeyed. Messengers were sent to the village. They were not even admitted to the house they sought, or to sight of Mistress Michell. "Your master came himself to woo; let him come himself to plead." That was the answer they received to carry back to the sick man. Sir Austin heard, and submitted with trembling hope. Writhing in the anguish wasting him by day and night, he made the journey by coach and litter to Desire Michell's house. At her door-sill he implored entrance and pity. The door did not open. It never opened for him. For three days in succession he was borne to her threshold, calling on her in his pain and fear. His servants and physician clustered about staring at the house which stood locked and blank of response. At night fire-shine was seen from an upper room; some declared they heard wild, melodious laughter. On the third day Sir Austin died. A stern-faced deputation of men went to the house of the late clergymen. They found the door unlatched and open to their entrance. In the upper room they found Mistress Michell seated before her hearth where a dying fire fell to embers, her hair "flowing down in grate bewty." "What have I to do with Sir Austin, or he with me?" she calmly asked the men who gaped upon her. "How should I have harmed him, who came not near him, as ye know? Bury him, and leave me in peace." If she had been aged and ugly, she might have been hung. Gossip ran rife through the countryside. But indignation was strong against the man who had jilted the local beauty, there existed no proof of harm done, and the matter slept for a time. New matters came. A horror grew up around the house. The girl was seen flitting across the fields at dawn, a monstrous shadow following. Her voice was heard from the room where she locked herself alone, raised in unknown speech. Strange lights moved in her windows in the deep night. The old woman who had served in the house for years was stricken with a palsy and was taken away mumbling unintelligible things that iced the blood of superstitious hearers. There was a young man of the neighborhood whose love for Mistress Michell had been long and constant. One morning he was found dead on her doorstep, his face fixed in drawn terror. Under his hand four words were scrawled in the snow: "_Sara daughter of Ruel----_" There were those who could finish that quotation. Next Sabbath the new minister took as his text: "Ye shall not suffer a witch to live." And he spoke of Sara the daughter of Ruel, who was wed to ten bridegrooms, each of whom was dead on the wedding eve; for she was beloved by an evil spirit that suffered none to come to her. Authority moved at last against Desire Michell. But when the officers came to arrest her, she was found dead in her favorite seat before the hearth. "Fair and upright in her place, scented with a perfume she herself distilled of her learning in such matters; which was said to contain a rare herb of Jerusalem called Lady's Rose, resembling spikenard, with vervain and cedar and secret simples; in which she steeped her hair so that wherever she abode were sweet odours. So did she escape Justice, but shall not escape Hell's Damnation and Heaven's casting out." I closed the book and laid it down. Reading those dim, closely printed pages had taken time. I was astonished to find the window spaces gray with dawn, when I glanced that way. The night was past. Neither from Desire nor from the Thing without a name which had sent me to this book could I find out what I was expected to glean from the narration. My enemy had made no conditions on directing me to the book. It had asked no price, uttered no menace. Why, then, had I so solemn a certainty that a crisis in our affair had been reached. I had come to an end; a corner had been turned. I had opened a door that could not be closed. How did I know this? Why? Why was the fog against the windows this morning so like the fog that shrouded the unearthly sea opposite the Barrier? By and by Cristina came downstairs and busied herself in the kitchen. Bagheera, who had slept beside my chair all night, rose and padded out to the region of breakfast and saucers of milk. Next, the voices of Phillida and Vere drifted from above. To have Phillida find me there in her sewing-room, finishing an all-night vigil, involved too many explanations. I did an unwise thing. From the lowest shelf of the bookcase I gathered such books as were readable by my knowledge, and carried the armful up to my room. After a hot bath and breakfast I would look over these companions of the New England witch book. CHAPTER XV "Not a drop of her blood was human, But she was made like a soft sweet woman." --LILITH. The fog stayed all day. The mist was so dense that it gave the effect of a solid mass enclosing the house. No wind stirred it, no cheering beam of sun pierced it. Through it sounds reached the ear distorted and magnified. All day I sat in my room reading. There are books which should not be preserved. I, who am a lover of books, who detest any form of censorship, I do seriously set down my belief that there exist chronicles which would be better destroyed. With this few people will agree. My answer to them is simple: they have not read the books I mean. Not all the volumes from the old bookcase were of that character, of course. Nearly all of them were well known to classical students, at least by name. Obscure, fantastic, cast aside by the world they were, but harmless to a fairly steady head. But there were two that clung to the mind like pitch. I have no intention of giving their titles. Ugly and sullen, early night closed in when I was in a mood akin to it. Dinner with Phillida and Vere was an ordeal hurried through. We were out of touch. I felt remote from them; fenced apart by a heavy sense of guilt and defilement left by those hateful books, most incongruously blended with contempt for my companions' childish light-heartedness. As soon as possible, I left them. Alone in my room, in my chair behind the writing-table again, I pushed aside the pile of books and sank into sombre thought. What should I say to Desire Michell if she came tonight? Who was she, who was claimed by the Unspeakable and who did not deny Its claim? Was I confronted with two beings from places unknown to normal humanity? If she was the woman that she had seemed to be throughout our intercourse, how could the dark enemy control her? Even I, a common man with full measure of mankind's common faults and weaknesses, could hold Its clutch from me by right of the law that protects each in his place. Was she one of those who have stepped from the permitted places? "_Sara the daughter of Ruel--who was beloved by an evil spirit who suffered none to come to her_." "_There was a young gentlewoman of excellent beauty, daughter of a nobleman of Mar, who loved a foule monstrous thing verie horrible to behold, and for it refused rich marriages.... Until the Gospel of St. John being said suddenlie the wicked spirit flue his waies with sore noise_." I put out my hand and thrust the pile of books aside from my direct sight. But I could not so easily thrust from my mind the thoughts these books had implanted. I could not forget that Desire Michell herself had alleged jealousy as the Thing's reason for attacking me. What if we came to an explanation tonight and ended this long delirium? Was it not time? Had not my weeks of endurance earned me this right? Resolution mounted in me, defiant and strong. The evening had passed to an hour when I might look for the girl to come. I switched off the lights, and sat down to keep our nightly tryst. In the darkness of the haunted room, the thoughts I would have held at bay rushed upon me as clamorous besiegers. Desire! Desire of the world! Desire of mine and of the unhuman Thing, did we grasp at Eve or Lilith? At the fire on the hearth or the cold phosphorescence of swamp and marsh? A drift of fragrance was afloat on the air. A delicate stir of movement passed by me. I raised my head from my hands, expectant. "I am here," her familiar voice told me. "Desire, you had to come, tonight." Some quality in my voice carried to her a message beyond the words. But she did not break into exclamation or question as another woman might. She was mute, as one who stands still to find the path before taking a step. "You are angry," she said at last. "Something here has gone badly for you; I knew that before I entered this room." "How can you say that?" I challenged. "If you are like other men and women, how can you know what happens when you are absent? How do you know what passes between the Thing from the Frontier and me?" "I do not know unless you tell me, Roger. If I feel from afar when you are in sorrow, why, so do many people feel with another in sympathy." "You feel more than ordinary sympathy can," I retorted. "Then, perhaps it is not an ordinary sympathy I have for you, Roger." Her very gentleness struck wrong on my perverted mood. Was she trying to turn me from my purpose with her soft speech? She had never granted me anything so near an admission of love until now. "It is not an ordinary trial that I have borne for these meagre meetings where I do not see your face or touch your hand," I answered. "But that must end. Put your hand in mine, Desire, and come with me. Let us go out of this room where shadows make our thoughts sickly. You shall stay with my cousin. Or if you choose, we will go straight to New York or Boston. I am asking you to be my wife. Let us have done with phantoms and spectres. I love you." "No," she whispered. "You do not love me tonight. Tonight you distrust me. Why?" "Is it distrusting you to ask you to marry me?" "Not this way would you have asked that of me when I last came! But I will answer you more honestly than you do me. To go with you would be the greatest happiness the world could give. To think of it dazzles the heart. But it is not for me. Have you forgotten, Roger, that my life is not mine? That I am a prisoner who has crept out for a little while? The gates soon close, now, upon me." "What gates?" I demanded. "Sacrifice and expiation." "Expiation of what?" I exclaimed, exasperated. "Desire, I have read the book of Desire Michell, downstairs." I heard her gasp and shrink in the darkness. Silence bound us both. In the hush, it seemed to me that the house suddenly trembled as it had done the night before, a slight shock as from some distant explosion. In my intentness upon the woman opposite me the tremor passed unheeded. She must answer me now, surely! Now---- She spoke with a breathless difficulty, spacing her words apart: "How did you--find--the book?" "It told me--the Thing from out there," I admitted, sullenly defiant of her opinion. She cried out sharply. "You? You took Its gift? You did that fatal madness--and you are here? Oh, you are lost, and the guilt mine! Yet I warned you that danger flowed from knowing me. You accepted the risk and the sorrow--yet you have thrown down all for a bribe of knowledge. Do you not know what it means to take a gift from the Dark Ones of the Borderland? To brave the Loathesome Eyes so long--and fall this way at last! Yet--there may be a hope--since you still live. But go. Not tomorrow, not at dawn, but go now. By all that man can dread for soul or body, go now." "Not without you." "Me? Oh, how can I make you understand! I shall never come here again. Take with you my gratitude for our hours together, my prayers for all the years to come. There is no blame to you because you could not trust a woman on whom falls the shadow of the awful Watcher that stalks behind me. I make no reproach--if only you will go. Do not linger. I do most solemnly warn you not to stay alone in this room one moment after I have gone." "Desire!" I exclaimed. "Wait. Forgive me. I trust you. I did not mean what you believe. Do not leave me this way. Desire----" I can say honestly that my next action was without intention. On my table lay, as usual, a small electric torch. Every member of our household was provided with one for use in emergencies likely to occur in a country house, the time of candles being past. Now, rising in agitation and repentance, my hand pressed by chance upon the flashlight's button. A beam of light poured across the darkness. What did I see, starting out of the black gloom? A spirit or a woman? Were those a woman's draperies or part of the night fog that showed mere swirl upon swirl of pale gray twisting in the path of light? I glimpsed a face colorless as pearl, the shine of eyes dark and almond shaped, then a drifting mass of gray smoke, all intermingled with glittering gold flashes, seemed to close between us. The whole apparition sank down out of vision, as aghast, I lifted my hand and the torch went out. Shaken out of all ability to speak, I stood in my place. Did I hear a movement, or only a stirring of the orchard trees beyond the windows? "Desire?" I ventured, my voice hoarse to my ears. No answer. I felt myself alone. I would not at once turn on the lamps. My haste might seem an attempt to break faith with her a second time. I sat down again, folding my arms upon the table and resting my forehead upon them. Well, I had seen her at last--but how? A wan loveliness seemingly painted upon the canvas of the dark by a brush dipped in moonlight. A white moth caught fluttering in the ray of the torch. Seen at the instant of her leaving me forever; insulted by my suspicions, my love hurled coarsely at her like a command, my promise of security for her visits apparently broken. How dared I even hope for her return? Now I knew why my enemy had guided me to those books, that I might read, fill my mind with the poison of vile thoughts, and destroy the comradeship that bound me to Desire Michell. How should I find her? How free us both? The clock in the hall downstairs struck a single bell. With dull surprise I realized that considerable time had passed while I sat there. Still I did not move, weighed down by a profound discouragement. Suddenly, as a wave will run up a beach in advance of the incoming tide, impelled by some deep stir in the ocean's secret places, an icy surge rushed about my feet. Deathly cold from that current struck through my whole body. My heart shuddered and staggered in its beating from pure shock. "_Go! Not tomorrow, not at dawn, but now!_" The wave seeped back, receded away from me down its invisible beach. Desire's warning hammered at my mind, striving to burst some barred door to reach the consciousness within that had loitered too long. This was the new peril. This was what I had fled from, unknowing the source of my panic, the night before. This was death. A second surge struck me with the heavy shock of a veritable wave from some bitter ocean. This time the tide rose to my knees; boiling and hissing in its rush. Blood and nerves seemed to freeze. I felt my heart stop, then reel on like a broken thing. Flecks of crimson spattered like foam against my eyelids. The wave broke. The mass poured down the beach, tugging at me in its retreat. With the last strength ebbing away from me with that receding current, I dragged the chain of the lamp beside me. The comfort of light springing up in the room! The relief of seeing normal, pleasant surroundings! Truly light is an elixir of courage to man. That cold had paralyzed me. I had no force to rise. Nor did I altogether wish to rise and go. I had lost Desire tonight. Was I to lose my self-respect also? Was I to run a beaten man from this peril, after standing against my enemy so long? Should I not rather stand on this my ground where I was not the "lame feller"? Down by the lake, the snarling cry of a terrified cat broke the night stillness. It was Bagheera's voice. The cry was followed by sounds indicating a small animal's frantic flight through the thickets of goldenrod and willow that edged the banks of the stream below the dam. The series of progressive crashes passed back of the house and continued on, dying away down the creek. As I braced my startled nerves after this outbreak of noise, the light was withdrawn from every lamp in the room. At the same moment, the electric torch rolled off my table and fell to the floor. I heard its progress across the muffling softness of the rug, across the polished wood beyond, and final stoppage at some point out of my reach. As vapor rises from some unseen source and forms in vague growing mass within the curdled air, so blackening dark the hideous bulk reared Itself in the night and stared in upon me. As so many times, I felt the Eyes I could not see; the pressure of a colossal hate loomed over me, poised to crush, yet withheld by a force greater than either of us. The venom of Its malevolence flowed into the atmosphere about me, fouling the breath I drew. My lungs labored. "Pygmy," Its intelligence thrust against mine. "Frail and presumptuous Will that has dared oppose mine, you are conquered. This is the hour foretold to you, the hour of your weakness and my strength. Weakling, feel the death surf break upon you. Fall down before me. Cower--plead!" Now indeed I felt a sickness of self-doubt, for the wash of the invisible sea never had come to me until tonight. And there was Desire's saying that I had destroyed myself by accepting the Thing's gift of knowledge of the book. But I summoned my forces. "Never," my thought refused It. "Have we not met front to front these many nights? And who has drawn back, Breaker of the Law? You return, but I live. The duel is not lost." "It is lost, Man, and to me. Have you not taken my gift that you might spy meanly on the secret of your beloved? Have you not opened your mind to the evil thoughts that creep upon the citadel of strength within and tear down its power? Of your own deed, you are mine. My breath drinks your breath. Your life falls down as a lamp that is thrown from its pedestal. Your spirit rises from its seat and looks toward those spaces where it shall take flight tonight. Man, you die." Again the surge and shock of that frigid sea rushed upon me. I felt the swirl and hiss of the broken wave higher about me before it sank away down whatever dreadful strand it owned. My life ebbed with it, draining low. My enemy spoke the truth. One more such wave---- My imagination sprang ahead of the event. In fancy, I saw bright dawn filling this room of mine, shining on the figure of a man who had been myself. His head rested on his folded arms so that his face was hidden. On the table beside him a vase was overturned; a spray of heliotrope lay near and water had trickled over scattered sheets of music, staining the paper. By and by Vere would come to summon that unanswering figure to the gay little breakfast-table. Phillida would leave her place behind the burnished copper percolator she prized so highly and come running up the stairs. In her gentleness she would grieve, no doubt. I was sorry for that. But it was a contentment and pleasure for me to recall that I had settled my financial affairs so that my little cousin would never lack money or know any care that I could spare her. Strange, how she had been rated below more beautiful or more clever women until the waif Ethan Vere had set her dearness in full sun for us to wonder at! "Pygmy, will you think of another pygmy now?" raged the Thing. "Yourself! Think of yourself! Crouch! Think of death, corruption, the vileness of the grave. Think how you are of the grave. Think how you are alone with me. Think how you are abandoned to me." But with that tenderness for Phillida a warmth had flowed through me like strength. "Not so," my defiance answered It. "For where I am, I stand by my own will. With where I shall stand, you have nothing to do. Back, then, for with the death of my body your power ends. Back--or else face me, Thing of Darkness, while we stand in one place." At this mad challenge of mine silence closed down like a shutting trap. Consciousness sank away from me with a sense of swooning quietness. * * * * * I stood before the Barrier on the ghostly frontier; erect, arms folded, fronting the Breach in that inconceivably mighty wall. Above, away out of vision on either hand stretched the gray glimmering cliffs. This I had seen before. But behind me lay that which I had not seen. The mists I believed to be eternal had lifted. Naked, a vast gray sea stretched parallel with the Barrier; like it, without end or even a horizon to bound its enormous desolation. Between these two immensities on the narrow strand at the foot of the wall, I stood, pygmy indeed. In the Breach, as of old, the Thing whose home was there reared Itself against me. "Man," It spat, "would you see me? Would you see the Eyes once seen by the witch-woman, who fell blasted out of human ken? Creature of clay, crumbling now in the sea of mortality, do you brave my immemorial age?" It reared up, up, a towering formlessness. It stooped, a lowering menace. "Man, whenever man has summoned Evil since the youngest days of the world have I not answered? Have I not brought my presence to the magician's lamp? Have I not shadowed the alchemist at his crucible? When the woman called upon me with ancient knowledge, did I not come. I am the guardian of the Barrier. Whoever would pass this way must pass me. Have you the power? Die, then, and begone." With a long heaving sound of waters in movement, the gray sea stirred from its stillness. As if drawn to some center out of sight, the tide began to recede down that strange beach. Then realization came to me that here was the ocean which, invisible, had surged icy death upon me a while past. The ocean now gathered for the final wave that should overwhelm the defeated. "Braggart!" my thought answered the taunt. "If the witch-woman was yours, the girl Desire is mine. This I know: as little as man has to do with you, so little have you to do with the human and the good. Living or dead, our path is not yours. I did not summon you. I do dare look upon you, if you have visible form." Now in the hush a sound that I had faintly heard as a continuing thing seemed to draw nearer. A sound of light, swift footsteps hurrying, hurrying; the steps of one in pitiful eagerness and haste. But I heeded this slightly. My gaze was upon that which took place within the cleft in the great wall. For there the cold darkness was writhing and turning, visible, yet obscure; as the rapids of a glassy, twisting river might look by night. And as one might glimpse beneath the smooth boil and heave of such a river the dim shape of crocodile or water-monster, so in that moving dark there seemed to lie Something from which the mind shrank, appalled. Now gigantic tentacles rolled about a central mass, groping out in unsatisfied greed. Now an ape-like shape seemed to stalk there, rearing up its monstrous stature until all that Breach was choked with it. It fell down into vagueness, where huge coils upraised and sank their loops. But through all change steadily fixed upon me I felt the eyes of the Unseen. I stood my ground. With what pain and draining cost to my poor endurance there is no need to say. Each instant I anticipated the surge of that returning sea whose flood should smother out the human spark upon its shore. This I had brought upon myself. Yes, and would again to help Desire Michell! If I had sheltered her for one hour----! The Thing halted, stooped. "Man, cast off the woman," It snarled at me. "Fool, evil goes with her. For her you suffer. Thrust her from your breast." I looked down. Wavering against my breast, just above my heart glimmered a spot of light. The little hurrying steps had ceased. I thought, if the bright head of Desire Michell were rested there against me, how I would strive to shield her from sight of the Thing yonder. In the sweep of that will to protect, I drew my coat about the spot of hovering brightness. I felt her press warm against me. I heard the roar of the death-wave far out in that sea. Before me---- Oh Horror of the Frontier, what broke through the dread Breach. What formed there, more inhuman from Its likeness to humanity? What Hand reached for me--for--us---- CHAPTER XVI "I have had a dream past the wit of man to say what dream it was."--MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. "Mr. Locke! Mr. Locke!" I opened heavy eyes to meet the eyes of Ethan Vere, who bent over me. Phillida was there, too, pale of face. But what was That just vanishing into the darkness beyond my window-sill? What malignant glare seared disappointment and grim promise across my consciousness? Had I brought with me or did I hear now a whispered: "_Pygmy, again!_" "Cousin, Cousin, are you very ill?" Phillida was half sobbing. "Won't you drink the brandy, please? Oh, Ethan, how cold he is to touch!" "Hush, dear," Vere bade, in his slow steadfast way. "Mr. Locke, can you swallow some of this?" I became aware that his arm supported me upright in my chair while he held a glass to my lips. Mechanically I drank some of the cordial. Vere put down the glass and said a curious thing. He asked me: "Shall I get you out of this room?" Why should he ask that, since the spectre was for me alone? Or if he had not seen It, how did he know this room was an unsafe area? My stupefied brain puzzled over these questions while I managed a sign of refusal. Any effort was impossible to me. The cold of the unearthly sea still numbed my body. My heart labored, staggering at each beat. Vere's support and nearness were welcome to me. His tact let me rest in the mute inaction necessary to recovery, while my body, astonished that it still lived, hesitatingly resumed the task of life. Somehow he reassured and directed Phillida. Presently she was busied with the coffee apparatus in the corner of the room. It was too much weariness even to turn my eyes aside from the expanse of the table before me. The vase was upset, I noted, as I had seemed to see it. The spray of purple heliotrope Phillida had put there the day before lay among the wet sheets of music. The Book of Hermas lay open at the page I had last turned, the rosy lamplight upon the text. "_Behold, I saw a great Beast that he might devour a city--whose name is Hegrin. Thou hast escaped--because thou didst not fear for so terrible a Beast. If, therefore, ye shall have prepared yourselves, yet may escape----_" What did they mean, the old, old words men have rejected? What had Hermas glimpsed in his visions? How many men are written down liars because they traveled in strange lands indeed, and explorers, strove to report what they had seen? Who before me had stood at the Barrier and set foot on the Frontier between the worlds? The fog still dense outside was whitening with daybreak. A few hours while the sun ran its course once more for me, then night again, bringing completion of the menace. I recognized that this delay could not affect the end. Perhaps it would have been easier if all had finished for me tonight, easier if Vere and Phillida had not found me in time to bring me back. How had they found out my condition? Wonder stirred under my lethargy. Had I called or cried out? It did not seem that I could have done so. Certainly I had not tried! I was not quite so poor an adventurer as that. Phillida was back with a cup of steaming black coffee, tiptoeing in her anxiety and questioning Vere with her eyes. He took the cup, stooping to receive my glance of assent to the new medicine. The brandy had stimulated, but sickened me. The coffee revived me so much that I was able to take the second cup without Vere's help. When I had walked up and down the room a few times, leaning on his arm, life had taken me back, if only for a little while. The two nurses were so good in their care of me that our first words were of my gratitude to them. Then my curiosity found voice. "How did you happen to come in at this hour?" I asked. "How did you know I was--ill?" "I cannot imagine what made Ethan wake up," said Phillida, with a puzzled look toward her husband. "He woke me by rushing out of the room and letting the door slam behind him. Of course I knew something must be wrong to make Drawls hurry like that. Usually he does such a tremendous lot in a day while looking positively lazy. So I came rushing after and found him in here, trying to waken you. I--I thought at first that you were not living, Cousin Roger. It was horrible! You were all white and cold----" she shivered. Vere poured another cup of coffee. He said nothing on the subject, merely observing that the stimulant would hardly hurt me and some might be good for Phil. I asked her to bring cups for them both. "I am not sure I really care about the coffee, but I'll make some more," she nodded, dimpling. "I love to drink from your wee porcelain cups with their gold holders. You do have pretty things, you bachelors from town." When she was across the room, I asked quietly: "What was it, Vere? What sent you to me?" He answered in as subdued a tone, looking at the tinted shade of the lamp instead of at my face. "The young lady woke me, Mr. Locke. She came to the bedside, whispering that you were dying--would be dead if I didn't get to help you in time. She was gone before Phillida roused up so she doesn't know anything about it." My heart, so nearly stopped forever and so lethargic still, leaped in a strong beat. Desire, then, had come back to save me. For all my doubt and seemingly broken faith, she had brought her slight power to help me in my hour of danger. For my sake she had broken through her mysterious seclusion to call Vere and send him to my rescue. Neither he nor I being unsophisticated, I understood what Vere believed, and why he looked at the lamp rather than at me. But even that matter had to yield precedence to my first eagerness. "You saw her?" I demanded. "You call her young. You saw her face, then?" "I could forget it if I had," he said dryly. "As it happened, I didn't. She was wrapped in a lot of floating thin stuff; gray, I guess? The room was pretty dark, and I was jumping out of sleep. I don't know why she seemed young unless it was the easy, light way she moved. By the time I got what she was saying and sat up, she was gone." "Gone?" "She went out the door like a puff of smoke. I just saw a gray figure in the doorway, where the hall lamp made it brighter than in the room. When I came into the hall there wasn't a sign of anybody about. Nor afterward, either!" I considered briefly. "I suppose I know what you are thinking, Vere. It is natural, but wrong. The lady----" "Mr. Locke," he checked me, "I'm not--thinking. I guess you're as good a judge as I am about what goes on in this house. After the way you've treated us from the first, I'd be pretty dull not to know you're as choice of Phillida as I am; and she is all that matters." "Who is?" demanded Phillida, returning. "Me? I haven't the least idea what you are talking about, Drawls, but I think Cousin Roger matters a great deal more than I do, just now. Perhaps now he is able to tell us about this attack, and if he should have a doctor. I have noticed for weeks how thin and grave he has been growing to be. If only he _would_ drink buttermilk!" I looked into the candid, affectionate face she turned to me. From her, I looked to her husband, whose New England steadiness had been tempered by a sailor's service in the war and broadened by the test of his experience in a city cabaret. A new thought cleaved through my perplexities like an arrow shot from a far-off place. "How much do you both trust me?" I slowly asked. "I do not mean trust my character or my good intentions, but how much confidence have you in my sanity and commonsense? Would you believe a thing because I told it to you? Or would you say: 'This is outside usual experience. He is deceiving us, or mad'?" They regarded one another, smiling with an exquisite intimacy of understanding. "Don't you see yourself one little, little bit, Cousin?" she wondered at me. "Anything you say, goes all the way with us," Vere corroborated. "Wait," I bade. "Drink your coffee while I think." "Please drink yours, Cousin Roger, all fresh and hot." I emptied the cup she urged upon me, then leaned my forehead in my hands and tried to review the situation. They obeyed like well-bred children, settling down on a cushioned seat together and taking their coffee as prettily as a pair of parakeets. They seemed almost children to me, although there was little difference in years between Vere and myself. But then, I stood on the brink where years stopped. With the next night, my triumphant enemy could be put off no longer. That I could not doubt. I cannot say that I was unafraid, yet fear weighed less upon me than a heavy sense of solemnity and realization of the few hours left during which I could affect the affairs of life. What remained to be done? On one of my visits to New York, I had called on my lawyer and made my will. There were a few pensioners for whom provision should continue after my death. The aged music master under whom I developed such abilities as I had, who was crippled now by rheumatism and otherwise dependent on a hard-faced son-in-law; the three small daughters of a dead friend, an actor, whose care and education at a famous school of classic dancing I had promised him to finance--a few such obligations had been provided for, and the rest was for Phillida. But now, what of Desire Michell? She had seemed so apart from common existence that I never had thought of her possible needs any more than of the needs of a bird that darted in and out of my windows. Until tonight, when I had seen her and she had proved herself all woman by her appeal to Ethan Vere. It was not a spirit or a seeress or "ye foule witch, Desire Michell" who had fled to him for help in rescuing me. It was simply a terrified girl. What was to become of this girl? Under what circumstances did she dwell? Had she a home, or did she need one? Could I care for this matter while I was here? Day was so far advanced that a clamor of birds came in to us along with a freshening air. The strangely persistent fog had not lifted, but the lamps already looked wan and faded in the new light. I switched them out before speaking to the pair who watched me. "I have a story to tell you both," I said. "The beginning of it Phillida has already heard. Perhaps----Have you told Vere about the woman who visited this room, the first night I spent in the house? Who cut her hair and left the braid in my hand to escape from me?" "Yes," she nodded, wide-eyed. "Will you go to my chiffonier, there in the alcove, and bring a package wrapped in white silk from the top drawer?" She did as she was asked and laid the square of folded silk before me. I put back the covering, showing that sumptuous braid. The rich fragrance of the gold pomander wrapped with it filled the air like a vivifying elixir. Phillida gathered up the braid with a cry of envious rapture. "Oh! The gorgeous thing! How do some lucky girls have hair like that? If it was unbound, my two hands could not hold it all. What a pity to have cut it! Look, Ethan, how it crinkles and glitters." She held it out to him, extended across her palms. Vere refrained from touching the braid, surveying it where it lay. Being a mere bachelor, I had no idea of Phillida's emotions, until Vere's usual gravity broke in a mischievous, heart-warming smile into the brown eyes uplifted to him. "Beautiful," he agreed politely. No more. But as I saw the wistful envy pass quite away from my little cousin's plain face and leave her content, I advanced in respect for him. In the beginning, it was even harder to speak than I had anticipated. When Phillida laid the braid back in its wrapping, I left it uncovered before me and looked at its reassuring reality rather than at my listeners. How, I wondered, could anyone be expected to credit the story I had to tell? How should I find words to embody it? Only at first! Whether there clung about me some atmosphere of that land between the worlds where I so recently had stood; or the room indeed kept, as I fancied, the melancholy chill of the unseen tide that had washed through it, I met no scepticism from the two who heard my tale of wild experience. They did not interrupt me. Phillida crept close to her husband, putting her hand in his, but she did not exclaim or question. Silence held us all for a while after I had finished. I had a discouraged sense of inadequacy. After all, they had received but a meagre outline. The color and body of the events escaped speech. How could they feel what I had felt? How could they conceive the charm of Desire Michell, the white magic of her voice in the dark, the force of her personality that could impress her image "sight unseen" beyond all time to erase? How convey to a listener that, understanding her so little, I yet knew her so well? "I have told you all this because I need your help," I said presently. "Will you give it to me?" "Go away!" Phillida burst forth. She beat her palms together in her earnestness. "Cousin Roger, take your car and go away--far off! Go where--nothing--can reach you. You must not spend another single night here. Ethan will go with you. I will, too, if you want us. You must not be left alone until you are quite safe; perhaps in New York?" "And, Desire Michell?" "She is in no danger, I suppose. She is not my cousin, anyhow. And even she told you to go away." "You believe my story, then? You do not think me suffering from delusions?" "Ethan saw the girl, too. If he had not come here in time to save you, I believe you would have died in that terrible stupor. Besides, I have seen for weeks that something was changing you." "What does Vere say?" I questioned, studying the absorbed gravity of his expression. I wondered what I myself would have said if anyone had brought me such a story. He passed his arm around Phillida and drew her to him with a quieting, protective movement. His regard met mine with more significance than he chose to voice. "I'm satisfied to take the thing as you tell it, Mr. Locke," he answered. "Phil is right, it seems to me, about you not staying here. I don't think the young lady ought to stay, either." "She refuses to leave, Vere. What can I offer her that I have not offered? How can I find her? You have heard how I searched the countryside for a hint of such a girl's presence. No one has ever seen her; or else someone lies very cleverly." In the pause, Phillida hesitatingly ventured an idea: "Perhaps she is not--real. If the monster is a ghost thing, may not she be one, too? If we are to believe in such things at all----? She almost seems to intend that you shall believe her the ghost of the witch girl in that old book." I shook my head with the helpless feeling of trying to explain some abstruse knowledge to a child. I had spoken of the colossal spaces, the solemn immensities of the place where I had set my human foot. I had tried to paint the desolate bleakness of that Borderland where the unnamed Thing and I met, each beyond his own law-decreed boundary, and locked in combat bitter and strong. Phillida had listened; and talked of ghosts the bugbears of grave-yard superstition. Did Vere comprehend me better? Did he visualize the struggle, weirdly akin to legends of knight and dragon, as prize of which waited Desire Michell; forlornly helpless as white Andromeda chained to her black cliff? Could the Maine countryman, the cabaret entertainer, seize the truths glimpsed by Rosicrucians and mystics of lost cults, when the highly bred college girl failed? It seemed so. At least his dark eyes met mine with intelligence; hers held only bewilderment and fear. "They are not ghosts," I said only. "But how can you be sure?" she persisted. Beneath the braid and the pomander lay the sheet of paper on which Desire had written weeks before; the first page of that composition now pouring gold into my hands. This I passed to Phillida. "Do ghosts write?" I queried. She read the lines aloud. "'We walk upon the shadows of hills, across a level thrown, and pant like climbers.'" "They do write, people say, with ouija boards and mediums," she murmured. I looked at Vere with despair of sustaining this argument. He stood up as if my appeal had been spoken, drawing her with him. "Now that it's a decent hour, don't you think Cristina might give us some breakfast?" he suggested. "I guess bacon and eggs would be sort of restoring. If you feel up to taking my arm as far as the porch, Mr. Locke, the fresh air might be good medicine, too." I have speculated sometimes upon how civilized man would get through days not spaced by his recurrent meals into three divisions. Those meals are hyphens between his mind and his body, as it were. What sense of humor can view too intensely a creature who must feed himself three times a day? Are we not pleasantly urged out of our heroics and into the normal by breakfast, luncheon and dinner? Deny it as we will, when we do not heed them we are out of touch with nature. We went downstairs. After breakfast was over, Vere and I walked across the orchard to a seat placed near the lake. There I sat down, while he remained standing in his favorite attitude: one foot on a low boulder, his arm resting on his knee as he gazed into the shallow, amber-tinted water. Fog still overlay the countryside, but without bringing coolness. The damp heat was stifling, almost tropical as the sun mounted higher in the hidden sky. I watched my companion, waiting for him to speak. He appeared intent upon the darting movements of a group of tiny fish, but I knew his thoughts were afar. "Mr. Locke, I didn't want to speak before Phillida, because it would not do any good for her to hear what I have to say," he finally began. "It is properly the answer to what you asked upstairs, about our believing you had not imagined that story. Did anything slip out over the window-sill when you were waking up?" Startled, for I had not spoken of this, I met his gaze. "Yes. Did you see----" "Nothing, exactly. Something, though! Like--well, like something pouring itself along; a big, thick mass. Something sort of smooth and glistening; like black, oily molasses slipping over. Only alive, somehow; drawing coils of itself out of the dark into the dark. I can't put it very plain." "What did you think?" "The air in the room was bad and close, hard to breathe. I guessed maybe I was a little dizzy, jumping out of bed the way I did and finding you like dead, almost." He paused, and returned his contemplation to the fish darting in the lake. "That is what I thought," he concluded. "What I felt--well, it was the kind of scare I didn't use to know you could feel outside of bad dreams; the kind you wake up from all shaking, with your face and hands dripping sweat. That isn't all, either!" This time the pause was so long that I thought he did not mean to continue. "My excuse for speaking of such matters before Phillida is that I may need a woman friend for Desire Michell," I reverted to the implied rebuke I acknowledged his right to give. "I wanted her help, and yours. More than ever, since you have shared my experience so far, I want your advice." "I'll be proud to give it, in a minute. First, it's only fair to say I've felt enough wrong around here to be able to understand a lot that once I might have laughed at. Nothing compared to you! But--I've been working about the lake sometimes after dark or before daylight was strong, when a kind of horror would come over me--well, I'd feel I had to get away and into the house or go crazy. That morning when you called from your window to ask where I'd been so early, and I told you looking for turtles--that was one time. I had gone out looking for turtles, but that horror drove me in. When you hailed me, I had it so bad that I could just about make out not to run for the house like a scared cat, yelling all the way. Turning back to the lake with you was a poser. But I did; and the feeling was all gone as quick as it came. We had a nice morning's shooting. Once in a while I've felt it sort of driving me indoors when I stepped off the porch or over to the barn at night. That's a funny thing: the fear was always outside, not in the house. I thought of that while you were telling us how the Thing at the window kept trying to get in at you. We haven't got a haunted house, but a haunted place!" "Why have you not spoken of this before?" I asked, deeply stirred. He made a gesture, too American to be called a shrug. He said nothing, watching a large bubble rise through the pure, brown-green water, float an instant on the surface, then vanish with the abrupt completeness of a miniature explosion. I watched also, with an always fresh interest in the pretty phenomenon. Then I repeated my question, rather impatiently as I considered what a relief his companionship in experience would have afforded all these weeks. "Why not, Vere?" "Mr. Locke, I don't like to keep saying that you never exactly got used to me as your cousin's husband," he reluctantly replied. "But I can see it's a kind of surprise to you right along that I don't break down or break out in some fashion. Of course I haven't known that you were meeting queer times, too! If you hadn't been through any of this, what would you have thought if I'd come to you with stories of the place being haunted by something nobody could see? You would have judged I was a liar, trying to fix up an excuse for getting away from the work here and shoving off. I don't want to go away. I don't intend to go. I can't see any need of it for Phil and me. But--and this is the advice you spoke of! I think you ought to leave and leave now. It's little better than suicide to stay." "And abandon Desire Michell?" He turned his dark observant eyes toward me. "If I said yes, you wouldn't do it. Phil and I will take care of the young lady, if she will let us. Couldn't a note be left for her, telling her to come to us?" I shook my head. "She would not come. Now, less than ever----" I broke off, shot with sharp self-reproach at the memory of how I had driven her from me last night. "You won't be any help to her if you're dead," he bluntly retorted. At that I rose and walked a few paces to knock out my post-breakfast pipe against an apple-tree. I was not so sure that he was right, self-evident as his statement appeared. Ideas moved confusedly in my mind, convictions somehow impressed when that golden-bronze spot of light so gently came to rest above my heart when I last stood at the Barrier; the light so like the bright imagined head of Desire. To fly from my place now, herded like a cowardly sheep by the Thing of the Frontier, would that not be to thrust her away to save myself? No! Not myself, my life! I had the answer now. I walked back to Vere and took my seat again. "Both of us, or neither," I told him. "If you can help me make it both by any ingenuity, I shall be mighty glad. It's a pleasant world! But we will not talk any more of my running for New York like a kicked pup. The question is, will you and Phillida take care of the lady who calls herself Desire Michell, if tomorrow morning finds her free, but alone and friendless?" "As long as we live, Mr. Locke," he answered. "But I guess there isn't any disgrace in your going to New York, running or not, if you take her with you. And that is what ought to have been done long ago." "Vere?" He nodded. "You've got me! Just pick the lady up, carry her out of that room, and have a show-down. Put her in your car and take her to town." "I gave her my word not----" "People can't stand bowing to each other when the ship's afire. If she is worth dying for, she doesn't want you to die for her." The simplicity of it! And, leaping the breach of faith, the temptation! What harm could I do Desire by this plan of Vere's? What good might I not do her? Was it mere slavishness of mind on my part not to overrule her timid will? She must pardon me when she realized my desperate case. A dying man might be excused for some roughness of haste, surely. Whether flight could save us I did not know. I did know absolutely that my enemy had crossed the Barrier last night, and I was prey merely withheld from It by the chance respite of a few daylight hours. Suppose our escape succeeded? A whole troup of pictures flitted across the screen of my fancy. Desire beside me in the city, my wife. Desire in those delightful shops that make Fifth Avenue gay as a garden of tulips, where I might buy for her frocks and hats, shoes of conspicuous frivolity and those long white gloves that seem to caress a woman's arm--everything fair and fine. Restaurants I had described for her, where she might dine in silken ease and perhaps hear played the music she had named---- I aroused myself and looked at Vere. "You'll do it?" he translated my expression. "I will, if she gives me the opportunity." "Do you judge she will?" "I hope so. Since she went so far as to show herself to you in order to send help to me when I was in danger, I believe she will come to my room tonight if I wait there----" He looked at me silently. The consternation and protest in his face were speech enough. "If I wait there alone," I finished somewhat hurriedly. "If she comes in time, we will try the plan. Have the car ready. You and Phillida will be prepared, of course. We will waste no time in getting away as far as possible." "And if that Thing comes before she does, Mr. Locke?" "Is there any other way?" "I guess you haven't considered that you're inviting me to stand by while you get yourself killed," he said stiffly. "I'm not an educated man. I never heard the names you mentioned this morning of people who used to study out things like this. I never heard of any worlds except earth and heaven and hell. But then I couldn't explain how an electric car runs. I know the car does run; and I know you nearly died last night. If you go back and stay alone in that room, we both know what you are going to meet." I turned away from him because I sickened at the prospect he evoked. The memory of that death-tide was too near and rolled too coldly across the future. If the trial had been hard when mercifully unanticipated, what would it be to meet my enemy now that I knew myself conquered? Would It not deliberately forestall Desire's coming, tonight? "Mightn't you help the lady more if you went away now, and came back?" he urged. The deserter's argument, time without end! Was I to fall as low as that? Phillida's voice called to Vere from the veranda, summoning him to some need of farm or household. "In a moment, Pretty," he called assent. But he did not move. I guessed that he hoped much from my silence and would not disturb me lest my decision be hindered or changed. By and by I stood up. "Vere, in your varied experiences in peace and war, did you ever chance to meet a coward?" "Once," he answered briefly. "And, did you like the sight?" "No." "Then," I said, "let us not invite one another to that display. Shall we go in to Phillida?" CHAPTER XVII "They say-- What say they? Let thame say!" --OLD SCOTTISH INSCRIPTION. After luncheon, I drove over to the village with Phillida, who had some housewifely orders to give at the shops. On second thoughts, Vere and I had agreed to tell her nothing about the venture we planned for tonight. We had satisfied her by the assurance that I meant to start for New York before the dangerous hours after midnight. Reassured, she regained her usual spirits with the buoyancy of her few years and healthy nerves. I gathered her secret belief was that no "ghost" would dare face Ethan. Which may have been quite true! On our way home, we stopped at the shop of Mrs. Hill to add to our supply of eggs, Phillida's hens having unaccountably failed to supply their quota. I went in, leaving my companion in the car. No one else was in the shop. An impulse prompted me to put a question to the little woman whose life had been spent in this neighborhood. "Mrs. Hill, did you ever hear of anyone named Desire Michell?" I asked. She stopped counting eggs and blinked up at me. Her sallow, wrinkled face lightened with curiosity and an absurd primness. "Now, Mr. Locke! I'd like to know where a young city feller like you got that old story from?" "I have not got it. I want you to tell it to me. She was a witch?" "She was a hussy," said Mrs. Hill severely. "I was a little girl when she ran away from her father's respectable house, fifty-odd years ago. The disgrace killed him, being a clergyman. An' the gossip that came back, later, an' pictures of her in such dresses! Dear! Dear! The wicked certainly have opportunities." "Fifty years ago!" I echoed, dazed by this intrusion of a third Desire Michell. "Ah! Nearly seventy she'd be if she was alive today; which she ain't. Why, she changed her name to one fancier that you might have heard talk of? She was----" The name she gave me I shall not set down. It is enough to say it was that of a super-woman whose beauty, genius and absolute lack of conscience set Europe ablaze for a while. A torch of womanhood, quenched at the highest-burning hour of her career by a sudden and violent death. "There was an older house once, on your place," she added pensively. "Did you know that? It stood in the hollow where your lake is now. Two--three hundred years old, folks say it was. One night it burned down in a big thunderstorm. The Michells then living had your house built over by the orchard, then, an' had a dam built across so as to cover up the old site with water. All the Michells lived there till the last one went missionary abroad an' died in foreign parts. I mean the hussy's brother. He took up his father's work, feelin' a strong call. He was only a young boy when his sister went off, but he felt it dreadful. He was a hard man on the sinner. Preached hell and damnation all his days, he did. Lean over the pulpit, he would, his eyes flamin' fire an' his tongue shrivellin' folks in their pews, I can tell you!" "He left children?" I asked. "No, sir! Rev'rund never married. He felt women a snare. Land, not much snarin' with what farm women get to wear around here! I've kind of thought of one of those blue foulard silks with white spots into it since before I married Hill, but never came any nearer than pricin' it an' bringin' home a sample. He was death on sweet odors an' soft raiment. Only sweet odors I ever get are the ten-cent bottles Hill makes the pedlar throw in when we trade. I do fancy _Jockey Club_ for special times, an' I've got a reasonable hope of salvation, too. I notice your cousin, Mrs. Vere, has scent on her handkerchief week days as well as when she's goin' somewhere, so I guess you don't hold with the Rev'rund Michell in New York?" I laughed with her as I took up the bag of eggs. "Did the runaway sister leave any children?" I queried. "Not a Michell alive anywhere," she asserted positively. "Dead, all dead! The Rev'rund was buried at his mission in some outlandish place. An' if those heathen women dress like I've seen in the movin' picture palace in the village, I don't know how he makes out to rest with them flauntin' past his grave!" I went thoughtfully out to the car. Indeed, I drove home in such abstraction that Phillida reproved me. "'The cat has stolen your tongue,'" she teased. "Or did Mrs. Hill vamp you and make roast meat of your heart with her eyes?" "Phil, do you put scent on your handkerchief week days as well as Sundays?" I shook off thought to inquire. "No; I keep sachet in my handkerchief box. Why?" "Next time you are in town, will you buy a blue silk foulard dress with white spots in it and the largest bottle of Jockey Club Extract on sale, and give them to Mrs. Hill for a Christmas present? I'll give you a blank check." "Cousin Roger? Why?" So I told her why. But I did not tell her the story of the second Desire Michell; nor of the original house that stood in the hollow now filled by our lake. Why had a peculiar horror crept through me when Mrs. Hill told me what ruins that water covered? Why had I remembered the inexplicable, repugnant sound that on several occasions had preceded the coming of the Monster; a sound like the smack of huge lips, or some body withdrawn from thick slime? Was entrance into human air open to the alien Thing only through the ruins of the house where It had first been called by the sorceress of long ago? We were walking across from the garage, after putting away the car, when a recollection flashed upon me. The Metropolitan Museum, in New York, held a portrait by a famous French artist of that incendiary beauty whose name it now appeared cloaked the identity of Desire Michell, daughter and sister of New England clergymen. I had seen the portrait. And piled in an intricate magnificence of curls, puffs and coils about the haughty little head of the lady, was her gold-bronze hair; the color of the braid upstairs in my chiffonier drawer. I went up to my room and opened the work of Master Abimelech Fetherstone. Yes, there was likeness between the poor, coarse woodcut and the French portrait. The long, dark eyes with their expression of blended drowsiness and watchfulness were too individual to have escaped either record. Moreover, both pictures resembled that face of ivory and dusk I had glimpsed in the ray of the electric torch, all clouded and surrounded by swirls of gray vapor shot with gold. Who and what was the girl Desire Michell whom I had come to love through a more profound darkness than that of the sight? It seemed wisest to keep busy for the rest of the afternoon. I sorted my music. There was the score of a musical comedy so nearly completed that it could be sent to those who waited for it. Vere would attend to that, if tonight made it necessary. I reflected with disappointment that the first rehearsals would begin in a couple of weeks, and I had looked forward to this production with especial interest. There was the symphony, still unfinished, that I had hoped might be more enduring than popular music. If I was to be less enduring than either, we must go glimmering on our ways. If I snatched Desire out of her path into mine, she and I would see all those things together. I finished at last, and set my room in order. There was a fire laid ready for lighting in my hearth, a mere artistic flourish in such weather. I kindled it, and put in the flames three of the volumes from the ancient bookcase. The others were oddities in occult science. Those three were vile and poisonous. No doubt other copies exist, but at least I refused to be guilty of leaving these to wreak their mischief in Phillida's household. They burned quietly enough, and meekly fell to ashes under my poker. Our round dinner-table was cheerful as usual, with yellow-shaded candles flanking a bowl of yellow and scarlet nasturtiums. But I found its mistress suffering from a nervous headache. "It is only the fog," she answered our sympathy. "It came on with the evening, somehow. Never mind me. Cristina has made a cream-of-lettuce bisque, and she will never forgive us if we do not eat every bit. Yes, Ethan; of course I'll take mine. I only wish every bush and tree would not drip, drip like a horrid kind of clock ticking; and the foghorns over at the lighthouses _moo_ regularly every half minute. And I never heard the waterfall over the dam so loud!" "We've had a wet summer," Vere observed, soothingly tranquil as ever. "The lake and creek are full. There is more water going over to make a noise." "Please do not be so frightfully sensible, Drawls. You know I mean a different loudness. It sort of rises up and swims all over one, then dies away." "Even a fountain will seem to do that if a wind shifts the spray," I suggested. "Yes, Cousin Roger. But there is no wind tonight." A discomfort stirred me at the simple reminder. I fancied Vere was similarly affected. If something moved under the water----? We changed the conversation to a pergola planned for building next spring, that was to be overrun by grapevines and honeysuckle. "The grapes shall hang through like an Italian picture," Phillida anticipated, headache forgotten in her enthusiasm. She shook her hair about her pink cheeks, leaning over to outline a pergola with four spoons. "Here in the middle we must have a birdbath. Or no! The birds might peck the grapes. We could have one of those big silver-colored looking-balls on a pedestal to reflect wee views of the garden and lake and sky, with people moving no bigger than dolls. Imagine a reflection of Ethan like a Lilliputian _so_ high!" So I was able to leave her eagerly hunting catalogues of garden ornaments in her sewing-room, when the time came for me to keep my rendezvous with Death or the lady. In spite of my warning gesture, Vere followed me into the hall. His dark face was distressed and anxious. "Let me go with you," he urged. "No, thanks. Stay with Phil, and keep her too busy to suspect where I am." "If I'm doing wrong to let you go," he began. "You cannot stop me. It is still too early for danger, I think. If you like, you can stroll out on the lawn from time to time and look up at my windows. As long as the lamps are lighted in the room, I am all right. Nothing is happening." "Your lamps were all three lighted when I found you last night," he said. The darkness had been only for my eyes, then? Certainly I had seemed to see light withdrawn from the lamps. I mastered a tremor of the nerves, and covered it by stroking Bagheera, who sat on a hall chair making an after-dinner toilet with tongue and paw. "Well, take care of Phil," I repeated, evading argument. He detained me. "The young lady might not come if there were two people, Mr. Locke. I can see that! But I'll go instead. I guess I'd be safer than you, with the--the----You know what I mean! It would be the first time for me. And if I sat waiting in the dark, the lady couldn't tell you were not there. Of course I'd bring her right to you." No one could appreciate the courage of that offer so well as we who had both felt the intolerable horror of the nearness of the Thing whose nature was beyond our nature to endure. "She would come to no one except me," I refused. "But, thank you. And Vere, if what you have said about my feeling toward Phillida's husband was true once, it is true no longer." His clasp was still warm on my hand when I went into my room and switched on the lights. Soft and colorful, the haunted room sprang into view. The writing-table and piano gleamed bare without their usual burdens of scattered papers and music, removed that afternoon. For lack of familiar occupation, when I sat down in my favorite place, I took up the gold pomander and fell to studying the intricate designs worked in the metal. "_Containing a rare herb of Jerusalem called Lady's Rose, resembling spikenard, with vervain, and cedar, and secret simples----_" "_Vervain, which is powerful against evil spirits----_" The strange fragrance, heady as the bouquet of rich wine, never cloying, exquisite, might well have seemed magical to the dry Puritans, I mused. It should stay by me tonight, like a promise of her coming. After I had sat there a while, I turned out the lights. CHAPTER XVIII "An excellent way to get a fayrie--and when you have her, bind her!"--ANCIENT ALCHEMIST'S RECIPE. In the darkness Time crept along like a crippled thing, slow-moving, hideous. Outside fell the monotonous drip, drip from trees and bushes, likened by Phillida to a horrid clock. The fog was a sounding-board for furtive noises that grew up like fungi in the moist atmosphere. The thought of Phillida and Vere down in the pleasant living room tempted me almost beyond resistance. I wanted to spring up, to rush out of the room; to fling myself into my car and drive full speed until strength failed and gasoline gave out. Was that the lake which stirred in the windless night? The lake, under which lay the fire-blackened ruins of the house where the first Desire Michell flung open an awful door that her vengeance might stride through! Was it too late for my Desire to come, and time for the coming of that Other? The step of Vere sounded on the gravel path where he walked beneath the window. He was making a trip of inspection, and would find no light shining from the room. I was about to rise and call down a word of reassurance to him, when a current of spiced air passed by me. I sat arrested in hope and expectancy. "Here, after my warning, after last night?" her soft voice panted across the dark. "Will you die, then? Cruel to me, and wicked to come here again! Oh, must I wish you were a coward!" Every vestige of her calmness gone, she was sobbing as she spoke. I could imagine she was wringing the little hands that once had left a betraying print upon my table's surface. "I was cruel to you last night, Desire; yet afterward you saved my life by sending Ethan Vere to wake me. Would you have had me leave without meeting you again, neither thanking you nor asking your forgiveness?" I thought she came nearer. "For so little, you would brave the Dread One in Its time of triumph? O steadfast soldier, who faces the Breach even in the hour of death, in all that you have done you have remembered me. Why speak of anger or forgiveness? Have I not injured you?" "Never. I love you." "Is not that an injury? Even though I hid my ill-omened face from you, reared as I was to sad knowledge of the wrath upon me, the wrong has been done. Weak as water in the test, I kept the letter of my promise and broke the intent. Yet go; keep life at least." "Desire, I do not understand you," I answered. "No matter for that, now! I am content to share whatever you bring. Not roughly or in challenge as I asked you last night, but earnestly and with humility I ask you to come away with me now. If trouble comes to my wife and me, I do not doubt we can bear it. Let us not be frightened from the attempt. Come." "I, to take happiness like that?" she marveled in desolate amazement. "No. At least I will go to my own place, if tardily. Roger, be kind to me. Give me a last gift. Let me know that somewhere you are living. Out of my sight, out of my knowledge, but living in the same world with me. Each moment you stay here is a risk." In that warning she had reason. I rose. It was time to act, but action must be certain. If my groping movements missed her in the dark there might be no second chance. "Desire, if all is as you say and we are not to meet again as we have done, you shall let me touch you before I go," I said firmly. "No!" "Yes. Why, would you have me live all the years to come in doubt whether you were a woman or a dream? Perhaps you might seem at last a phantom of my own sick brain to which faithfulness would be folly? Here across the table I stretch my arm. Lay your palm in my palm. I may die tonight." Whether she wished it also, or whether my resolve drew obedience, I do not know. But a vague figure moved through the dark toward me. A hand settled in mine with the brushing touch of an alighting bird. I closed my hand hotly upon that one. I sprang a step aside from the table between us, found her, and drew her to me. What did I hold in my arms? Softness, fragrance, draperies beneath which beat life and warmth. As I stooped to reassure her, her breath curled against my cheek. So with that guide I turned my head, and set my lips on the lips I had never seen. Did Something uprear Itself out there in the black fog? A cold air rushed across the summer heat of the fog; air foul as if issued from the opened door of a vault. As once before, a tremor quivered through the house. The hanging chains of the lamps swung with a faint tinkling sound. I snatched Desire Michell off her feet and sprang for the door. Somehow I found and opened it at the first essay. We were out into the hall. With one hand I dragged the door shut behind us, then carried her on to the head of the stairs. There I set her down, but stood before her as a bar against any attempt at escape. A lamp shed a subdued light above us. I looked at my captive. Never again after that kiss could she deny her womanhood or pose as a phantom. So far my victory was complete. The lady might be angry, but it must be woman's anger. I knew she had not suspected my intention until I lifted her in my arms. She had struggled then, after her defenses had fallen. She was quiet now, as though the light had quelled her resistance. She stood drooped and trembling; not the old-time witch, not the dazzling adventuress, only a small fragile girl wound and wrapped in some gray stuff that even covered the brightness of her hair. Her face was held down and showed no more color than a water-lily. "I thought," she whispered, just audibly. "I thought you--would say, good-bye!" "I know," I stammered. "But I could not. That way was impossible for us." She did not contradict me. She was so very small, I saw, that her head would reach no higher than where the bright spot had rested above my heart when I had last stood at the Barrier. One hand gripped the veils beneath her chin, and seemed the clenched fist of a child. The crash of my door had startled the household. I had heard Phillida cry out, and Vere's running steps upon the gravel path. Now he came springing up the stairs. At the head of the flight he stopped, staring at us. "Desire," I spoke as naturally as I could manage, "this is Mr. Vere. Vere, my fiancée, Miss Michell. Shall we go down to Phillida?" And Desire Michell did not deny my claim. I am not very sure of how we found ourselves downstairs. Nor do I remember in what words we made the two girls known to one another. Presently we were all in the living room, and Phillida had possession of Desire Michell while Vere and I looked on stupidly at the proceedings. Phil had placed her in a chair beside a tall floor-lamp and gently drew off the draperies that hooded her. With little murmurs of compassion, she unbound and shook free her guest's hair. "My dear, you are all damp! This awful fog! You must have been out a long time? You shall drink some tea before we start. Drawls, will you light the alcohol lamp on the tea-table? The kettle is filled." Now I could understand how Desire had appeared amid a drift of fireshot smoke in the beam of my electric torch, the night before. Her hair was a garment of flame-bright silk flowing around her, curling and eddying in rich abundance. Over this she had worn the gray veils to smother all that color and sheen into neutral sameness with night and shadows. No wonder her face had seemed wraith-like when her startled shrinking away from the light had set all that drapery billowing about her. She was the voice that had been my intimate comrade through weeks of strange adventure. She was the woman of the faded, yellow book, and the painted beauty at the Metropolitan. She was all the Desires of whom I had ever dreamed; and she was none of them, for she was herself. Her long dark eyes, suddenly lifted to me, were individual by that ancestral blending of drowsiness with watchfulness; yet were akin to the eyes of youth in all times by their innocence. Her mouth, too, was the soft mouth of a young girl kept apart from sordid life. But her forehead, the noble breadth between the black tracery of her eyebrows, expressed the student whose weird, lofty knowledge had so often abashed my ignorance. Only my ignorance? Now as she looked at me across the room, all self-confidence trickled away from me. What distinguished me from a thousand men she might meet on any city street? What had I ever said worth note in the hours we had spent together? Now she saw me in the light, plainly commonplace; and remembering myself lame, I stood amazed at the audacity with which I had laid claim to her. She was rising from the chair, gently putting aside Phillida's detaining hands. She had not spoken one word since her faltered speech to me, upstairs. Neither Vere nor Phillida had heard her voice. She had given her hand to each of them and submitted to Phil's care with a docility I failed to recognize in my companion of the dark. Her decisive movement now was more like the Desire Michell I knew. Only, what was she about to do? Repudiate my violence and me--perhaps go back to her hiding-place? She came straight to where I stood, not daring even to advance toward her. We might have been alone in the room. I rather think we were, to her preoccupation. "You must go away," she said. "If there is any hope, it is in that. Nothing else matters, now; nothing! If you wish, take me with you. It would be wiser to leave me. But nothing really matters except that you should not stay here. I will obey you in everything if you will only go. Take your car and drive--drive fast--anywhere!" It is impossible to convey the desperate urgency and fervor of her low voice. Phillida uttered an exclamation of fear. Vere wheeled about and left the room. The front door closed behind him. The gravel crunched under his tread on the path to the garage, and the rate at which the light he carried moved through the fog showed that he was running. He obviously accepted the warning exactly as it was given. After the briefest indecision, Phillida hurried out into the hall. For my part, I did nothing worth recording. I had made discovery of two places where I was not the "lame feller." And if the first place was the dreary Frontier, the second country was that rich Land of Promise in Desire Michell's eyes. What we said in our brief moment of solitude is not part of this account. Phillida was back promptly, her arms full of garments. With little murmurs of explanation by way of accompaniment, she proceeded to invest Desire in a motor coat and a dark-blue velvet hat rather like an artist's tam-o'shanter. I noticed then that the girl wore a plain frock of gray stuff, long of sleeve and skirt, fastened at the base of her throat with severe intent to cover from sight all loveliness of tint and contour. Nothing farther from the fashion of the day or the figure of my cousin could be imagined. "You must wear the coat because it is always cool motoring at night," Phillida was murmuring. "And of course you will want it at a hotel; until you can do some shopping. I will just tie back your gorgeous, scrumptious hair with this ribbon, now. I know I haven't enough hairpins to put it up without wasting an awful lot of time, but we will buy them in the morning. We are going to take the very best care of you every minute, so you must not worry." "You are so kind to me," Desire began tremulously. "No one was ever so kind! It does not matter about me, or what people think of me, if he will only go from here quickly." "Right away," Phillida soothed. "My husband has gone for the car. I hear him coming now!" In fact, Vere was coming up the veranda steps. His hand was on the knob of the outer door, fumbling with it in a manner not usual to him, then the knob yielded and he was inside. "But how slow you are, Drawls," his wife called, with an accent of wonder. Vere crossed the threshold of the room, his gaze seeking mine. He was pale, and drops of fog moisture pearled his dark face like sweat. "I am sorry, Mr. Locke," he addressed me, ignoring the others. "Perhaps you felt that shake-up, a quarter-hour ago? Like a kind of earthquake, or the kick from a big explosion a long ways off? It didn't seem very strong to me. It was too strong for that old tree by the garage, though! Must have been decayed clear through inside. Willows are like that, tricky when they get old." "Ethan, what _are_ you talking about?" cried Phillida, aghast. He continued to look at me. "I guess it must have fallen just about when you slammed your door upstairs. Seems I do remember a sort of second crash following the noise you made. I was too keen on finding out what was happening up there to pay much heed." "Well, Vere?" "Tree smashed down through the roof of the garage," he reluctantly gave his report. "Everything under the hood of the automobile is wrecked. There is no motor left, and no radiator. Just junk, mixed up with broken wood and leaves and pieces of the stucco and tiles of the garage." So there was to be no going tonight from the house beside the lake. A frustrated group, we stood amid our preparations; the two girls wearing cloaks and hats for the drive that would never be taken. Had we ever really expected to go? Already the project was fading into the realm of fantastic ideas, futile as the pretended journeys of children who are kept in their nursery. Desire lifted her hands and took off the blue velvet cap with a resignation more expressive than words. Only my practical little cousin charged valiantly at all obstacles. "We aren't ever going to give up?" she cried protest. "Cousin Roger? Ethan? _You_ cannot mean to give up. Why--'phone to the nearest garage to send us another car. If we pay them enough they will drive anywhere. Or if they cannot take us to New York, they will take us to the railroad station where we can get a train for some place. Can't we, Drawls?" "We could," Vere admitted. "I'd admire to try it, anyhow. But the telephone wire came across the place right past the garage, you know----" "The tree tore the wire down, too?" "I'm afraid it snapped right in two, Phil." "We--we might walk," she essayed. But even her brave voice trailed into silence as she glanced toward the black, dripping night beyond the windows. "Or if we found a horse and wagon," she murmured a final suggestion. Vere shook his head. "Come!" I assumed charge with a cheerfulness not quite sincere. "None of us are ready for such desperate efforts to leave our cozy quarters here. Especially as I fancy Vere's 'earthquake' was the tremor of an approaching thunderstorm. I felt it, myself. Let us light all the lamps and draw the curtains to shut out the fog which has got on everyone's nerves by its long continuance. We are overwrought beyond reason. Suppose we sit here together, strong in numbers, for the few hours until daylight? I think that should be safeguard enough. Tomorrow we will do all we had planned for tonight. Come in, Vere, and close the door." He obeyed me at once. Desire Michell passively suffered me to unfasten and take off the coat she wore, too heavy for such a night. She had uttered no word since Vere announced the destruction of the car. She did not speak now, when I put her in the low chair beneath the lamp. I had a greed of light for her, as a protection and because darkness had held her so long. "It seems as if we should do something!" Phillida yielded unwillingly. Vere's eyes met mine as he turned from drawing the last curtain. We were both thinking of the force that had driven the frail old willow tree through tile and cement of the new building to flatten the metal of motor and car into uselessness. The mere weight of the tree would not have carried it through the roof. To "do something" by way of physical escape from that---- The ribbon had glided from Desire's hair, almost as if the vital, resilient mass resentfully freed itself from restraint by the bit of satin. Now she put up her hands with a slow movement and drew two broad strands of the glittering tresses across her shoulders, veiling her face. "Wait," she answered Phillida, most unexpectedly. "I must be sure--quite sure! I must think. If you will--wait." CHAPTER XIX "Oh, little booke--how darst thou put thyself in press for drede?"--CHAUCER. We sat quietly waiting. I had drawn a chair near Desire. Phillida and Vere were together, chairs touching, her right hand curled into his left. Bagheera the cat had slipped into the room before the door was closed, and lay pressed against his mistress's stout little boot. Our small garrison was assembled, surely for as strange a defense as ever sober moderns undertook. For my part, it was wonder enough to study that captive who was at once so strange yet so intimately well known to me. The Tiffany clock on the mantel shelf chimed midnight. Soon after, we began to experience the first break in the heavy monotony of heat and fog that had overlaid the place for three days. The temperature began to fall. The fog did not lift. The flowered cretonne curtains hung straight from their rods unstirred by any movement of air. But the atmosphere in the room steadily grew colder. I saw Phillida shiver in the chill dampness and pull closer the collar of her thin blouse. When Desire finally spoke, we three started as if her low tones had been the clang of a hammer. "I have tried to judge what is best," she said, not raising her face from its shadowing veil of hair. "I am not very wise. But it seems better that there should be no ignorance between us. If I had been either wise or good, I should never have come down from the convent to draw another into danger and horror without purpose or hope of any good ending." "The convent?" I echoed, memory turning to the bleak building far up the hillside. "You came from there?" "There is a path through the woods. I am very strong and vigorous. But I had to wait until all there were asleep before I could come. Sometimes I could not come at all. For this house, I had my father's old key. It was only for this little time while I am being taught. Soon I will put on a nun's dress and cut my hair, and--and never--never leave there any more." Stupefied, I thought of the black loneliness of the wooded hillside behind us. No wonder the fog was wet upon her hair! Her slight feet had traversed that path night after night, had brought her to the door her key fitted, had come through the dark house to the door of the room upstairs. When she left me, she had toiled that desolate way back. For what? Humility bent me, and bewilderment. "But why?" Phillida gasped. "Why? Cousin Roger hunted everywhere to find you. He would have gone anywhere you told him to see you. Didn't you know that?" "I never meant him to see me." "Why not?" "I am Desire Michell, fourth of that name; all women who brought misfortune upon those who cared for them," she answered, her voice lower still. "How shall I make you understand? I was brought up to know the wrath and doom upon me, yet I myself can scarcely understand. My father knew all, yet he fell in weakness." "Your father?" I questioned, recalling Mrs. Hill's positive genealogy of the Michells in which there was no place for this daughter of the line. "He was the last of his family. When he was very young the conviction came to him that his duty was never to marry, so our race might cease to exist. He lived here and preached against evil. He studied the ancient learning that he might be fitted to wrestle with sin. But in the end horror of what was here gained upon him so that he closed the house and went abroad to work as a missionary. There was a girl; the daughter of the clergyman who was leaving the mission. My father--fell in love. He forgot all his convictions and married her. He knew it was a sin, but it was stronger than he was. She only lived one year. When I was born, she died. He prayed that I would die, too. But--I----" Her voice died into silence. I ventured to lean nearer and take her hand into mine. "Desire," I said, "why should you be a sufferer for the actions of a woman who died over two centuries ago? What is the long dead Desire Michell to you?" A strange and solemn hush followed my question. The words seemed to take a significance and importance beyond their simple meaning. The hand I held trembled in my clasp. She answered at last, just audibly: "You know. You said that you had read her book." "But the book tells so little, Desire. Just such a chronicle of superstition as may be found in a hundred old records." She shook her head slightly. "Not that! Bring me the book." The book was upstairs in the room from which I had carried her half an hour before in something very like a panic flight. Before I could release her hand and rise, before I comprehended his intention, Vere was out of the living room and upon the stairs. It was too late to overtake him. The man who had been a professional skater covered the stairs in a few easy, swinging strides. We heard his light tread on the floor overhead, heard him stop beside the table where the book lay. Then, he was returning. My door closed. His step sounded on the stairs again; in a moment he was back among us, and quietly offering the volume to our guest. His dark eyes met mine reassuringly, deprecating the thoughts I am sure my face expressed. "Lights burning and all serene up there," he announced. Desire touched the book with a curious repugnance. "I was looking for this, the first night I came here," she murmured. "That is why I came to America after my father died. I had promised him to destroy this record. When I heard that the house was sold to a gentleman from New York, I came down from the convent on the hill to find the bookcase holding the old history. I did not know anyone was here, that night, until you touched my hair." I remembered the bookcase near the bed, where I stood my candle and matches. Unaware, I had prevented her finding the thing she sought, and so forced her to return. Afterward, the house had been full of workmen making alterations and improvements, until later still Phillida had transferred the bookcase and its contents to her sewing room. If I had not taken the whim to sleep in the old house on the night of my purchase, or if I had chosen another room, the existence of Desire Michell might never have been known to me. Would the creature from the Barrier have appeared to me, if I had not known her? She was drawing something from behind the portrait of the first Desire Michell; a thin, small book that had lain concealed between the cover of the larger volume and the page bearing the woodcut, where a sort of pocket was formed that had escaped our notice. Laid upon the table, the little book rolled away from the girl's fingers and lay curled upon itself in the lamplight. The limp morocco cover was spotted with mildew and half-revealed pages of close, fine writing blotched in places with rusty stains. It gave out an odor of mould and age in an atmosphere made sweet by Desire's presence. Phillida, who had been silent even when Vere left her to go upstairs, shrank away from the book on the table. She darted a glance over her shoulder at the curtained windows behind her. "Drawls, I cannot help what everybody thinks of me," she said plaintively. "I am cold. The fire is ready laid in the grate. Will you put a match to it, please?" No one smiled at the request. Her husband uttered some soothing phrase of compliance. We all looked on while the flame caught and began to creep up among the apple-logs. Bagheera rose and changed his position to one before the hearth. When Vere stood erect, Desire leaned toward him. "Will you read, aloud, sir?" she asked of him, and made a gesture toward the morocco book. She surprised us all by that choice. I was unreasoning enough to feel slighted, although the task was one for which I felt a strong dislike. I fancied Vere liked the idea no better, from his expression. However, he offered no demur, but sat down at the table and began to flatten the warped pages that perversely sprang back and clung about his fingers. Desire slowly turned her lovely eyes to me, eyes that looked by gift of nature as if their long corners had been brushed with kohl. She said nothing, yet somehow conveyed her meaning and intent. I understood that she did not wish to hear me read those pages; that it was painful to her that they should be read at all. Vere was ready. He glanced around our circle, then began with the simple directness that gave him a dignity peculiarly his own. "'Mistress Desire Michell, her booke, Beginning at the nineteenth year of her Age,'" he read, in his leisurely voice. The living Desire Michell and I were regarding one another. I smiled at the quaint wording, but she shuddered, and put her hands across her eyes. Yet there was nothing in those first pages except a girl's chronicle of village life. This book evidently carried on a diary kept from early childhood; a diary written out of loneliness. Apparently the bare colonial life pressed heavily upon the writer; who, having no companions of the intellect, turned to this record of her own mind as a prisoner might talk to his reflection in a mirror rather than go mad from sheer silence. Discontent and restlessness beat through the lines like fluttering wings. She wrote of her own beauty with a cool appraisal oddly removed from vanity, almost with resentment of a possession she could not use. "Like a man who finds treasure in a desert isle, I am rich in coin that I may not spend," she wrote. "I stand before my mirror and take a tress of my hair in either hand; I spread wide my arms full reach, yet I cannot touch the end of those tresses. Nor can my two hands clasp the bulk of them. There have been other women who had such hair, who were of body straight and white, and had the eyes--but I cannot read that they stayed poor and obscure." There followed some quotations from the classics of which I was able to give but vague translations when Vere passed the book to me, both because my knowledge was scanty and because of their daring unconventionality. There were allusions, too, to ladies of later history who had found fairness a broad staircase for ambition to mount. Of the writer's learning, there could be no question; a learning amazing in one so young and so situated. The source of this became apparent. Her father was consumed with the passion of scholarship, and the girl's hungry mind fed in the pastures where he led the way. Here crept into view an anomaly of character. The austere Puritan divine, whose life was open and blank, bare and cold as a winter field, cherished a secret dissipation of the mind. He labored upon a book on the errors of magic. So laboring, he became snared by the thing he denounced. He believed in the hidden lore while he condemned it. Deeper and deeper into forbidden knowledge his eagerness for research led him. Unsanctioned by any church were the books Dr. Michell starved his body to buy from Jews or other furtive dealers in unusual wares. The titles in his library comprehended the names of more charlatans than bishops. He could define the distinctions between necromancy, sorcery, and magic. The marvelous calculations of the Pythagoreans engaged him, and the lost mysteries of the Cabiri. From such studies he would arise on the Sabbath to preach sermons that held his dull flock agape. Bitter draughts of salvation he poured for their spiritual drinking. He scarcely saw how any man might escape hell-fire, all being so vile. Against witchcraft and tampering with Satan's agents he was eloquent. He rode sixty miles in midwinter to see a Quaker whipped and a woman hung who had been convicted as a witch. Of all this, his daughter wrote with an elfin mockery. Her brilliant eye of youth saw through the inconsistency of the beliefs he strove to reconcile. She learned his lore, read his books, and discarded his doctrine. "I study with him, but I think alone," she set down her independence. Without his knowledge, she proceeded to actual experiment with rude crucible and alembic in her own chamber. She essayed some age-old recipes of blended herbs and ingredients within her reach, handled at certain hours of the night and phases of the moon. All were innocent enough, it seemed. She cured a beloved old dog of rheumatism and partial blindness. She discovered an exquisite perfume which she named Rose of Jerusalem. But the experiments were not fortunate, she made obscure complaint. The dog, cured, lived only a few weeks. The perfume, in which she revelled with a fierce, long-denied appetite, steeping her rich hair in it and her severely dull garments, awoke many whispers in a community where sweet odors were unknown and disapproved. She alluded, with a mingling of freezing scorn and triumph, to the young men who followed after her--"seeking a wife who would be at their hearth as fatal a guest as that fair woman sent by an enemy to Alexander the Great, whose honey breath was deadly poison to who so kissed there." Into this situation rode the fine gentleman from the colonial world of fashion who was to fix the fate of Desire Michell and his own. From this point on, the diary was a record of the same story as the "History of Ye foule Witch, Desire Michell." The love affair that followed Sir Austin's visit to the clergyman's house leaped hot and instant as flame from oil and fire brought together. The girl was parched with thirst for life, yet despised all around her. The man was dazzled by a beauty and mentality foreign as a bird of paradise found nested in Connecticut snow. A mad, wild passion linked them that was more than half a duel. For Sir Austin was already betrothed. Honor might not have chained him for long, but his need of his betrothed's fortune proved more enduring. He was a man bred to wealth, who did not possess it. He offered Desire Michell his left hand. He was turned out of her father's house with a red weal struck across his face like a brand. Of course he returned. The arrow was firmly fixed. He asked her to marry him, and was refused with savage contempt. He would not take the refusal. Her heart and ambition were hidden traitors to his cause. In the end she surrendered and the marriage day was set. Sir Austin rode away to set his house in order, while Desire turned from alchemy to make her wedding garments. The entries during this interval were sweetly gentle and feminine. Her Rose of Jerusalem fragrance was all her own, and was kept so, but she made less-rare essences and sold them through a pedlar in order to buy fine linen and brocade for a trousseau not designed to be worn in a Puritan village. She was happy and at rest in expectation. On her wedding day the destroying news fell. Sir Austin hid a weak spirit within a strong and handsome body. Away from Desire's glamour, back in New York, he had not broken his engagement to the heiress. Instead, he had married her on the day arranged before he met the clergyman's daughter. There was never again a connected record in the diary. Pages were torn out in places, entries were broken off, half-made. But the story Vere's slow, steady voice conveyed to us was the one we knew; the one my Desire had told to me the first night I slept in this house. The half-mad girl turned to her father's deadly books. Sir Austin died as his waxen image dissolved before the fire, where the girl sat watching with merciless hate. He died, raving and frothing, on her door-sill. She never saw him after the day he rode away to prepare for their marriage. She set open her window that she might hear his progress to that hard death, but never deigned to turn her glance upon him. The clergyman was dead, now; of shame, or perhaps of terror at the child he had reared. The girl was alone. The diary grew wilder, with gaps of weeks where there were no entries. More frequently, pages were missing and paragraphs obliterated by the reddish blotches like rust or blood. There were accounts of weird, half-told experiments ranging through the three degrees of magic set forth by Talmud and Cabala. She wrote of legions of kingdoms between earth and heaven, and the twelve unearthly worlds of Plato. She alluded to a Barrier between men and other orders of beings, beyond which dwelt Those whom the magicians of old glimpsed after long toil and incantation. "Those of whom Vertabied, the Armenian, says: '_Their orders differ from one another in situation and degree of glory, just as there are different ranks among men, though they are all of one nature._' They cannot cross nor overthrow this Wall, nor can man alone; but if they and man join together----One there beyond whispers to me of power, splendor, victory----" Days later, there was entered a passage of mad triumph and terror. The Barrier was broken through. Out of the breach issued the One whom she had invited to her silver lamps; colossal, formless, whose approach froze blood and spirit. Eyes of unspeakable meaning glared across the dark, whispers unbearable to humanity beat upon her intelligence and named her comrade. Now as Vere read this, I felt again that quiver of the house or air he had likened to an earth shock and held responsible for the fall of the willow tree that had destroyed our hope of escape by automobile. I looked at my companions and saw no evidence of anyone having noticed what I had seemed to feel. Vere indeed was pale; while Phillida, who sat beside him, was highly flushed with excitement and wonder as she listened. Desire had not stirred in her chair, except to bend her head so her face was shaded by the loosened richness of her hair. Seeing them so undisturbed, I kept silence. A storm might be approaching, but I made no pretense to myself of believing that shock either thunder or earthquake. The tone of the diary altered rapidly. At first, the unknown from beyond the wall appalled the woman only by its unhuman strangeness, the repugnance of flesh and blood for its loathly neighborhood. Fear emanated from its presence, seen yet unseen, a blackness moving in the black of night when it visited her. Yet she had courage to endure those awful colloquies. She listened. She strove by the spell and incantation to subdue This to her service, as the demon Orthone served the Lord of Corasse, as Paracelsus was served by his Familiar, or Gyges by the spirit of his ring. Alas for the sorceress, misguided by legend and fantasy! She had evoked no phantom, but a fact actual as nature always is even if nature is not humanly understood. The Thing was real. The awe of the magician became the stricken panic of the woman. She had unloosed what she could not bind. She had called a servant, and gained a master. Gone forever were the dreams of power and splendor and triumph. Now she learned that only pure magic can discharge the spirits it has summoned, nor could a murderess attain that lofty art. We were given a glimpse of a frantic girl crouched in the useless pentagram traced on the floor for her protection, covering her beauty with the cloak of her hair against the eyes that burned upon her between the overturned silver lamps. A deepening horror gathered about the house of Mistress Desire Michell. The old dame who had been the girl's nurse and caretaker fled the place and fell into mumbling dotage in a night. No child would come near the garden, though fruit and nuts rotted away where they dropped from overripeness. No neighbor crossed the doorstep where Sir Austin had died. She lived in utter solitude by day. By night she waged hideous battle against her Visitor; using woman's cunning, essaying every expedient and art her books suggested to her desperate need. With each conflict, her strength and resource waned, while That which she held at bay knew no weariness. Time was not, for it, nor change of purpose. "I faint, I fail!" she wrote. "The Sea of Dread breaks about my feet. It is midnight. The pentagram fades from the floor--the nine lamps die--the breath of the One at the casement is upon me----" Vere stopped. "A handful of pages have been torn out here," he stated. "The next entry that I can read is in the middle of a stained page, and must be considerably later on." Phillida made an odd little noise like a whimper, clutching at his sleeve. The third shock for which I had been waiting shuddered through the house, this time distinctly enough for all to feel. A gust of wind went through the wet trees outside like a gasp. "Ethan, what was that?" she stammered. "Oh, I'm afraid! Cousin Roger----?" I had no voice to answer her. In my ears was the rush and surge of that sea whose waters had gripped me in the past night. I felt the icy death-tide hiss around me in its first returning wave, rise to my knee's height, then sink away down its unearthly beach. What I had dimly known all day, underlying Vere's sturdy cheerfulness and our plans and efforts, was the truth. Through those intervening hours of daylight I had remained my enemy's prisoner, bound on that shore we both knew well, until It pleased or had power to return and finish with me. No doubt It was governed by laws, as we are. As before, the cold struck a paralysis across my senses. Vere's reassurance sounded faint and distant. "The thunder is getting closer," he said. "That was a storm wind, all right! Would you rather go upstairs and lie down, and not hear any more of this stuff tonight?" "No! Oh, no! I could not bear to be alone," she refused. "Just, just go on, dear. Of course it is the coming storm that makes the room so cold." He put his left arm around her as she nestled against him. His right hand held the diary flattened on the table under the light. "The next entry is just one line in the middle of a page where everything else is blotted out," Vere repeated. "It reads: 'The child is a week old today.'" The wave crashed foaming in tumult up the strand, flowing higher, drenching me in cold sharp as fire. The tide rose faster tonight. The silence that held the others dumb before the significance of that last sentence covered my silence from notice. Desire's face was quite hidden; lamplight and firelight wavered and gleamed across her bent head. I wanted to arise and go to her, to take her hands and tell her to have patience and courage. But when this wave ebbed, my strength drained away with the receding water. Moreover, the darkness curdled and moved beyond the window opposite me. The curtains hung between were no bar to my vision, as the light and presence of my companions were no bar to the Thing that kept rendezvous with me. Since last night, we were nearer to one another. A breath of chill foulness crept across the pungent odor of the burning apple-log in the fireplace. A whisper spoke to my intelligence. "Man conquered by me, fall down before me. Beg my forbearance. Beg life of me--and take the gift!" "No," my thought answered Its. "You die, Man." "All men die." "Not as they die who are mine." "I am not yours. You kill me, as a wild beast might. But I am not yours; not dying nor dead am I yours." "Would you not live, pygmy?" "Not as your pensioner." The logs on the hearth crackled and sank down with a soft rustle, burned through to a core of glowing red. Phillida spoke with a hushed urgency, drawing still closer to her husband, so that her forehead rested against his shoulder. "Go on, Ethan. Finish and let us be done." Vere bent his head above the book on the table to obey her. Across the dark I suddenly saw the Eyes glare in upon him. "On the next page, the writing begins again," he said. "It says: "'I am offered the kingdoms of earth. But I crave that kingdom of myself which I cast away. The child is sent to England. The circle is drawn. The names are traced and the lamps filled. Tonight I make the last essay. There remains untried one mighty spell. This Mystery----'" A clap of thunder right over the house overwhelmed the reader's voice. Phillida screamed as a violent wind volleyed through the place with a crashing of doors and shutters, upstairs and down. The diary was ripped from beneath Vere's hand and hurled straight to the center of that nest of fire formed by the settling of the logs. A long tongue of flame leaped high in the chimney as the spread leaves of the book caught and flared, fanned by wind and draft. Vere sprang up, but Phillida's clinging arms delayed him. When he reached the fire-tongs there was nothing to rescue except a charring mass half-way toward ashes. He turned toward me, perhaps at last surprised by my immobility. "I am sorry, Mr. Locke," he apologized. Desire had started up with the others when the sudden uproar of the storm burst upon them. Now she cried out, breaking Vere's excuse of the loss. Her small face blanched, she ran a few steps toward me. "It has come! He will die--he is dying. Look, look!" CHAPTER XX "Behold! Where are their abodes? Their places are not, even as though they had not been." --TOMB OF KING ENTEF. Desire Michell was beside me, and I could not rise or answer her. She bent over me, so that the Rose of Jerusalem fragrance inundated me and drove back the sickening air that was the breath of our enemy. "Let me go," she sobbed, her head beside my head. "If you can hear me, listen and leave me as It wills. You know now that I belong to It by heritage? You know why we can never be together as you planned? Try to feel horror of me. Put me away from you. No evil can come to me unless I seek evil. But It will not suffer you to take me. Live, dear Roger, and let me go." "Yield to me, Man, what you may not keep," the whisper of the Thing followed after her voice. "Would you take the witch-child to your hearth? Cast her off; and taste my pardon." "Can you hear, Roger? Roger, let me go." With an effort terrible to make as death to meet, I broke from the paralysis that chained me. As from the drag of a whirlpool, I tore myself from the tide-clutch, from the will of the Thing, from the numb weakness upon me. For a moment I thrust back the hand at my throat. I stood up and drew Desire up with me in my arms, both of us reeling with my unsteadiness. "I do not give you up," I said, my speech hoarse and difficult. "I claim you, now, and after. And my claim is good, because I pay." Desire exclaimed something. What, I do not know. Her voice was lost in the triumphant conviction that I was right. She was free, and the freedom was my gift to her. I was not vanquished, but victor. The life I paid was not a penalty, but a price. Her face was uplifted to mine as she clung to me; then my weight glided through her arms and I fell back in my chair. I was alone amid blackness and desolation that poured past me like the wind above the world. * * * * * For the last time, I opened my eyes on the gray shore at the foot of the Barrier. I, pygmy indeed, stood again before the colossal wall whose palisades reared up beyond vision and stretched away beyond vision on either side. I was alone here. No whisper of taunt or menace, no presence of horror troubled me. Opposite me, the Breach that split the cliff showed as a shadowed cañon, empty except of dread. Far out behind me the sea that was like no sea of earth gathered itself beneath its eternal mists as a tidal wave draws and gathers. With folded arms I stood there, waiting for the returning surge of mighty waters to overwhelm me in their flood. I waited in awe and solemn expectancy, beyond fear or hope. But now I became aware of a new doubleness of experience. Here on the Frontier, I was between the worlds, yet I also saw the room in the house left behind. I saw myself as an unconscious body reclined in a chair beside the hearth. Desire Michell knelt on the floor beside me, her hands grasping my arms, her gaze fixed on my face, her hair spilling its shining lengths across my knees. Phillida was huddled in a chair, crying hysterically. Vere apparently had been trying to force some stimulant upon the man who was myself, yet was not myself, for while I watched he reluctantly rose from bending above the figure and set a glass upon the table. I echoed his sigh. Life was good. The sea behind me began to rush in from immeasurable distances. The roar of the waters' thunderous approach blended with the heat and flash of storm all about the house into which I looked. "He dies," Desire spoke, her voice level and calm. "Has it not been so with all who loved the daughters of my race these two centuries past? Yet never did one of those die as he dies--not for passion, but for protection of the woman--not as a madman or one ignorant, but facing that which was not meant for man to face, his eyes beating back the intolerable Eyes. Oh, glory and grief of mine to have seen this!" Phillida cowered lower in her chair, burying her face in the cushions. But Vere abruptly stood erect, his fine dark face lifted and set. Just so some ancestors of his might have risen in a bleak New England meeting-house when moved powerfully to wrestle with evil in prayer. But it is doubtful if any Maine deacon ever addressed his Deity as Vere appealed to his. "Almighty, we're in places we don't understand," he spoke simply as to a friend within the room, his earnest, drawling speech entirely natural. "But You know them as You do us. If things have got to go this way, why, we'll make out the best we can. But if they don't, and we're just blundering into trouble, please save Roger Locke and this poor girl. Because we know You can. Amen." Now at this strange and beautiful prayer--or so it seemed to me--a ray of blinding light cleaved up from where Vere stood, like a shot arrow speeding straight through house and night into inconceivable space. Then the room vanished from my sight as the great wave burst out of the mist upon me. I went down in a smother of ghastly snarling floods cold as space is cold. Something fled past me up the strand, shrieking inhuman passion; the Eyes of my enemy glared briefly across my vision. One last view I glimpsed of that dread Barrier, amid the tumult and welter of my passing. The breach was closed! Unbroken, majestic, the enormous Wall stood up inviolate. CHAPTER XXI "Fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home." --COWPER. The uproar of rushing waters was still in my ears. But I was in my chair before the hearth in the living room of the farmhouse, and the noise was the din of a tempest outside. Opposite me, Phillida and Desire were clinging together, watching me with such looks of gladness and anxiety that I felt myself abashed before them. Bagheera, the cat, sat on the table beside the lamp, yellow eyes blinking at each flash and rattle of lightning and thunder, while he sleeked his recently wetted fur. Wondering where that wet had come from, I discovered presently that the fire was out, and the hearth drenched with soot-stained water. I looked toward the windows, from which the curtains had been drawn aside. Rain poured glistening down the panes, but the clean storm was empty of horror. "Drink some of this, Mr. Locke," urged Vere, whose arm was about me. "Sit quiet, and I guess you'll be all right in a few moments." I took the advice. Strength was flowing into me, as inexplicably as it had flowed away from me a while past. How can I describe the certainty of life that possessed me? The assurance was established, singularly enough, for all of us. None of my companions asked, and I myself never doubted whether the danger might return. The experience was complete, and closed. Moreover, already the Thing that had been our enemy, the horror that had been Its atmosphere, the mystery that haunted Desire--all were fading into the past. The phantoms were exorcised, and the house purified of fear. But there was something different from ordinary storm in this tempest. The tumult of rain and wind linked another, deeper roar with theirs. The house quivered with a steady trembling like a bridge over which a train is passing. Pulling myself together I turned to Vere. "What is happening outdoors?" I asked. "The cloudburst was too much for the dam," he answered regretfully. "It went off with a noise like a big gun, a while back. I expect the lake is flooding the whole place and messing up everything from our cellar to the chickenhouse. Daylight is due pretty soon, now, and the storm is dying down. We'll be able to add up the damage, after a bit." "The water came down the chimney and drowned Bagheera," Phillida bravely tried to summon nonchalance. "Isn't it lucky you and Desire could not get started in the car, after all? Fancy being out in that!" Desire Michell steadied her soft lips and gave her quota to the shelter of commonplace speech we raised between ourselves and emotions too recently felt. "It was like the tropical storms in Papua, where I lived until this year," she said. "Once, one blew down the mission house." Vere's weather prediction proved quite right. In an hour the storm had exhausted itself, or passed away to other places. Sunrise came with a veritable glory of crimson and gold, blazing through air washed limpidly pure by the rain. The east held a troop of small clouds red as flamingoes flying against a shining sky; last traces of our tempest. We stood on the porch together to survey an unfamiliar scene in the rosy light. Water overlay lawns and paths, so the house stood in a wide, shallow lake whose ripples lapped around the white cement steps and the pillars of the porte-cochère. Phillida's Pekin ducks floated and fed on this new waterway as contentedly as upon their accustomed pastures. Small objects sailed on the flood here and there; Bagheera's milk-pan from the rear veranda bobbed amidst a fleet of apples shaken down in the orchard, while some wooden garden tools nudged a silk canoe-cushion. In contrast to all this aquatic prospect, where the real lake had been there now lay some acres of ugly, oozing marsh; its expanse dotted with the bodies of dead water-creatures and such of Vere's young trout as had not been swept away by the outpouring flood. The dam was a mere pile of débris through which trickled a stream bearing no resemblance to the sparkling waterfall of yesterday. Already the sun's rays were drawing a rank, unwholesome vapor from the long-submerged surface. We contemplated the ruin for a while, without words. "Poor Drawls!" Phillida sighed at length. "All your work just rubbed out!" "Never mind, Vere," I exclaimed impulsively. "We will put it all back in the same shape as it was." But even as I spoke, I felt an odd shock of uneasiness and recoil from my own proposition. I did not want the lake to be there again; or to hear the unaccountable sounds to which it gave birth and the varying fall of the cataract over the dam. Did the others share my repugnance? I seemed to divine that they did. Even the impetuous Phil did not break out in welcome of my offer. Desire, who had smoothed her sober gray dress in some feminine fashion and stood like Marguerite or Melisande with a great braid over either shoulder, moved as if to speak, then changed her intention. A faint distress troubled her expression. As usual, Vere himself quietly lifted us out of unrest. "I'm not sure that couldn't be bettered, Mr. Locke," he demurred. "That is if you liked, of course! That marsh could be cleaned up and drained into pretty rich land, I guess. And down there beyond the barn, on the other side where the creek naturally widens out into a kind of basin, I should think might be the spot for a smaller, cleaner lake." "Doesn't it seem to you, Ethan," I said, "that we have progressed rather past the _Mr. Locke_ stage?" A little later, when Desire and I were alone on the porch, we walked to the end nearest the vanished lake. Or rather, I led her to a swinging couch there, and sat down beside her. "Point out the path down the hill by which you used to come," I asked of her. She shook her head. There are no words to paint how she looked in the clear morning, except that she seemed its sister. "It is only the end of a path that matters," she said. "Look instead at the marsh. Do you see nothing there stranger than a path through the woods even when trodden by a wilful woman?" Following her lifted finger, I saw a series of long mounds out there in the muddy floor not far from the dam. Not high, two or three feet at most, the mounds formed an irregular square of considerable area. "The old house!" I exclaimed. "It was set on fire by the second Desire Michell one night deep in winter. Her father built this house of yours and put in the dam that covered the ruins with water. I think he hoped to wash away the horror upon the place." "I know so little of your history." "You can imagine it." She turned her head from me. "The first child came back from England when it was a man grown, and claimed the house and name of the first Desire. He settled and married here. For two generations only sons were born to the Michells. I do not know if the Dark One came to them. I believe it did, but they were hard, austere men who beat off evil. Then, a daughter was born. She looked like the first Desire and she was--not good. She was a scandal to the family. She listened to It----! The tradition is that she set fire to the house after a terrible quarrel with her people, but herself perished by some miscalculation. There were no more girls born for another while after that. Not until my father's time. He had a sister who resembled the two Desires of the past. My grandfather brought her up in harshness and austerity, holding always before her the wickedness to which she was born. Yet it was no use. She fled from his house with a man no one knew, and died in Paris after a life of great splendor and heartlessness. Everyone who loved the Desires suffered. That is why I--covered myself from--you." I took her hand, so small a thing to hold and feel flutter in mine. "But what of me, Desire? The darkness covered no beauty in me, but a defect. You never saw me until last night and now in the morning. Now that you know, can you bear with a man who--limps? You, so perfect?" She turned toward me. Her kohl-dark eyes, vivid as a summer noon, opened to my anxious scrutiny. "But I have seen you often," she said, the heat of confession bright on cheek and lip. "I never meant you to know, but now----! After the first time you spoke to me so kindly and gayly--I was so very sorrowfully alone--and the convent was so dull! My father's field-glasses were in my trunk." "Desire?" "I fear I have no vocation for a nun. I--there is a huge rock half-way down the hill with a clear view of this place. I have spent hours there, watching these lawns and verandas, and the things you all did. It all seemed so amusing and, and happy. You see, where I lived there were almost no white people except my father and a priest at the Catholic mission. So I learned to know Phillida and Mr. Vere and----" "Then, all this time, Desire----" "The glasses brought you very close," she whispered. "I knew you by night and by day." CHAPTER XXII "Life hath its term, the assembly is dispersed, And we have not described Thee from the first." --GULISTAN. I have come to the end of this narrative and with the end, I come to what people of practical mind may call its explanation. Of the four of us who were joined in living through the events of that summer, my wife and I and Ethan Vere agree in one belief, while Phillida holds the opinion of her father, the Professor. I think Bagheera, the cat, might be added to our side also, if his testimony was available. The press reports of the cloudburst and flood brought the Professor up to Connecticut to verify with his own eyes his daughter's safety. Aunt Caroline did not come with him, but I may here set down that she did come later. They found their son-in-law by no means what their forebodings menaced, so reconciled themselves at last to the marriage; to Phillida's abiding joy. But first the little Professor arrived alone, three days after the storm. Characteristically, he had sent no warning of his coming, so no one met him at the railway station. He arrived in one of those curious products of a country livery stable known as a rig, driven by a local reprobate whom no prohibition could sober. I shall never forget the incredulous rapture with which Phillida welcomed him, nor the pride with which she presented Vere. The damages to the place were already being repaired, although weeks of work would be needed to restore a condition of order and make the changes we planned. The automobile had been disentangled from the wreckage of garage and willow tree and towed away to receive expert attention. We were awaiting the arrival of the new car I had ordered for the honeymoon tour Desire and I were soon to take. Phillida had declared two weeks shopping a necessary preliminary to the wedding of a bride who was to live in New York "and meet everybody." Nor would I have shortened the pretty orgy into which the two girls entered, transforming my sorceress into a lady of the hour; happiness seeming to me rather to be savored than gulped. Needless to say, there was no more talk of the convent whose iron gates were to have closed between the last Desire Michell and the world. She had been directed there by the priest whose island mission was near her father's. In her solitude and ignorance of life, the sisterhood seemed to offer a refuge in which to keep her promise to her father. But she had to learn the principles of the Church she was about to adopt, and during that period of delay I had come to the old house. On the second day of his visit, we told all the story to the Professor. We could not have told Aunt Caroline, but we told him. "It is perfectly simple," he pronounced at the end. "Interesting, even unique in points, but simple of explanation." "And what may be the explanation?" I inquired with scepticism. "Marsh gas," he replied triumphantly. "Have none of you young people ever considered the singular emanations from swamps and marshes where rotting vegetation underlies shallow water? Phillida, I am astonished that you did not enlighten your companions on this point. You, at least, have been carefully educated, not in the light froth of modern music and art, but in the rudiments of science. I do not intend to wound your feelings, Roger!" "I am not wounded, sir," I retorted. "Just incredulous!" "Ah?" said the Professor, with the bland superiority of his tribe. "Well, well! Yet even you know something of the evils attending people who live in low, swampy areas; malaria, ague, fevers. In the tropics, these take the form of virulent maladies that sweep a man from earth in a few hours. Your lake _was_ haunted, so was the house that once stood in its basin, as some vague instinct strove to warn the generations of Michells as well as you. Haunted by emanations of some powerful form of marsh gas given forth more plentifully at night, which lowered the heart action and impeded the breathing of one drawing the poison into his lungs through hours of sleep, producing--nightmare. Science has by no means analyzed all the possibilities of such phenomena." "Nightmare!" I cried. "Do you mean to account by nightmare for the wide and repeated experiences that twice brought me to the verge of death? And Desire? What of her knowledge of that same nightmare? What of the legend of her family so exactly coinciding with all I felt? And why did not Phillida and Ethan suffer the nightmare with me?" He held up a lean hand. "Gently, gently, Roger! Consider that of all the household you alone slept in the side of the house toward the lake. I know that you always have your windows open day and night--a habit that used to cause great annoyance to your Aunt Caroline when you were a boy. Thus you were exposed to the full effect of the water gases. That you did not feel the effects every night I attribute to differences in the wind, that from some directions would blow the fumes away from the house, thus relieving you. I gather from your account that the phenomena were most pronounced in close, foggy weather, when the poisonous air was atmospherically held down to the earth. You have spoken of miasmic mists that hung below the level of the tree-tops. When Mr. Vere experienced a similar unease and depression, he was on the shore of the lake at dawn after precisely such a close, foggy night as I have described as most dangerous. The symptoms confirm this theory. You say you awakened on each occasion with a sense of suffocation. Your heart labored, your limbs were cold and mind unnaturally depressed, owing to slow circulation of the blood. You were a man asphyxiated. After each attack you were more sensitive to the next, as a malaria patient grows worse if he remains in the swamp districts. It is remarkable that you did not guess the truth from the smell of decaying vegetation and stagnant damp which you admit accompanied the seizures! However, you did not; and in your condition the last three days of continuous fog brought on two attacks that nearly proved fatal. Now as to the character of your hallucinations, and their agreement with the young lady's ideas. That is a trifle more involved discussion, yet simple, simple!" He put the tips of his fingers together and surveyed us with the benign condescension of one instructing a class of small children. "The first night that you passed in your newly purchased house, Roger, you accidentally encountered Miss Michell; or she did you!" He smiled humorously. "While your feelings were excited by the unusual episode, the strange surroundings and the dark, she related to you a wild legend of witchcraft and monsters. Later, when you suffered your first attack of marsh-gas poisoning, your consequent hallucination took form from the story you had just heard. Later conversations with your mysterious lady fixed the idea into an obsession. Recurrent dreams are a common phenomenon even in healthy persons. In this case, no doubt the exact repetition of the physical sensations of miasmic poisoning tended to reproduce in your mind the same sequence of ideas or semi-delirious imaginings. These were of course varied or distorted somewhat on each occasion, influenced by what you had been hearing or reading in advance of them. This mental condition became more and more confirmed as you steeped yourself more deeply in legendary lore and also--pardon me--in the morbid fancies of the young lady; whose ghostly visits in the dark and whose increasing interest for you put a further bias upon your thoughts." "What were the noises I heard from the lake, and the shocks we all felt?" I demanded. He nodded amiably toward Vere. "Mr. Vere has mentioned the large bubbles which formed and burst on the surface of the lake. That is a common manifestation of ordinary marsh gas. Possibly the singular and unknown emanation that took place at night came to the surface in the form of a bubble or bubbles huge enough to produce in bursting the smacking sound of which you speak. But I am inclined to another theory, after a walk I took about your place this morning. When you put up your cement dam instead of the old log affair that held back only a part of the stream, you made a greater depth and bulk of water in the swamp basin than it has contained these many years, if ever. As a result, I believe the sloping mud basin began to slip toward the dam. Oh, very gradually! Probably not stirring for weeks at a time. Just a yielding here, a parting there, until the cloudburst precipitated the disaster. You had, my dear Roger, a miniature landslide, which would account for sounds of shifting mud and water in your lake, and for the shocks or trembling of your house when the earth movements occurred." The rest of us regarded one another. I think Vere might have spoken, if he had not been unwilling to mar Phillida's contentment by any appearance of dispute with her father. "It is very cleverly worked out, sir," I conceded. "But how do you explain that Desire knew what I experienced with the Thing from the Barrier, if my experiences were merely delirious dreams?" "I have not yet understood that she did know," said the Professor dryly. "She put the suggestions into your head; innocently, of course. When you afterward compared notes and found they agreed, you cried 'miraculous'! How is that, Miss Michell? Did you actually know what Roger experienced in these excursions before he told you of them?" Desire gazed at him with her meditative eyes, so darkly lovely, yet never quite to lose their individual difference from any other lovely eyes I have ever seen. The eyes, I thought then and still think, of one who has seen more, or at least seen into farther spaces, than most of treadmill-trotting humanity. She wore one of the new frocks for which Phillida and she had already made a flying trip to town; a most sophisticated frock from Fifth Avenue, with frivolous French shoes to correspond. Her hair of a Lorelei was demurely coiled and wound about her little head. Yet some indescribable atmosphere closed her delicately around, an impalpable wall between her and the commonplace. Even the desiccated, material Professor was aware of this influence and took off his spectacles uneasily, wiped them and put them on again to contemplate her. "I am not sure," she answered him with careful candor. "I believe that I could always tell when the Dark One had been with him. I could feel that, here," she touched her breast. "I knew what its visits were like, because I was brought up to know by my father and was told the history of the three Desire Michells. My father had studied deeply and taught me--I shall not tell anyone all he taught me! I do not want to think of those things. Some of them I have told to Roger. Some of them are quite harmless and pleasant, like the secret formula for making the Rose of Jerusalem perfume; which has virtues not common, as Roger can say who has felt it revive him from faintness. But there are places into which we should not thrust ourselves. It is like--like suicide. One's mind must be perverted before certain things can be done. And that is the true sin--to debase one's soul. All men discover and learn of science and the universe by honest duty and effort is good, is lofty and leads up. Nothing is forbidden to us. But if we turn aside to the low door which only opens to crime and evil purpose, we step outside. I am unskilful; I do not express myself well." "Very well, young lady," the Professor condescended. "Unfortunately, your theories are wild mysticism. The veritable fiend that has plagued the house of Michell is the mischievous habit of rearing each generation from childhood to a belief in doom and witchcraft. A child will believe anything it is told. Why not, when all things are still equally wonderful to it? Let me point out that your theory also contradicts itself, since Roger certainly did not enter upon any path of crime, yet he met your unearthly monster." "Because he chose to link his fate with mine, who am linked by heredity with the Dweller at the Frontier," she said earnestly. "He was in the position of one who enters the lair of a wild beast to bring out a victim who is trapped there. It may cost that rescuer his life. Roger nearly paid his life. But he mastered It and took me away from It, because he was not afraid and not seeking his own good. I never imagined anyone so brave and strong and unselfish as Roger. I suppose it is because he thinks of others instead of himself, which gives the strongest kind of strength." "The Thing nearly had me, though," I hastily intervened to spare my own modesty. "And It did have me worse than afraid!" "I seem to be arguing against an impenetrable obstinacy," snapped the Professor. "Do you, Roger, who were educated under my own eye, in my house, have the effrontery to tell me that you believe Miss Michell is descended from the union of an evil spirit and a human being; as the Eastern legends claim for Saladin the Great?" "Your own theory, sir, being----?" I evaded. "There is no theory about the matter," he declared. "Excuse me, Miss Michell! The child was undoubtedly Sir Austin's son. Which accounts for the madness of the first Desire Michell." We were all silent for a while. Whatever thoughts each held remained unvoiced. "Come, Phillida, you take my sane point of view, I hope?" the Professor finally challenged his daughter, with a glance of scorn and compassion at the rest of our group. "You observe that I have explained every point raised, Miss Michell's testimony being of the vaguest?" "Yes, Papa," Phillida agreed hesitatingly. "I do believe you have solved the whole problem. Only, if Cousin Roger was suffering from marsh-gas poisoning last night when he seemed to be dying, I do not quite see why Ethan's prayer should have cured him." The Professor was momentarily posed. He looked disconcerted, took off his glasses and put them on again, and at length muttered something about storm-wind dissipating the miasma in the air and events being mere coincidence. * * * * * The house was never again visited by the Dark Presence. Phantom or fancy, the horror was gone as if it never had brooded about the place. Desire Locke is a fatal companion only to my heart. But whether all this is so because the lake is drained and the Shetland pony of a young Vere browses over the green pasture that was once a miasmic swamp; or whether it is so for more subtle, wilder reasons, no one can say. I, recalling that colossal Barrier I visioned as closed and a certain cleaving arrow of light, must at least call the coincidence amazing. As I have said, my wife and I, Ethan Vere and Bagheera the cat have an understanding between us. 
46375	----	[Illustration: Jannet sat on the edge and let herself down without trouble.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE PHANTOM TREASURE By HARRIET PYNE GROVE [Illustration] THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Akron, Ohio New York Printed in U. S. A. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Copyright, MCMXXVIII The Saalfield Publishing Company ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE PHANTOM TREASURE CHAPTER I JANET LEARNS HER NAME "There's a package for you, Janet." A smiling face was thrust within the partly open door. "April fool," replied Janet, not looking up from her book for a moment. Then with a twinkle in her blue eyes, she raised her hand impressively and began to recite in sonorous tones the lines that she was learning. "Exactly like Miss Sanders! Do it that way in class, Janet! I dare you!" "I would, but it might hurt her feelings to do it in earnest as she does. No, I want to read poetry like Miss Hilliard,--but I can't say that I like to commit it. I want to pick out my own kind, Allie May." Allie May came inside the door and leaned against it. "Well, Janet," she said, "I think that you might believe me when I tell you that there is a package for you down in the office. Honest. No April fool. Miss Hilliard said for me to tell you to come down. I don't know why she didn't give it to me to bring up. Perhaps she wants to see you anyhow. This is what she said: 'Janet has a box. Please tell her to come down to the office.'" "H'm. Lina and I had our light on after hours last night. But it was not long, and we had a grand excuse. Lina lost a page of her short story that she had to hand in this morning. Honestly, Allie May, is there a package for me? I never had a box in my life except things sent from the store." Janet had put her book down now and was on her feet starting toward the door and her schoolmate. "You haven't! Poor you! I hope that it's a grand cake with lots of good things. Maybe the box was so big that Miss Hilliard knew I couldn't bring it up!" Allie May made big eyes as she linked her arm in Janet's and walked with her to the top of the stairs. "If it is, you shall have the first and the best out of it. But it isn't. It's probably something brought here by mistake. Thanks, Allie May." Janet was half way down the long, dark staircase that led to the lower hall when she finished her remarks. Allie May saw her friend's fluffy, golden locks fly out in the wind created by the rapid descent. Smiling, she went to her room, next to Janet's, somewhat struck with the fact that Janet had never received a "box," that delight of a school-girl's heart. The lower hall was dark on this rainy first of April. None of the doors were open, and Janet Eldon, slight, active girl of fourteen years, stood poised on the lower step for a few moments, looking out through the mullioned panes of the tall, wide door at the entrance. Eaves were dripping and she heard the beat of the drops upon the tin roof of a porch outside. Eyes the color of brighter skies considered thoughtfully the prospect till the sound of an opening door made them turn in another direction. Quickly Janet stepped to the floor, rounding the newel by catching hold of it and swinging herself around it. At the second door, down the hall to her right, she presented herself. It was Miss Hilliard, principal of this small school for girls to whom Janet curtsied prettily. "Allie May said that you wanted to see me. Miss Hilliard," she said. "Yes, Janet. There is a package here in the office that must be meant for you, yet the address is peculiar, to say the least. It is about the size of the usual box that comes for the girls,--come in to see it for yourself." Miss Hilliard drew back from the door, admitting Janet, who went to the table by the big desk. There a box of medium size reposed, a square package, wrapped in heavy paper and well tied with cord. "You will notice that the return address is with initials only, from some hotel in Albany, New York," Miss Hilliard continued. Janet stood close to the table, looking with interest at the package, saying first, as she had said to Allie May, that there was "probably some mistake". But she caught her breath as she looked at the address. "Why--" she began. "Why, how _queer_!" "Yes, isn't it? Rather pretty, though. Could that be your name, Janet? There is no one else here,--there has _never_ been any one here by the name of Eldon; and you will observe that the name of the school is given, the correct address." "I see." Janet looked again in the upper left hand corner. The initials were P.V.M. But it was the address which filled her with surprise. The package was addressed to Miss Jannetje Jan Van Meter Eldon! The longer she looked at it, the stranger it seemed. "Why, Miss Hilliard, I don't understand it at all. Could it be some joke? Oh, I just imagine that there is some mistake in addresses. Shall we open it?" "Yes, Janet. But I shall be very busy for a while and have no time for this. I will have it taken to your room and you may do the investigating. I need not tell you to preserve the treasure intact if it should be full of diamonds." Janet looked up at the tall, slender woman beside her and laughed at the suggestion. She was not afraid of Miss Hilliard, though many of the girls were. Had not Janet been in this school since her sixth year? The older woman's arm now drew her close and her cheek was laid for a moment against Janet's hair. "Now run along, child. Get back to your lessons and I will have this sent upstairs by Oliver. There he is now, in the hall. Report to my own room after dinner, Janet, and I shall be able to see you in your room if necessary." Through the partly open door they could see the janitor passing. Summoned by Miss Hilliard, he came after the box immediately and started up the stairs with it. Janet, holding Miss Hilliard's hand looked up into the kind eyes and asked soberly, "Do you suppose that really is my name, Miss Hilliard?" "It is not impossible, Janet. You have always thought that the Janet came from your grandmother's Scotch ancestry, haven't you?" "Yes, Miss Hilliard. You know I have everything about her family and pictures of my father from the time he was a baby." "I hope that there will be something very interesting inside that box, Janet,--but there is the bell now. I must go to the parlors in a moment. I am expecting a call from one of our patrons this afternoon." Miss Hilliard was now the gracious head of the school in her manner, which had the dignity that usually accompanies such management. Janet, too, made her departure with the formal curtsey which was the custom of the school. Never in the presence of Miss Hilliard did the girls forget their "manners". If so, they were instantly reminded of them. Mechanically Janet ascended the stairs; her thoughts elsewhere. A caress from Miss Hilliard, rare, but expressing a real affection, was always something to be remembered. Janet "adored" Miss Hilliard as she occasionally said to Allie May Loring or Lina Marcy. Then, here was this box. In her heart Janet felt that it was for her. "That quaint old Dutch name!" she thought. "Can it be that my mother--", but Janet grew confused. There was no use in conjecture. She must open the box. How she hoped that it _was_ for her. The suggestion of diamonds amused her. She had not lifted it and did not know its weight. Probably it was heavy, because Oliver had been asked to carry it up. No, Miss Hilliard usually had him do that. On entering her room, Janet saw the box on the floor. No wonder. Her table was full of books and papers. Her desk looked worse. Lina's coat and hat were on one of the straight chairs, the dictionary reposed on the other. If Miss Hilliard were coming up after dinner the room must be made perfect. One thing, there were no odds and ends of clothing or ornaments around. They were trained to keep such things in their places. But Lina had had an errand and rushed off to class, not hanging up her wraps as usual. Janet gave a glance at her little alarm clock which occupied a prominent place on the desk. It was very disappointing. She had exactly two minutes before the next recitation. Did she know that poem, or didn't she? Saying over and over again the new lines, Janet again ran downstairs, the back stairs this time, to the recitation room. CHAPTER II HER MOTHER'S BOOKS At the door of the recitation room, Janet met her room-mate Lina Marcy, but as neither had a moment to spare, Janet did not mention her latest source of thrills. The teacher already had her roll book open and was marking it. She looked impatiently at the girls as they entered and took their regular seats, not together, for the class was seated alphabetically. Lina and Janet exchanged a glance which meant "beware". This particular teacher was temperamental. Lina was opening her book to refresh herself on the lines which they were to commit. What a poky day it was, to be sure, she was thinking. Even the April fool jokes were stupid. Janet could scarcely collect her thoughts, so busy was she in thinking about the address on the box. "'Jannetje'!--how quaint!" By the "irony of fate", as Lina told her later, she must, of course be called on first for the verses. Called back in her thoughts to the work at hand, Janet hesitated, started correctly on the first few lines, but soon stumbled and forgot the last half altogether. The teacher looked surprised, an unintentional tribute to Janet's usual form. But hands were waving and some one else gave the lines wanted. Lina gave Janet a sympathetic look, which Janet did not even see. Something even bigger than making a perfect recitation was looming in Janet's foreground. When at last the recitation was over, she ran upstairs to the box. Of course the "je" was a sort of affectionate addition, a diminutive they called it, she believed. Was it really her name? _Was_ she a Van Meter? Who was P.V.M.? P. Van Meter, of course. Suppose she had a grandfather,--or even a grandmother that she did not know! It took only a few moments to open the box, for she cut the heavy cord to facilitate the matter. White tissue paper met her eye, and a little note lay on top, that is, something enclosed in a small white envelope. Janet opened it and read-- My dear Miss Jannetje: I am asked to write a few lines to explain this box. Your uncle, Mr. Pieter Van Meter, is in communication with your attorney and you may have heard before this how he has discovered you and wants to see you. As he asked me to prepare such a box as school girls like, I have prepared the contents accordingly and I hope that you will like it. I am wrapping, also, two books that were among your mother's things, because I feel sure that you will be interested in seeing something of hers right away that was in the old home place. In one of them I have tucked a note evidently written by your father about you to your grandfather. Of course you know that you were named for your mother, but you will be glad to read about it in your father's handwriting. May it not be long before we see you in this odd but beautiful old place that was your grandfather's. Sincerely yours, Diana Holt. Janet devoured this note rapidly. "Now, who can Diana Holt be?" she thought. She could scarcely wait to see the books, but they were not on top. Instead, Janet uncovered a smaller box which contained a cake carefully packed. Packages in oiled paper or light pasteboard containers obviously held a variety of good things, from fried chicken to pickles and fruit. Ordinarily Janet would have exclaimed over the array, which she carefully deposited together upon her table, after first removing certain books and papers and spreading the first thing that she could think of over it. This chanced to be a clean towel. At last she came to the books, wrapped well in paper and pasteboard. Truly Miss or Mrs. Diana Holt was a good packer. The prettier or newer book Janet opened first. It was a handsome copy of Tennyson's poems, bound in green and gilt. At once she turned to the leaf on which the inscription was written, "To my Jannetje, from Douglas". There, too, was the note, addressed to "Dear Father." It was brief. "You received my telegram. I am sure. Jannet sends her dear love. We have named the baby for her, because I begged for the name. I will have more time to write to-morrow. Jannet wants me to write every day, but you will be quite as pleased, I think, with less frequent reports. There will be the three of us to come home next summer." Janet noted her father's more or less familiar signature. She had seen more than one of his letters to her grandmother. "And I suppose that I never got there at all. How did they lose me, I wonder? Why didn't Grandmother Eldon leave me some word about my mother?" Such were Janet's thoughts. But there was nobody to tell her how it had happened. In some way her mother's people had lost all track of her. The wonder was that her uncle had found trace of her after so long. Her uncle Pieter! How interesting to have kept the old Dutch spelling. She would sign all her papers and letters now with two n's in Jannet! The other book was more plain, also a book of poems, a copy of Whittier's verse; and the inscription upon the fly-leaf interested Janet even more than the other. It was to "my dear Mother, Adelaide Van Meter, from her loving daughter, Jannetje Jan Van Meter Eldon." It was true, then. Here was the evidence. What a pretty, clear hand her mother had. A little pang went through Janet's heart that she could not have known her parents, but she resisted any sad thought, saying to herself that she ought to be thankful to know at last who her mother was. The last doubt in Janet's heart was satisfied. Knowing one or two sad stories in the lives of a few girls at the school, she had wondered if, possibly, there had been any separation, some unhappy ending to the marriage of her father and mother. This she had never expressed, but it had haunted her a little. At the date of her birth it had been all right, then, and she knew that she was only five or six months old when her father had brought her to his mother. She would find her mother's grave, perhaps. There was much to be explained yet, to be sure, if it could be, but Janet was very happy as she now gave her attention to the discarded feast packing its units back into the box with some satisfaction. Janet Eldon had had feasts before, but the materials had all been purchased at some shop. After dinner she would get permission from Miss Hilliard, when she showed her the books and notes. Now there was laughter in the hall. She heard Lina's voice and hastened to unlock her door. Could it be possible that she had spent all Lina's lesson period in looking at the books, reading the letters and thinking? "'Lo, Janet," said Allie May Loring, walking in ahead of Lina Marcy. "Get your box?" "Yes, Allie May, a scrumptious box like anybody's. My mother's people have discovered my existence at last. Really, Lina. Somebody at the OLD HOME PLACE fixed up the box for me, and they sent me two books of my mother's. Just think, girls, I was named for her and everything. I'd rather you would not speak about it to the other girls, though. It always embarrassed me a little, you know, that I did not know anything about my mother, but you see, Grandmother Eldon died before I was old enough to ask very much about it. I called her Mamma at first; then she was so very sick and for so _long_." Janet paused a moment. "Really, girls, this has been about the only home that I have known, this and your house, Lina." The other two girls had sat down to listen quietly. Allie May was the first to speak. "I never would have thought anything about your not knowing about your mother. You always seemed perfectly natural about everything, Janet." "Did I? I'm glad." "You are a little more--what does Miss Hilliard call it?--reserved, with all the girls, than some of us," said Lina. "She tells us not to tell all we know, and you don't!" Allie May and Janet laughed at this. "Miss Hilliard's brought me up, you know," smiled Janet. "I can remember yet crying for 'Gramma' and having her comfort me. Then came your auntie to teach here, Lina,--and I was fixed!" "I can remember how crazy I was to see you, Janet," said Lina. "I wasn't allowed to come here until I was twelve, Allie May; and Auntie told me all about the 'darling child with the golden hair' that took piano lessons of her and practiced away so hard with fat little fingers. She said she wanted to hug you every other minute, but had to teach you piano instead. Your fingers aren't fat now, Janet." "When did you first see Janet?" asked Allie May, interested. "The first time that Aunt Adeline brought her home with her. Miss Hilliard used to look after her the first two or three vacations. You weren't with her all the time, though, were you, Janet?" "Just part of the time. She had my old nurse that took care of me while Grandmother was sick, and we'd go to the seashore, or somewhere in the mountains. But Miss Hilliard kept an eye on me. I never can pay her back, or your Aunt Adeline either." "You'll never need to. Just having you in the family is enough. But won't it be wonderful to have some kin folks? Tell us about it, Janet." Janet then handed the girls the books and read them the letters, pledging them again to secrecy, for she did not want to have the fifty girls talking over her private affairs. Like Janet, her friends were more interested in the surprising facts which she had to tell than in the good things in the box, though when she showed them the cake with its white frosting and unwrapped the pieces of chicken from the oiled paper, offering them their choice, there were some exclamations of pleasure. "That is a family worth having!" said Allie May. "No, Janet, I'd rather eat a good dinner and then when I am starved as usual after studying come to your feast." "Whom are you going to invite, Janet?" "I want to take something to your aunt, Lina, and to Miss Hilliard, and do you think it would be very piggy just to have this by ourselves? Some way, I don't want anybody much right now, and I just had a party of our crowd last Saturday, you know." "Suits me," laughed Allie May. "It wouldn't be 'piggy' at all, Janet," asserted Lina. "I know how you must feel,--sort of dazed, aren't you?" Janet nodded assent. "I'll let you know when, after I talk to Miss Hilliard. I am to see her after dinner." But when Janet asked Miss Hilliard she was asked in turn if she had ever attended a late feast in the school. To this question Janet gave an honest reply. "Why, yes, Miss Hilliard." "Then you were either invited without my knowledge by one of the older girls or attended a feast held without permission, though I should scarcely think that you knew it, Janet, and I shall not ask you now. No, to-morrow is Saturday, fortunately. It is cool and your box came right through. You may put the chicken in the refrigerator if you like. Have your party at any time on Saturday you like before evening." There was so much of greater importance waiting to be discussed that Janet did not feel much disappointment. She did have one thought, though, expressed to Lina later. "Won't it be fine to go to a home where you do about as you please, the way it is at your house?" But Lina reminded Janet that even there, late refreshments were not encouraged. Miss Hilliard did not disappoint Janet in any other way. She was pleased that the note of explanation was so cordial. "I should say that a woman of some intelligence wrote that kind note," she said. "It must be a satisfaction to you, too, Janet, that you are named for your mother. Perhaps there will be some pictures of her in the Van Meter home. I know how you have wished to see some." "Oh, there will be!" Janet exclaimed. "I had not thought of that!" "We shall be expecting news direct from your uncle, then. When your grandmother first wrote to me, urging me to take you at a time when the only small girls were day scholars, she said that your mother was of a fine family in the east and that your father, her son, was ill when he brought you to her. Does this depress you, Janet?" Miss Hilliard had noticed that Janet seemed touched when she first showed her the books and names. "Oh, no, Miss Hilliard. My father and mother are like beautiful dreams to me. This makes them a little more real,--that is all, and I felt a little 'teary' when I read my father's letter." "I will try to find that old correspondence. I must have kept it, I think, though when you first came, we were expecting nothing like your grandmother's sudden death. I understood that she was an invalid, but with some ailment that could be cured in time." "And I have forgotten so much, except the fact that I did not know my own mother's name!" "You should have told me, if that troubled you, Janet. I will ask Miss Marcy, who wrote about you to your grandmother, I think, what she knows about those early circumstances. Have you been happy here, Janet?" "Oh, you know, Miss Hilliard, don't you, how I have been so glad for you and Miss Marcy and all my friends?" "Yes, Janet. You have always been more than appreciative." On the next day, Janet, Lina and Allie May made a lunch out of their party, by Miss Hilliard's suggestion, and it was almost as much fun as a late feast. As it happened, it was well that they had their fun early in the afternoon, for about three o'clock Janet was sent for. There was a gentleman waiting for her, the maid said. CHAPTER III THE UPSETTING PLANS OF UNCLE PIETER Although so without family, Janet Eldon did not possess a lonely heart. She had the faculty of making friends, in spite of a little natural reserve and a manner more or less formal which she had unconsciously acquired by long residence in a school that fostered it. But that dropped away when she was with her intimate friends, for jolly school girls with a sense of humor can have many a merry time. If Janet was a little more mature in manner than some of the other girls of her age, it was to her advantage. Yet her background there had its limitations and it was a good thing for her that the Marcy family was so fond of her. The family circle there was large. With Lina, Janet entered into all the vacation plans, athletic or domestic, as they might be. They lived in town, but the younger fry learned to ride, to row, to swim, to camp out a little or to motor together. Janet had some idea back in the recesses of her brain that the Marcys might take her to her uncle's home after school was out. But that plan was not to be carried out. She was to see the Marcys again, but Janet was leaving this school sooner than she had thought. Some of the girls she never saw again, the inevitable separation taking place sooner than any of them anticipated. The day was bright after the April showers of the preceding one. Janet went down to the double parlors of the building not knowing whom she would see, but she was rather relieved to see the lawyer by whose hands the modest fortune left her by her grandmother Eldon was administered. He was a man of medium height, with a somewhat serious but pleasant face, hair partly gray, keen eyes on the hazel order, and a manner of some dignity. Rising, he held out his hand to Janet. "Miss Hilliard is not yet at liberty," he said, "but we can have a little conversation before she comes in. I have what I hope will prove to be pleasant news to you, certain communications from the representative of your mother's family, her oldest brother, your uncle Pieter Van Meter." Janet smiled, as she sat down and the lawyer resumed his seat. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Conley. I have just had some word of the sort myself, a fine box from the home place and a letter from some lady there. She sent me two books of my mother's and I found out that I had an uncle." "Well, well,--I am disappointed not to surprise you more. I thought that I should find some enthusiasm." "Oh, there is! I am terribly thrilled over it!" "'Terribly thrilled', are you? Did the lady tell you that your uncle wants you to go as soon as possible to the Van Meter place in New York and make your home there?" "No, Mr. Conley. Oh, how can I do that? I'll have to go to school some more, won't I?" "I think that your uncle has some idea of having you taught privately." "I wouldn't like that at all. I don't think that I will go,--yes, I will, too, for I must find out about my mother." Mr. Conley smiled at Janet's independent speech and Janet realized as soon as she had spoken that she must do what her guardian said. Thank fortune her guardian was Miss Hilliard! "Perhaps the lady who has written you is the one who will instruct you. But we shall see what Miss Hilliard has to say. Here she comes now," and Mr. Conley rose to meet Miss Hilliard, who came across the wide room from the door into the hall. "I suppose, John, you have come to tell us about Pieter Van Meter," said Miss Hilliard, after she had shaken hands with the lawyer and he had placed a chair for her. "Yes, Anna, that rather poetical name is the subject of my discourse." Janet could scarcely suppress a mild giggle at that. Pieter and Meter did make a sort of rhyme. Most of the conversation was now between Miss Hilliard and her old friend. Janet remembered what the older girls said, that Mr. Conley had wanted to marry Miss Hilliard and was waiting for her yet. It was very interesting. Sakes, they must be at least forty years old! The letter from Pieter Van Meter was submitted to Miss Hilliard and passed on to Janet. It was brief, but clear, stating that the writer had recently traced the whereabouts of his niece, though he did not say how. He wanted to see her and to offer her a home where her mother, his sister, had lived. It was also hinted that he was Janet's natural guardian and that legal steps to that end could be taken in due time. Janet was reading the letter and did not see the look that was exchanged between the lawyer and Miss Hilliard when Mr. Conley began to speak of that last point. But Miss Hilliard said firmly that nothing of the kind would be undertaken until Janet had been to the Van Meter place and made report about it and her uncle. "First we must see, John," said she in a low tone, glancing at Janet who was reading the letter and apparently absorbed in it, "whether Pieter Van Meter is a fit guardian for Janet. If he is, and will care for her little property and keep it together for her, very well. But I shall not hand over the responsibility just to be relieved of it. Everything is safe for Janet as long as you are in charge. Mr. Van Meter might be perfectly good and yet without judgment to take care of Janet. Janet, dear, you may be excused now, while I talk over business matters with Mr. Conley and arrange about your going, for I think that I shall let you drop the school work to go, as your uncle desires." "Just a moment, Anna. Janet, I have made out a full report for you of your property and income, with the same items of interest and rent that I am giving, as usual, to your guardian. You are old enough now to know about these matters." "Please, Mr. Conley," begged Janet. "I don't want to know anything about it. Will I have the same allowance as usual?" "Yes," smiled the lawyer, in some amusement, "perhaps a little more, if you go to your uncle's and need some more frocks." "Goody!" Janet looked at Miss Hilliard mischievously, then made her adieux as a properly trained pupil of the Hilliard school ought to do. Miss Hilliard looked after her thoughtfully and Mr. Conley looked at Miss Hilliard. "Anna, you have had great success with that child," he said. "Who can tell what the future will bring my girls?" she asked. "One can only try to implant high ideals and the Christian principles that will carry them on in any path. Janet is spirited and inclined to be independent, but she has fine ideas of justice and the rights of others, with considerable courage, too. I am hoping that she will find a loving home in this new place. Mr. Van Meter says nothing about the family. How would it do for you to call personally in a little while, after we hear Janet's reports about her people?" "That is a good idea, Anna. There is always the excuse of business, in addition to showing an interest in Janet's welfare. Meanwhile, I shall quietly inquire about Mr. Van Meter. It is probably one of the old Dutch families with considerable standing, but we do not want to take too much for granted." "Will it interrupt your affairs too much, John?" "No. I often run up to New York and Albany. This letter is mailed at some small village, near the country place of the Van Meters, I suppose. How would you like to have me take Janet there, or to Albany, rather, where Van Meter says she will be met?" "Thank you,--I shall go with Janet myself. It is not much of a trip and the assistant principal can have a chance to exercise her skill with the girls. I want to stop a day or two in New York." The next two weeks were full of excitement for Janet, who went to classes as usual, but with much distraction of mind. They had written to her uncle. The date was set. Clothes were being put in order, and a new frock or two purchased, a task easy enough in the Philadelphia department stores. Janet's wardrobe was always sufficient, but she rather imagined that Miss Hilliard felt as she did, that Uncle Pieter should see her well provided for up to date. "Won't it be lovely in the country, Janet, through May and June!" Allie May Loring exclaimed. "I just _envy_ you. We'll be shut up to old lessons as usual, only for a few trips around and our picnics! Do write to us at least." "Indeed I will. If only it isn't too lonesome there! Maybe I'll be just _perishing_ to come back, after I find out all about my mother, you know. But I am crazy to see the place where she lived when she was a girl like me. If Uncle Pieter is nice, it will be all right. He did not say a word about his wife or anybody, so I have it all to find out. Perhaps I have some cousins, too. Won't it be fun if I have?" "I hope that you will, if you want 'em," said Allie May, who sometimes thought that she had too many. But then, Janet never had had anybody. "When I get married," said Janet, "if I ever do, I'm going to marry some one with a _large_ family of brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins and all the relations that you can have!" "Great idea," laughed Lina Marcy. At last the fateful day arrived. Janet, neat from top to toe and clad in the "darling spring suit," said goodbyes that turned out to be rather tearful in the end, to a host of girls assembled in the parlors and halls of the Hilliard school. "Sure you come back next fall, Janet!" "Come down for Commencement if your uncle will let you!" "We'll miss you awfully in the spring fête, Janet!" "That blue suit with the gray tones is too utterly sweet on you for anything, Janet." "'Bye, Jannetje Van Meter Eldon. Give the Dutchman my best regards." All this, to be sure, was before Miss Hilliard appeared from her room to take Janet to the taxi which was waiting outside. And funniest of all, several of the girls, who knew more about where Janet was going than the rest, took hands and sang softly around Janet: "O Uncle Pieter, Pieter Van Meter Ain't no one sweeter, Be sure to meet her, Pieter Van Meter!" Lips parted in merry smiles; girls were waving last goodbyes and kisses, as Janet was whirled away in the taxi beside Miss Hilliard. One tear, of which Janet had been scarcely aware, was now carefully wiped away to keep it from splashing upon the new suit. "Weren't the girls lovely, Miss Hilliard?" she asked. "I never was so surprised as when my little club gave me this sweet silk scarf that just goes with the suit, and the pair of hose that I have on." "'Sweet'?" inquired Miss Hilliard. "Well, it _is_ fragrant, for I put a drop of violet on it before I started." Last pictures of the merry girls floated in Janet's mind, with the appearance of the fine old brick building, almost flush with the street, its vines, over the large windows, just budding with spring green. But the future was more interesting than the past. The very fact that Janet knew so little about what it might hold for her made it all the more fascinating to contemplate. CHAPTER IV HER MOTHER'S HOME At Albany, when Miss Hilliard and Janet descended from the train which brought them from New York they started into the station but were met at once by an obsequious colored man in livery, who inquired if they were not the Van Meter guests and took their light bags. Inside, a fine-looking woman, in a roomy coat of gray and a close hat, seemed to have been watching for them, and came forward to meet them. "I am Mrs. Holt, Miss Hilliard. This is our cousin Janet, I suppose. I am glad to see you both. Allow me to present Mr. Andrew Van Meter, Miss Hilliard,--Cousin Janet. Now we are hoping that you will come to the farm with us, Miss Hilliard. My cousin Pieter begs pardon for not having urged it, but until your last note came, he did not feel like asking you to leave your girls." "He would scarcely think that I could bring Janet myself, I know; but I occasionally run away for a few days. However, I have business in New York, and it is impossible for me to accept your kind invitation. It is just as well for you to have Janet to yourselves, also. Perhaps Mr. Van Meter and I may meet some time to talk over matters relating to this little girl. She is anticipating this visit with much pleasure." Miss Hilliard emphasized "visit" a little. All this was said before and after shaking hands with Mr. Andrew Van Meter and while he was exchanging a few words with Janet. Janet found him interesting. She had noticed that he rose with some difficulty from a seat near Mrs. Holt, when they first approached, and leaned a little upon a light cane in his left hand, while he extended his right. He was tall, thin, with a pale face and large, dark eyes. His nose was a little long for beauty, but he had a pleasant mouth, which smiled a little as he told Janet that he was her "Cousin Andy" and her Uncle Pieter's son. "I am so glad to have some family," she informed him. "Did you ever see my mother?" she continued. "Yes. You look like her." But it was time to bid Miss Hilliard goodbye. She said that she had an errand in Albany, but would take the next train back to New York. Janet wondered what that errand was, but would not, of course, ask Miss Hilliard. Then, too, she was anxious to reach the end of her journey, and that anticipation, with the pleasant impression made by Mrs. Holt and her cousin, helped very much to keep Janet from any regrets at saying another goodbye. "Write to me very soon, Janet," said Miss Hilliard, and Janet promised. The car to which Janet was shown was a good one, but not new. It also bore evidences of April weather, though the day was a bright one. "There were some mud-holes, Janet, as you can see," said Mrs. Holt. "We could have directed you to come farther by train, somewhat nearer the Van Meter place, you know. But it seemed troublesome for Miss Hilliard to arrange the change, and we wanted you to see the country. A motor trip is much better for that. Our light truck is getting your baggage." The three of them stepped within the car and waited for the colored chauffeur, who was attending to the matter of Janet's trunk and a suit-case with the driver of the light truck referred to. This waited not far away. "Now you are wondering, I know, who I am and how we are all related," said Mrs. Holt. "I could not tell everything in that little note that I dashed off to put in the box. It is better to have your uncle Pieter explain, perhaps,--" "If he will," inserted Mr. Andrew Van Meter. "Yes, if he will," laughed Mrs. Holt. "You will not find your uncle very communicative, Janet, but he is very glad to have you here and it is due to him that you are 'discovered.' As I was about to say, I am a distant cousin and I am supposed to be the housekeeper at the place. Really, old P'lina runs the house and I officiate at the show part of it, though we have very little company just now. Uncle Pieter is expecting me to coach you a little in your studies, and what I don't know Andrew here can tell you." "Oh, I'm glad that it is to be the family that teaches me," said Janet with content. These were lovely people. But she did wonder what was the matter with Cousin Andy. Oh, of course,--he would have been in the war! He must have been injured,--poor Cousin Andy! She would not take any notice, of course. Some one would tell her. Little more was said about personal affairs. Mrs. Holt was kept busy pointing out interesting spots, hills, places along the roads which they took. It was a much longer ride than Janet had supposed. The New York country was beautiful, she thought. She had been among the Pennsylvania hills and mountains, but never in New York except in the great city on her way to the seashore. Cousin Andy said little. There was a delicious little lunch which they ate on the way, and in reply to questions from Mrs. Holt--older people could ask questions, but never girls,--Janet chatted about her life at the school, her dearest friends and the funny farewell that she had had at the last. She did not, however, repeat the "crazy" verse sung about "Uncle Pieter." Janet did not forget to speak with enthusiasm of the box and its contents. "I had never had one sent me in my life. Whoever baked that cake certainly can cook! The girls thought it just wonderful." Mrs. Holt laughed. "That was old P'lina herself, I think. You will find her a bit difficult, perhaps, Janet, but you must remember that her 'bark' is considerably worse than her 'bite,' as they say." What a funny name that was, P'lina. Janet wondered how they spelled it. Was it a Dutch name, too? In silence they drove into the drive of the Van Meter place. A grove of trees in early spring beginnings of foliage had impeded the view of it until they were almost at the entrance. Janet sat forward eagerly to look. It was not different from much of the country which she had already seen, with its sweep of undulating valley and background of hills. It was really a farm, then; but the land immediately surrounding the house was laid out formally for beauty. The house stood behind some great oak and elm trees upon an elevation which was terraced. Behind it were hills. Janet wondered if the Catskill mountains could be seen from the house. She had forgotten those, which she had seen from the train. She was not far from Rip Van Winkle country anyhow. "This is all different from when your mother was here," Cousin Andy volunteered. "Father has made all this improvement in and about the house, and the whole front of it is new. The old Dutch house still stands, though." "Yes," said Mrs. Holt, "and if you like, you may have the room that was your mother's." "Oh, I should like that above all things!" "I wouldn't give her that one, Diana," said Andrew. "It may not turn out as well as she thinks." "We shall see," returned Mrs. Holt, and Janet wondered why Cousin Andy had said that. "Has the 'old Dutch house' stood since 'way back in 'Knickerbocker' times?" asked Janet, looking curiously at the more modern front, made in "Dutch Colonial" style, with its porch and two high-backed benches one on each side. The house, in front of which the car now stopped, was of red brick, its woodwork, in entrance and windows, painted white. Janet had a slight feeling of disappointment to know that the place had been so modernized, but common sense told her that it would be in all probability much more comfortable. How big it was! Andrew Van Meter answered Janet's question, as he slowly left the car and stood leaning on his cane and stretching one hand to assist Mrs. Holt and Janet. "The original house was burned by the Indians," he said. "All this land was given by grant from the English government, back in about sixteen hundred and seventy, to one of our ancestors, not a Van Meter, however, if I remember correctly. It will please Father if you care to ask him all about it. He will show you what we have on the early history of New York and of our particular family." "I will ask him," said Janet, whose study of American history was recent. Next, there she was inside of the big room, where a fire burned brightly and a tall, stooped man rose from an armchair to meet her. It was Uncle Pieter. Why, he must have been ever so much older than her mother! His hair was quite white, though his face did not look so old. Mr. Van Meter senior, took Janet's hand and shook it limply a little. "I am glad that you are here," he said. "I expect it to be your home from now on. While your mother had her share of the estate, her daughter has some rights in the home of her ancestors." Janet's uncle was looking at her rather tensely, while he spoke in a deliberate way, as if he had thought beforehand what he intended to say. "You look like your mother," he added, dropping her hand. "What room has been made ready for her, Diana?" "She may have either a room in the new part of the house, or her mother's room in the old part," returned Mrs. Holt. "I should prefer my mother's room," timidly Janet offered. "Show her both of them," said Pieter Van Meter. "You will be more comfortable in this part, I should say." With this comment, Uncle Pieter resumed his seat, picking up the paper which he had been reading, and apparently dismissing the matter, Janet as well. But Mrs. Holt beckoned Janet to follow her. Janet Eldon's feelings were indescribable, as Diana Holt conducted her over the house of her forefathers. She kept thinking, "This place is where my mother lived when she was a girl like me!" The new part was large and beautiful, the whole arrangement a little unusual. In order to preserve the front and appearance of the old house, the new building was attached to it in such a way that it faced a sort of court, which it helped to form. Widely the new "Dutch Colonial" stretched across, facing the main road, but at a great distance from it. There were large rooms here, parlors, library and hall downstairs, and suites of smaller rooms upstairs for Mr. Van Meter and his son. At the left, an extension, which contained a large dining-room and kitchen downstairs, and bedrooms upstairs, ran back for some distance, to connect at its right by corridors only with the old house, which thus formed the third side of the court and in width equalled the new front; for even in its time the old Van Meter home had been more or less imposing, the connecting corridors now supplying the difference in extent. By this arrangement the old house received almost as much light in all its rooms as of yore. Beautiful trees and a pergola with a concrete floor, rustic seats and a swing were at the right of the court and the house walls, which made the court more or less retired. Wings that had been built upon the old house with the growth of the family had been removed and stood as small buildings for stores, some distance back from the now fairly symmetrical home. "John says that the only reason your uncle Pieter did not take down the old house was that he did not want to disturb the 'ha'nts,'" said Mrs. Holt, with a slight laugh of amusement. "But that can not be true, for Pieter took great pains to fix the old kitchen in the most accurate representation of an old colonial kitchen, and he has left some old paintings, which would grace the new parlors very well, for the old ones, just because they always hung there. He made quite a show place of it at first, P'lina tells me." "It's a real 'haunted house,' then?" Janet inquired, as they stepped from a rear door of the new part to the green spaces of the court. With interest she looked at the well preserved front of the aged dwelling, approached by a walk of flat stones sunk in the turf. It was all very quaint and beautiful, Janet thought. "Yes, it has the reputation of being haunted, Janet, but of course that is all nonsense. However, if you are timid, you'd better stay in the new part." "I'd love to have it haunted by my mother," smiled Janet. "She would make a lovely ghost, I'm sure." "She would," said Mrs. Holt, unlocking the front door. "I thought that it would interest you more to enter here, Janet. Step over the threshold, now, where all your ancestors before you have trod! No,--the first house was burned by Indians. But this has stood for many a long year." Thoughtfully Janet entered the door and stood looking about the central hall. There they had placed the old spinning wheel. The antlers of a large deer's head stretched from the wall above her. As they went from room to room, Janet was almost confused. There were the big fireplaces. Some of them, Mrs. Holt explained, had been boarded up and stoves used, but these Mr. Van Meter had restored to their original appearance, with old andirons, found in the attic, and other ancient appurtenances, like the queer old leather bellows, used to create a blaze, and the long-handled brass warming-pan that stood, or hung, in a corner of the kitchen. Old dishes, the cranes, and old iron kettles, even an old gun, hung above the plain mantel, were a revelation of the antique to Janet. She could scarcely have lived in Philadelphia without knowing something about such things, but she had never had any personal interest before. Although she said little, Mrs. Holt saw that her young companion was interested. "Friends from New York, Albany and Troy often visit us, Janet, and are brought here to admire. We sometimes have a house full in the summer." "Who is John, Cousin Diana?" asked Janet suddenly, "John that spoke of the 'ha'nts'?" "Oh, yes. I haven't told you about my son, Janet. He will be here in a few days, for his spring vacation begins, late this year, on account of a contagious disease that some of them had, and the boys were not allowed to leave. He was christened Jan, but prefers to be called John." "I wouldn't," said Janet. "From now on, I'm going to spell my name with two n's." "You think so now," said Mrs. Holt with an indulgent smile. From room to room they went, Mrs. Holt pointing out the old highboys, claw-footed mahogany tables and desks, and telling Janet whose were the faces in the pictures upon the walls. At last they went up the beautiful old staircase, through bedrooms made comfortable with modern springs upon the old four posters, and Mrs. Holt stopped before one of the doors, drawing a key from her pocket. "This, Janet, is your mother's room. Your uncle gave direction to have it kept locked and to permit no one to enter on any tour of inspection. So you may be sure that it has not been looked at with curious eyes. Only P'lina and I are ever supposed to enter it, though I think that your uncle has a key, and it is possible that he comes in occasionally. "You see how this corridor runs over to the new part, where my bedroom opens directly upon the hall there. Old P'lina sleeps near you, if you decide to take this room. You will see a picture of your mother that will give you great pleasure, I think, and I'm leaving you alone now, child,--to go in by yourself. You will find me in my bedroom for a while, but if you want to stay here, I will see that you are called for supper. It will be late, I think. We have supper, not dinner, at night, except when we have guests. May you be happy, my dear, to find your mother's room at last." CHAPTER V THE "HAUNTED CHAMBER" Janet entered the room once occupied by her mother and closed the door. Soberly she stood still and looked about. Facing her, upon the wall, there hung a face so like the one which she daily saw in her mirror that she had no difficulty in recognizing it as her mother. Yet she realized now that in certain features she did resemble her father, as "Gramma" Eldon had insisted. That was one thing that Janet remembered out of the confused memories of her early childhood. The attractive mouth smiled down upon Janet. Fair hair like her daughter's crowned the sensitive face. The dress was white, lacy about bare neck and arms. A necklace of pearls furnished adornment. "Why, how young you look, Mother," said Janet aloud. She was surprised. Mothers were old. Glancing down at a graceful little table which stood under the picture, Janet saw a sheet of note paper. Some one, probably Cousin Diana, had written a message upon it. "This is Jannet at nineteen, shortly before she was married. The gown is one that she wore at a recital where she 'sang like an angel', according to your father. Your mother lived in New York, studying voice, for a year. Your grandfather took an apartment there and your grandmother died there. Then they came back here, your uncle's family moved in, and your mother was married from here. She met your father in New York." Some girls might have taken an immediate inventory of everything. Not so Janet. A little feeling of reverence and hesitation held her. She sat down in a chair near the table to think and to grow familiar with her mother's face. Then she noted a small silver vase of spring violets on top of a dark, old-fashioned highboy. She jumped up and put the violets beneath her mother's picture on the table. "I think that I shall keep some flowers there for you, Mother," she said. Presently other things in the room challenged her attention. The dark highboy was a handsome piece of furniture. She slowly pulled out one of its curved drawers,--empty. Her own clothes could be put here, where that other Jannet's clothing was. One by one, Janet opened the drawers. In the bottom one a few unmounted photographs lay loosely. Eagerly Janet picked them up. Good! They were pictures of the place, the old house as it was,--and oh, this must be her mother and father! Why, did they have snap-shots _then_? Of course they had snap-shots fifteen years or so ago! She must be crazy to think that her mother and father belonged to the antiques! What a bright, laughing face it was! They were hand in hand, the two young people, her mother in her wedding veil, her father so handsome in his wedding attire. Some one had snapped them outdoors, and her mother was in the act of curtseying, her arm stretched to her young husband, who held his wife's hand and bowed also, looking at his bride instead of at the camera. Janet could imagine the scene, with a crowd of merry guests looking on. She looked from the wall picture to the photograph, and to the picture again. It must be a good painting, then, true to life. But she would mount that little picture of her father and mother and have it in sight. She laid it carefully upon the table and went to examine a beautiful desk that stood at no great distance from the fireplace. How wonderful to have such a fireplace in her own room! And suppose that this was one of the desks with secret drawers! Why, she would not miss staying here for any comfort that the newer building might offer. That dear little rocking chair might have been used for years by her mother. After a tour of the room and a look out of its two windows, one of which opened upon a balcony that stretched away the length of the house, Janet again sat down near the table and looked up at the picture above, when the sudden opening of her door startled her. A straight, angular woman, with dark hair gathered into a little knot on top of her head, stalked into the room with a large comforter in her arms. She wore spectacles, but as they were drooping upon her nose Janet thought that they were not of much use. A woolen dress under an enveloping gingham apron and shoes whose tops were hidden by the dress which came to her ankles, completed the picture. She did not see Janet until she was well into the room, and started back a little. "Miss Jannet!" she exclaimed under her breath. Then she recovered herself and stalked to the bed to lay the comforter and a blanket, which it had concealed from view, across the foot. "You're here, then," she continued. "You look like your ma. You will need some extra covers to-night. It's turning colder now. I'll have a fire made in the fireplace. Your ma liked this room because she could have one. But I wouldn't sleep here for anything." "Why?" Janet asked. "The room is ha'nted," replied the woman, leaving the room in the same stiff way, without another word. Janet's rather sober face relaxed into a broad smile. This must be "Old P'lina!" Later Janet was to find out that the name was Paulina, Paulina Stout. But "ha'nted," or not "ha'nted," the room was fascinating. It was hers. No other room in the house could seem like that. What had Uncle Pieter said about her "having some rights in the home of her ancestors?" This should be one of them, then, to occupy her mother's room. Supper was served in due time. The dining-room seemed large for the size of the present family, but Janet understood from what Mrs. Holt had told her that there was often considerable entertainment of guests. She wondered, for she could not imagine Uncle Pieter in the role of affable host. He appeared to be preoccupied and joined little in the conversation, which was largely between Cousin Diana and Cousin Andy. Once he asked Mrs. Holt when her mother would be back, and inquired about John's coming. So Cousin Di had a mother who made her home there, too. Janet was wondering about many things, but she remembered Miss Hilliard's caution, not to be in too much of a hurry to find out everything. "It will take you a little while to become adjusted to the new place and the new people, Janet," she had said. "One learns about people slowly sometimes. Be patient." Janet knew that it was not her nature to be patient. Perhaps no one is patient by nature. Patience is a grace to be cultivated. Janet's consideration for others, nevertheless, kept her from blundering into questions or comments that were not proper. A sense of propriety was almost inherent with her and served her well in this experience among strangers. Uncle Pieter disappeared soon after the meal. Andrew, Diana and Janet visited for a little while, then Mrs. Holt accompanied Janet, by way of the corridors this time, to the door of her room. She peeped in at the glowing fire that burned behind a modern wire screen, put there for safety. "Better let the fire die down, after you toast your toes a little, Janet. Shall I look in a little later? Are you lonesome?" "Oh, no. I'll go to bed pretty soon. I love that old four-poster!" "You would not like it if it had the old ropes that sagged. But there are some good modern springs and a fine mattress. Where your uncle has gotten all the money that he has spent on this place is a mystery to me. But I was delighted to be asked here. I had not seen the place since I visited your mother when we were girls. You will find some paper in your desk. That is the famous desk with the secret drawers, Janet." "Really? I did not know if I might open it or not, though the key is there." "Everything here is for you to use. Your uncle gave me directions to that effect. He said that you are to have your mother's furniture." "How good of him." "Perhaps not. Why should you not have it?" Janet looked a little wonderingly at her cousin. Perhaps that was so. Unless Uncle Pieter had bought it or arranged to have it when the estate was divided, it would be hers. How good it was to sit quietly in the room, writing a few of the chief events to Miss Hilliard, while the fire began to die down and everything grew quiet. She did not mind a few April frogs that performed for her benefit somewhere in the neighborhood. The country was nice, and she was so sleepy. She could not quite finish the letter, but hurried to undress before the fire should go out, and climbed into the comfortable, soft bed, first spreading on the extra blanket. On finding it very chilly when she opened the window, she also spread wide the dainty blue and white comforter, letting the bottom edge of it hang over the foot of the bed instead of tucking it in. Even then it came up under her chin. In sweet contentment Janet said her prayers in her mother's room and fell asleep. Later a thunderstorm, or series of storms came up. Janet roused enough to put down her windows, sufficiently to prevent the rain's beating in. Then she went to sleep again. Suddenly Janet wakened. She could hear the rain pouring again. But there was a movement. Slowly the comforter began to slide from her. How strange! The cold chills began to play up and down Janet's spine. Could there be a burglar? She lay still, her face in the pillow. Now more swiftly the cover was drawn off. It was gone. A flash of lightning, dimly lighting the room from under the shades and curtains of the window, disclosed a moving form at the foot of the bed. Janet, who had lifted her head to see, again pressed her face into the pillow. She listened for the opening of the door, but there was no sound from that direction. A faint noise somewhere, like the little click of a latch, perhaps,--and Janet lay still for a long time, hearing nothing but the rain and the boom of distant thunder. Janet remembered that she had slid fast a small, curious brass bolt at the door when she went to bed. How could any one enter there? Possibly there was some other entrance, but she had not noticed any. It was some time before Janet dared to sit up in bed and finally to slip from under the covers and run to where the electric button was. Flash! On came the light and Janet was at the door, ready to run if there were any menacing presence in the room. _The bolt was still_ in position, as she had left it when locking up! On the chair by the bed was her bath robe; beneath lay her slippers. These all she donned and went to the windows. They were still only a trifle raised, and now Janet threw them up as high as they would go. No one had entered there, though the curious little balcony, with vines beginning to leaf out, shone wet with the rain and the light from Janet's room. There were two doors besides the one which led into the hall. Of these two, one opened into a closet, the other into a bathroom. Janet did not know whether that had been there in the old days or not but she fancied that it might have dated back to her mother's time. After her uncle's brief talk at supper about the old Dutch homes and habits and the early days of New York history, Janet was beginning to feel as if she were a part of a long line, indeed, and her curiosity was aroused about all these little details. She opened the closet door. There hung her dresses. Her hats were upon the shelf. She reached back to the wall. No door there. The bathroom, blue and white and prettily tiled, offered no solution to the mysterious visitor who had carried off the comforter. "No ghost," said Janet to herself, "could carry off a thick blue comforter!" But it _was_ funny,--queer. Had the comforter been anywhere in the room, she might have thought it a dream. Yet she certainly did not dream those cold chills, or that odd feeling when slowly the cover was drawn off. But at least the intruder, ghost or not, had not harmed her in any way. Little birds began to sing outside and a gray dawn was breaking. Janet crept back into bed, refreshed by the air from the wide open windows. At once she fell asleep, not to waken till Paulina rapped loudly on her door to waken her in time for breakfast. CHAPTER VI A NEW COUSIN The April morning was fresh and clear. Janet found her Cousin Andrew waiting for the rest and reading quietly in the large living room. "Good morning, Janet," said he. "Did you sleep well in your new quarters?" "I haven't quite grown accustomed to them yet," replied Janet, who had decided not to mention her fright of the night before, "but I thought that I would never waken this morning. Some one had to call me twice." "The storm was disturbing," replied Andrew. "You can see what a wreck I am, Janet. It is a good thing that Jan is coming to brighten life here for you. He wrote to me and asked me to 'beg off on school' for him, to my father." Janet looked into her cousin's amused eyes, but she was thinking of what he said about his being a 'wreck'. "You were in the war, weren't you, Cousin Andy?" "Yes,--shell-shocked, shot up in a few places that seem to do as much damage as possible. But at that I'm better off than thousands of the boys, forgotten in the hospitals now." Andrew's voice was a little bitter. "Don't ask me to tell you about it, child. It's better for me to do the forgetting. I'm thirty years old, and I'm older than my father." "You don't look it," smiled Janet engagingly. "I think that you are very nice." The little remark pleased Andrew. "Well, you are a nice little pal, then. We'll be friends." "Yes indeed. Did you know my mother?" "Yes, Janet, but not very well." Andrew looked sober. "She was a beautiful and charming girl, but she did not care for my father. He was so much older, for one thing, and I fancy that she thought him dictatorial. We did not live here when she grew up. My father married and lived in Albany, where my brothers and sisters and I were born." This again was news to Janet, who asked about these cousins. But only a sister with one daughter was living. They were abroad, but might come to the farm for the summer. "Where are the Van Meters buried?" asked Janet. "Why do you want to know that?" asked Andrew in his turn. "You want only bright things here." "I just thought that I might take some flowers to my mother's grave," she replied. "That was all,--just once, perhaps, to show that I am glad to know about her." "Why, little cousin, we knew nothing about it and supposed that she is buried by your father. Father took over the place to relieve grandfather. Your mother's things were all here, but she did not send for them and was coming to visit that summer after you were born. Then we heard that you all had been wiped out in an epidemic of some sort, like the 'flu' that we had during the war. It was past before we knew." Janet, surprised, was about to tell her cousin about her father and the brief story that she knew, but Uncle Pieter had silently entered and was standing beside her, saying, "Come, no sad memories. Let us have some of Paulina's griddle cakes." Janet followed her uncle in silence, wondering at his jovial tone, for it was not in harmony with his usual style. He was just a little queer. No wonder that her mother did not like him very well. But he was being good to her. She must remember that. Griddle cakes, bacon and the sweet maple syrup were very good indeed. Janet noticed that as they all left the table Paulina handed Mrs. Holt a note, a folded scrap of paper, which she read with a frown. Paulina had gone back to the kitchen without a smile to relieve her rather dour, defensive expression. "Excuse me, Janet," said Mrs. Holt. "Amuse yourself in any way you like for I have to see P'lina about something." "I have plenty of fun ahead of me, Cousin Di. I'm going through that old desk of Mother's to see if I can find a secret drawer or two." "You will," Mrs. Holt asserted. But that morning Janet found nothing particularly exciting. The "secret" drawers were too easily found, she thought. There were some papers, however, though none of any importance. A package of letters from her father to her mother she hesitated to read and saved it as possible at a future time. She read a little in some of her mother's books and then started outdoors in her hiking costume, for she wanted to see the farm. All that day she amused herself with investigations on a small scale, within and without. The library was a pleasant place, and when she was sure that Uncle Pieter and Cousin Andrew were not there, she curled up to read Uncle Pieter's books. There were copies of _Little Men_ and _Little Women_ which she took down to read for the third or fourth time in her short life. Perhaps they had belonged to Uncle Pieter's daughter. She replaced them till the next day, when just before supper she heard sounds of greetings in the hall. "H'lo, Mom! It's great to get home again!" Janet heard as she started toward the living room, where they were all supposed to meet before going to meals. "How's the bum back, Uncle Andy?" continued the boyish voice. "How do you do, Uncle Pieter?" Jan, like Janet, called Mr. Van Meter by that familiar expression. The murmur of voices grew to distinct speech as Janet drew nearer and she saw a friendly looking boy considerably taller than herself standing in the doorway to talk to the rest of the family who had apparently just entered. "Here's another," he cried, glancing around and seeing Janet. He drew back and ushered her inside as, presumably, he had ushered the rest. "I know that this must be my cousin Janet, so let's shake hands." At another time Janet would not have found her cousin Jan so occupying the center of the picture and doing so much talking. But he seemed to be a little excited over his arrival and reception. Paulina passed through, having brought something to the table in the room. Janet saw her looking at Jan with a glance and expression as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa smile. "What is the matter with P'lina?" asked shrewd Cousin Andy, but no one replied. During the meal Janet gained a good deal of information about Jan and his doings from the conversation. Mr. Pieter Van Meter questioned the lad about his school, but not as one who had any responsibility about the matter. Obviously, Cousin Diana and her son were in the family circle because of her services and the atmosphere of home which her pleasant personality created. She was a charming hostess, as Janet found later when company came to the old place. "I did not see a car drive in when you came," said Janet to Jan when they settled down for a visit together in the library. "No, I came over from another place where a friend of mine lives. I came on one of their horses, and I dressed first before I appeared to the family." "Is it so that you have a workshop and everything, back where I room?" "Are you rooming in the old part, then? Why, yes, I have a room there, too, and they let me use part of the attic sometimes, a sort of den there. I do radio stuff and I like everything about electricity. Uncle Pieter did not think much of it at first; but when I fixed the electric bells and got things all right when fuses burned out, and a few other things, he changed his mind about it. I'm really scarcely related at all. Isn't he a queer old--fellow? I was going to use some slang, but I'd better keep that for school." Janet favored Jan with an understanding glance. "It's very 'expressive,' I've heard Miss Hilliard say, but she corrects us when we use it. Do you want me to call you John or Jan?" The boy hesitated. "I used to despise that old Dutch name," he said, "but if you are Jannet, I'll be Jan while I'm here. I'm trying to get permission to stay on instead of going back to school. Uncle Pieter doesn't interfere, only about that, but if I can help about the place a little it will be more fun, and you and I could ride everywhere. Wouldn't you like that?" "I should think I would!" "Well, all I ask is that you get Uncle Pieter to liking you a whole lot. I believe he does." "He couldn't. He only knows me a very little, you see." "Do you think that a person would have to know you a long while first? I always know whom I'm going to like. They are short of help, the farmer at the tenant house told me, so I'm going to risk it, and ask Uncle Pieter if I can't turn farmer. There are a lot of things to be done, about the trees in the orchard and the stock, for instance, that a boy can do." "You like farming as well as electricity, then." "Some of it." Jan was not fair like Jannet, for he had the dark hair and gray eyes of his mother in a face more "square," as Jannet thought of it. They were to be Jan and Jannet, then. That would be fun. Jannet next asked if there were other boys and girls in the neighborhood and was told of Jan's friends on the neighboring farm, a girl and two boys. "How old are you, Jannet?" Jan asked frankly. "Fourteen." "Well, that is how old Nell Clyde is. I'm fifteen and Chick is almost sixteen. He's my friend. Then there's Tom. He's pretty nearly seventeen, I guess. He's a year older than Chick anyway." This was fine. Jannet, who knew almost no boys at all, was laughing at the very ordinary nickname. How funny boys were. "What is Chick's right name?" she asked. "John. That is one reason why it doesn't do at all for us to go by our right names. I'm sometimes one thing and sometimes another at school. Chick calls me 'Hunks,' for 'hunks of cheese'." "That _is_ funny," said Jannet. "But tell me, Jan, old P'lina says that my room is haunted, and your mother said that you said so, too, though I imagined that you said it in fun." Jan looked at Jannet with a great assumption of seriousness. "Old P'lina is always right, Jannet. This is a 'haunted house,' as the natives say. We even have a sort of Dutch Banshee that howls around sometimes." "Tell me some more. Do the ghosts walk at night, especially when there is a storm?" Jan looked curiously at Jannet. "That sounds as if you heard something," said he. "Yes, somebody comes down some invisible stairs; you can hear slow footsteps, you know. Maybe something drops, but there is _nobody there_!" Jan made big eyes at Jannet, who grinned delightedly. "Or you hear low singing, or distant violin music." "That would be your radio." "Old P'lina says not. She's been here ages and sometimes I think that she is a little queer in the upper story, but she is good to me at that." "I don't think that she likes me," said Jannet. "But what else does the ghost do, and who is the ghost anyway?" "Ask P'lina. You'd better say 'ghosts.' For all I know, there are more than one." "Sakes! And I've got the haunted room, too!" "Are you easily scared?" "No. But I'm going to have a flashlight after this." "After what?" "Oh, nothing, just because of the ghosts. If I flashed my light on real quick, I might see one." "Well, call me if you do. I'd love to see one. I'll broadcast him." Jannet thought that so funny, that Uncle Pieter himself looked in to see what the fun was about. "Jan wants to broadcast a ghost," she explained, but Uncle Pieter did not smile. "Remember that ghosts are supposed to be spirits of the dead," he said, going on his way through the hall. Jan made a face, turning to Jannet with lifted shoulders. "Excuse me for livin'," he remarked. "I'd like to tell Uncle Pieter that ghosts are often troubled by remorse." "Not any of ours," quickly said Jannet. "Don't go to getting me scared really and truly, Jan!" But afterwards, when Jannet thought of Jan's remarks, she wondered why he wanted to mention "remorse" to Uncle Pieter. Why hadn't she asked Jan? She would at the first opportunity, if she didn't forget it. CHAPTER VII TWO NEW MYSTERIES There was some secret between Jan and Old P'lina, Jannet could see, but it was scarcely polite to intercept their glances. Jannet told herself that she must mind her own affairs strictly. Yet it was hard to do it in this environment. Jannet felt that Jan was joking considerably when he talked of the ghosts of the old house, but Paulina wasn't she was sure. For some strange reason, nevertheless, Jannet grew more and more fond of her pretty, quaint room. Perhaps the face upon the wall accounted for that. In that sweet presence nothing would harm Jannet, yet Jannet was enough of a little girl not to be entirely unshaken by the stories, especially when remembering the blue comforter. It had never appeared again. Paulina did not inquire about it and Jannet did not mention it to Paulina. The April days were warm, though in this climate they are often very cool indeed. It could not last, Jan said, but they would make the most of it. Forsaking Chick and his other friends, Jan devoted himself to taking Jannet riding over the farm and all about the country. One would have thought that he owned it all, so anxious was he to impress Jannet favorably. The Clydes came over to meet Jannet, who now always used the two n's in her name. She was "as Dutch as kraut," Jan told her, and on the land of her ancestors. With this she was quite content. She liked Nell Clyde and felt a little shy with the two boys, but no more so than they felt with the girl from the Philadelphia school. A cruel fate was taking Chick back to school after the short Spring vacation, but Jan, though with no grounds that Jannet could see, still hoped to escape. He introduced Jannet as his twin, Jannetje Jan, and they all had several rides together on the roads near home. As Nell was being tutored at home, Jannet expected to have her companionship after the boys had gone back to school. Tom, a little older, was not always with the rest, but all the boys were often in Jan's shop, not far enough from Jannet's room to prevent her hearing the sounds of their conversation and laughter. No one as yet suggested that it was time for Jannet to go on with her lessons, and Jannet was enjoying her rest far too much to make any inquiry concerning them. At odd times she browsed among her uncle's books and it was when she opened one of them that she made a discovery. A little torn strip of paper fell out of the book from where it might have been used as a book-mark by some one. Idly Jannet looked at the bit of paper which she held in her hand still, though turning the pages of the book to see whether it looked interesting or not. But seeing the name "Jannet" in full, she laid aside the book and examined the paper more closely. It was part of a letter, or note, she decided. Perhaps some one had picked the scrap from a waste paper basket at hand and used it as a marker without looking at it. Surely,--well, how odd! "Please, _please_, Pieter, help me find them," it said. "I have"--here the paper was torn, but below in the irregular places were the words "money" and "gone." Then below, where one could see through the edge, torn to a gauzy film, the signature, "Jannet," was plain. "It is part of a letter from my mother to Uncle Pieter," thought Jannet. "What does it mean?" Jannet did not feel like reading now. Taking the scrap of paper with her, she walked from the library to the hall, down the hall to the outer door, across a tiny path between tulip beds to the old door with its queer knocker. Soon she was in her room and at the desk. It was scarcely worth while to compare the writing with that of her mother, so sure was she that this was a message from her mother, but she went through the form. It was raining again. Her search of the desk had been so casual and hurried before that this would be a good time to devote to it, with greater interest, too, because less distracted by the newness of everything as at first. Jannet admired the rich beauty of the desk, although she did not know that it was of the Chippendale design, with considerable carving, and that it had been made for an earlier ancestor than her mother. For several hours Jannet opened and closed "secret" drawers which she had found previously, and read carefully whatever of writing she found in them. Quickly she learned to recognize her mother's hand. She was scarcely old enough to appreciate the sentiment attaching to old programs and faded flowers, but she collected them thoughtfully and put all such mementos together. The bundle of letters she untied, to look at the addresses. These were the love letters, of course; but between the letters she found a few pages of a diary, quickly recognized by the date at the head and the accounts that followed. In a moment she was bending over it with deep interest. One day's account recorded what had been said of her mother's singing at a private recital, and expressed the hope of a future as a singer. Another, kept by way of contrast, perhaps, told, with some reserve even to a personal diary, of her engagement and her lover. Under a date not long before her marriage, Jannet Van Meter had written very fully and regretfully of a loss. "I have searched everywhere. I can not think that any one could have taken my pearls, yet where _are_ they? I put them in my desk, in the most secret of its drawers. I have not worn them since, and they are gone! It is a great loss in money as well. Father made some sacrifices to raise the sum necessary for my pearls,--but he _would_ do it. I was to have them, and Pieter did not like it, of course. He just smiled when I told him that I had lost them and would not show the least interest in discussing what might have become of them, nor would he help me hunt. 'If they're gone, they're gone,' said he, shrugging his shoulders. Sometimes I've almost thought,--but no, I'll not even write such an unworthy suspicion. "I had thought that it would be safe for us to have the pearls, because if we ever need money very much after we are married,--you and I really are going to be married, Douglas boy,--we could sell a pearl or two, or the whole necklace. Perhaps I shall find them yet. I'll never give it up, not, at least, till I am too far away to hunt. I shall give a thorough going over to every place to-morrow. "It is too bad that 'Mother' Eldon can't come on for the wedding. And we have to go right through to the far West without stopping off because Douglas must get to his work. But someway, I imagine from her letter that she is not real happy about her boy's getting married at all. Perhaps it is just as well for her to get used to the idea before we meet, though Douglas is just silly enough to say that she will love me when she sees me and that she couldn't help it. Well, if he loves me, that is enough for me." The last page contained a brief account of wedding preparations. No mention was made of the pearls. "There is no use in trying to write it all down," Jannetje Van Meter had written at the close. "And to write of my thoughts and feelings about this change in my life, or about us, I simply couldn't. I believe that I will tear up my diary, anyhow! This is _Finis_." Jannet Eldon was smiling as she finished. Her mother was just a real girl, after all. She hadn't lived to be very old. How Jannet wished that she had not burned the diary. Where had she gotten the impression that her mother would be buried among the Van Meters? Why, of course, it would be natural, if she had died before her husband. But if she had been carried off in an epidemic, that would be the reason why her grave would be out West. Then "Gramma" would want her son buried in the Eldon lot. That was it. Jannet had once visited that spot, in company with Miss Hilliard. There was no mystery there; besides, her father and mother were together now, wherever, apart, the worn-out bodies were. One of the lovely things about Miss Hilliard was that she had made the other world so real to Jannet. Suddenly Jannet rose and went to one of the drawers of the highboy in which her own treasures now reposed. Rummaging through things not yet well sorted, Jannet found a note book and drew out several sheets of writing paper pinned together. True to her promise, Miss Hilliard had looked up past correspondence, which recalled facts that she had forgotten. But she and Jannet had not had time to go over it very thoroughly. Jannet recalled dimly having labored over a few lines to her grandmother, because she "ought to," One of the teachers helped her. Here was the reply, or part of it: "I was pleased that you wrote me yourself. Be a good child. I hope to be better soon and to have you at home for your next vacation. So some of the girls have mothers and you want to know about yours? I will tell you all that I know when I feel stronger. The nurse is writing for me. I never saw your mother and the only letters I have had from her were destroyed by mistake. They were to stop on their way to New York the summer after you were born. Your father took all your mother's photographs with him and what became of them I do not know. He came East so suddenly, half delirious, saying that your mother had died. "It was very fortunate that I found you both. I had moved, writing and telegraphing, but from what he said in his delirium he must have moved too. He was on his way to the old home, when providentially I took the same train from a business trip to a town near by. I took you both from the train and to a hospital in the nearest place, a hospital of which I happened to know. Both of you were ill for weeks and after it was all over and I could think of sending for any of your father's things, it was too late. No one seemed to know anything. He was young, just starting in business, and I was too worn out to care. They were, or had been living in a furnished apartment. Your father after I found him never had been himself, only to say, 'She is dead.' "I wrote to your mother's people several times, but never received a reply. If they had so little interest, I was only too glad to have my boy's little girl to myself. 'Gramma' loves you dearly, and when I get well, we shall have some good times." This letter was probably read to Jannet at the time, but she could scarcely recall it. Even there, her grandmother had not mentioned names, and Miss Hilliard said that the Eldon family Bible sent to Jannet had no record entered of her father's marriage. The letters, with the pages of the diary between them, Jannet put back in their drawer and laid this letter, with the scrap from the book, with them. That scrap must refer to the loss of the pearls, yet why should her mother _write_ to her uncle about it? It was puzzling. Now to find that "most secret drawer." Jannet had all sorts of fancies about how to find secret drawers. There was one worn spot, with a narrow piece of yielding wood, in a groove by a little ridge of the mahogany. Jannet rubbed the worn place, thinking of Aladdin's lamp, but nothing happened. Then she noticed a tiny glint of brass by the ridge and pressed it with the point of her knife. There! a drawer, sticking a little, began to move out. Jannet inserted her fingers and pulled gently, afraid of breaking the delicate wood. "Oh, how beautiful!" she exclaimed as the drawer came out to its full length. There, upon the soft purple velvet of its case, coiled a shining rope of pearls! With delicate fingers that shook a little, Jannet lifted the case from the drawer and laid it on the desk before her. As in a dream she took hold of the glistening strand and drew it up, letting the loops of pearls unfold from their long curling. What wonderful pearls they were! Jannet knew little about pearls, but she could appreciate beauty. This must be very valuable,--her mother's--hers! Suddenly she lifted them against her cheek while quick tears came to her eyes. Oh, these had been on her mother's neck the last time that they were worn. Jannet ran to the picture. Yes, she had worn these when that photograph was taken. Why had Jannet not thought of that when she read the diary just now? She looked at the shimmering little pile that she was holding in two hands. Then she put them around her own neck. Twice they went around, coming just a little above the round neck of the dress that Jannet was wearing. There was no one to see the pretty picture that was made by the blue-eyed girl with her golden hair, as she stood looking up at the other older girl so like her. How Jannet loved to feel the pearls on her neck. She would like to wear them all the time, she thought, but she sighed as she thought of their value. How many things might have happened to them in these years, and why had not her mother been able to find them? There they were, right in the drawer, as her mother must have put them away,--unless someone had taken them for a joke, or spite, and put them back later. That thought troubled Jannet, but she was not right. A more peculiar circumstance than she could then imagine had hidden the pearls. Should she tell her uncle about them? Jannet considered that for some time, while she carefully looped the pearls again and replaced them. No, she did not believe that she would. She would know her uncle a little better first before she made a confidant of him. And if she did tell him about the pearls, or the scrap of paper, for that matter, she would have somebody else present, too. What if Uncle Pieter should claim the necklace! Oh, he couldn't have the _heart_ to take anything of her mother's away from her--but she "guessed she wouldn't tell him just yet." Jannet knew that she would not forget where the spring was, but after she closed the drawer again, she gave the surroundings a rub with her handkerchief, for want of a duster, and then closed the desk just in time, for there was a great rapping upon her door. It was Jan, drumming again on the panels and calling her. "Jannetje Jan," came the call, with the Dutch Y sound for J. "Yes, Yan," she answered, running to open the door, for she had slipped the bolt as well, when she started in on the desk. "Get ready to ride, won't you? Nell and Chick are out here," said Jan, adding, when the door was opened, "and worse luck, I've got to go back with Chick and finish up school! We only have a day or two more of fun!" "I'll be out in a minute, Jan. I'm aching for a ride. Will you get my horse ready while I dress?" "Yep,--intended to. Make it snappy." With this, Jan went away, while Jannet, elated with her discovery, the mystery of it all, and the prospect of fun with her young friends, hurried into her riding clothes. CHAPTER VIII JANNET'S "FORTUNE" It did not take Jannet long to get ready for the expedition. Just before starting out of her room, she paused, her hand on the knob, for this room had more protection than the old-fashioned latches. Should she leave the pearls in the desk? They had disappeared from it before. But where could she put them if she took them from the desk? Naturally she could not wear them. Windows and doors were open. She could hear the sounds of laughter from where her young friends were. She must hurry. She ran back to her windows, put them down and locked them firmly. Then she took her key from the lock, locked the door from the outside and pinned the key inside her sweater pocket. "I'm the 'foxy Jannet' now," she said to herself, thinking of one of Jan's expressions. "_Now_ if any one gets in,--I'll know it's some one with a key!" Walking rapidly, past the door of Paulina's room, down the back stairs, out of the back door, Jannet hastened to join her friends. Jan, mounted on a curveting black horse, was leading the animal intended for Jannet and cantered toward her, stopping at a high block. He started to dismount to help Jannet, but she waved him back. "Don't get off, Jan. Pity if I can not get on myself. Is this the stump of the old black walnut that nearly killed you when it fell?" "Who told you? Yes; if Chick hadn't yelled in time, I'd have been under the trunk instead of being scratched up a little by some of the branches. You remember that wind storm, Nell?" "Indeed I do. We didn't know where you boys were and Mother was almost crazy till you came in after it was all over. I was sure that you were over here, but the telephone wires were down." "Why do I have Lucy, Jan? I thought that Uncle Pieter wanted me to ride Ben?" "That is what took me so long, Jannet. I saddled Ben first and found that he went a little lame. Lucy is all right, only a little more skittish. She never runs away, but look out for her shying a little." "All right. I like Lucy better anyhow." Jannet was happy with the reins in her hand, for riding was her favorite sport. This pursuit of real country roads, away from hampering conditions of the city was what she called to Nell "real riding," instead of "riding lessons." Nell and John Clyde, or "Chick", drew alongside as Jannet settled herself for the trip and patted her pretty steed. "Did you know that you are going to have supper with us at home to-night, after our picnic dinner in the hills?" asked Nell. "No, I didn't. What fun! But Jan, shan't we take something for the picnic?" "Of course," Jan answered, with a grin. "Say, I forgot all about that. Good thing that you spoke of it." Jan turned his horse toward the house. "I told P'lina, though. There she comes now." From the back door Paulina this moment made her appearance with a package in her hands. As she approached, her sharp nose looked sharper than ever. Her solemn eyes surveyed the riders with no display of interest and her stolid face was without a smile. A small shawl decorated her shoulders, pinned across her breast, but the tight knot of black hair was without a covering and the spring breeze blew a wiry wisp over her forehead. "I think that it is going to rain," said she shortly, as she gave the neat package to Jan, with something for tying it to his saddle. She had given a curt nod in the direction of the Clydes. "Oh, now, Paulina," said Jan, grinning down at her, "don't be a calamity howler. We'll get under a rock somewhere if it does. Any other woes that you can think of?" Jannet was quite shocked at Jan's frankness and expected to see "Old P'lina" show some offense. Far from this, the stony features almost relaxed into a smile, so Jannet thought. "Be careful," Paulina said. "An owl hooted all last night and the ghost walked over my head." With this cheerful announcement, Paulina turned away. "What did Paulina mean, 'over her head'?" asked Nell Clyde. "Rats in the attic, Nell. I heard 'em, too." So Jan explained. But Paulina had overheard and looked back over her shoulder. "We have no rats," said she, "and rats don't tiptoe down imaginary stairs. It was _her_ again." Jan looked cross, but he said nothing further as Paulina rapidly walked toward the house. Jannet fancied that Jan did not like to have Paulina's superstitions aired before the Clydes. There was enough talk in the neighborhood, in all probability. Chick urged his horse on, passing Jannet and Nell, but Jan, as he followed, leaned over to Jannet. "Paulina is an old goose," said he in a low tone. "Her imagination works all night. Don't pay any attention to what she says." This was funny, for Jan had seemed to enjoy joking Jannet about it before now. Boys must be odd creatures,--but Jan and Chick were pretty good at that! "I wish that we had a family ghost," laughed Nell, as she drew her horse beside Lucy. "Have you seen yours, yet, Jannet?" "I am not sure that I would know it if I saw it," replied Jannet, after a moment's hesitation. "Let me come to stay all night with you some time, Jannet, and perhaps the ghost will walk for us." "If the ghost _should_ walk, I'd be glad to have company, I can tell you, and I'll love to have you any time. I suppose I'll have to ask Cousin Di or Uncle Pieter first, though." "Of course you will, and I'd better not be inviting myself over!" "Don't think of that, Nell. I'm sure that it can be arranged and I'm glad that you thought of it. You haven't had a peep at my dear room yet." "No, I haven't, and I have never even been inside of that old part of the Van Meter place, though Chick is there so much when Jan is home. Do you suppose that we could see the attic, too?" "That might depend on Paulina. I haven't asked to go there yet. I've felt a little timid, you know, just coming. The only place where I feel that I have a real right is in my mother's room. But Jan goes all over and has a den in the attic, and he isn't nearly so much related as I am." "I heard a neighbor say once, Jannet, that your uncle Pieter had treated your mother shamefully and had beaten her out of a lot of property that she ought to have had. I don't suppose that I ought to tell you this and perhaps it isn't true, but if it is, you ought to know it." "Yes. But I do not believe it. People gossip. Why should he send for me?" This from Jannet, in spite of her most recent suspicions! "Remorse," laughed Nell. "Uncle Pieter was a lot older than my mother and perhaps he wanted to have his own way about things, but I'll not believe yet that he is dishonest. I'm going to stand up for my people, Nell, now that I have found them. Mother must have died before my grandfather, so how could Uncle Pieter cut her out of her rights?" "I don't know." "Exactly. I'm surely grateful to Uncle Pieter for finding me," said Jannet, to close the subject. Jannet was a thoughtful girl, and she had determined not to lose sight of what Uncle Pieter had done for her in sending for her. She had her own doubts, particularly since finding her mother's diary notes and the slip of paper in the library book, but none of the neighbors should suspect them. Jannet did not know whether she liked her uncle or not. She was attracted sometimes, then again his coldness and reserve repelled her. He had not offered to have any explanatory talk with her so far, though she realized that the spring work on the large place was engaging his attention. He was out of the house most of the time either upon his horse about the farm, or on business errands away from the neighborhood. Jannet had not inquired what his interests were, for she was not informed about such matters. Her cousin Andrew Jannet loved already. Jan was a jolly companion, and Mrs. Holt was everything that a girl could ask for in a kind chaperon. She was not demonstrative, but then, Jannet was not used to demonstrative affection. Paulina was the "funniest." She was silent, matter-of-fact, and stiff, but Jannet knew that "Old P'lina" missed nothing of what was going on at the Van Meter home. Nell Clyde was a plump, sturdy little thing, but active for all her plumpness, sitting her horse well as the girls now pushed their mounts forward a little to catch up with the boys. Nell had been seized with a great admiration for the graceful, golden-haired Jannet and had already confided her dreams to her as she had not done to any of the other girls whom she knew. Jannet, more accustomed to many girl friends, had been more reserved so far about her own affairs, though she was delighted to find so congenital a girl so near. No unhappy thoughts were Jannet's to-day. The pleasure of riding, the fresh air, the morning sunshine, and the quiet memory of the lovely thing hid at home in her desk brought her spirits to a high pitch. P'lina must certainly be mistaken, for there was scarcely a cloud. Lucy behaved with great decorum after a long gallop over a good stretch in the road, during which the horses worked off any excess of spirits that they may have possessed at the start. The Clyde place was on their way and Chick dashed in to get their share of the lunch, which was not ready when they had ridden over for Jannet and Jan. Jannet laughed as she watched Chick, for with a boy's nonsense, he spread out his elbows at a ridiculous angle, leaned forward in his saddle, letting himself be lifted up and jolted down in a comical exhibition of bad riding. Flapping the reins, he loudly chirruped to his long-suffering animal. "Ichabod Crane!" exclaimed the amused Jannet; and Nell, who was familiar also with Irving's _Legend of Sleepy Hollow_, remarked that Chick was almost lanky enough to fit the character. The boys were sure that the folks had not put up enough lunch, but Nell's more practiced eye measured the two packages. "Don't you worry," said she. "There's a whole fried chicken in each, or I miss my guess." Over devious ways, where Jannet knew that she would be lost, the little party of four went into the hills and among the pines. Here and there a little stream with its trickling waters helped to make the beauty of the way. Jannet kept thinking that it was her mother's home country. "I wonder if my mother used to ride," she said to Jan. "Sure she did. Andy said something yesterday about her having a horse called Juniper that threw her once and pretty nearly ended her life then and there. How queer that you have all this to find out!" "Yes, and that's the advantage of being here for a while. Things come out gradually, just the sort of little everyday things that you would like to know. What are we going to do up here besides the picnic lunch, Nell?" "Just see things, and find wild flowers, and see what birds are back. Chick has to take a list back to one of his teachers that wants to know when certain birds come here. We're going to hitch the horses here, or let them graze a little, if there's anything to graze on, while we climb higher to a grand place to see the valley and to spread our lunch." "Any snakes?" Jannet inquired. "We are not likely to see any here, and it is so open up on the rocks that it will not be damp. Mother warned me not to have the lunch where it was damp, but this sun will dry anything off." The boys ungallantly went off by themselves for some time, reporting early for lunch. Chick had seen a chickadee, a tufted titmouse, a song sparrow, a purple finch and a woodcock. The girls had a handful of flowers, which they had picked carefully not to destroy the roots. This was all very wholesome for Jannet, who had not taken much interest in nature study at Miss Hilliard's school and the Marcys did not have that except in a very general way in their summer curriculum of good times. Her mind was far away from ghosts and problems of all sorts while the picnic lasted. But Paulina was right in her prophecy. It did rain, though not until their good lunch was eaten and its crumbs scattered for the birds. First there were a few scattered drops, then a little shower, which made them all run for their raincoats. But then they noticed that it looked very black in one portion of the sky. "We'd better get out of here, girls," said Chick. "It may be a thunderstorm and we oughtn't to be among the trees." Down they scrambled from the heights, found their horses and made their way as quickly as possible from the hills to the level country. Distant thunder began to be heard, and clouds collected thickly. The girls said nothing, but they did not enjoy the prospect. Then it began to rain, moderately at first. Chick motioned to Jannet to ride up with him, while Jan fell back with Nell. Leaning over toward Jannet, while they were urging their horses forward, Chick told her that he and Jan thought it best to strike off from the main road about half a mile to where an "old settler" lived. "Do you mind?" Chick asked. "Why should I?" asked Jannet. "It's better than being soaked, or scared to death with the lightning." Chick laughed. "Are you afraid?" "Not very, but it isn't especially safe." Nothing more was said. In a moment they had reached the turn in the road and were making their way as fast as a very poor little side road would permit. Puddles and mud-holes had to be avoided. The birds were taking to cover as well as they. Chick pointed ahead to where a small farmhouse stood, not far away. It was not a very prepossessing place, even at a distance, but it promised shelter. The driveway was open, fortunately, for the rain was coming down in sheets, as they galloped into it and drew up their horses under an open shed. The bombardment had begun. One sharp flash succeeded another and the crashes of thunder were of terrific violence. "This is one April shower that I don't care for," Nell remarked, as she had difficulty in holding her frightened horse. But Chick dismounted and held both her horse and his own. "Get off your horse, Jannet," said he, "it is better. Jan, you'd better do the same." "Come, Lucy, it's all right," soothingly Jannet said to the pretty mare she rode, as she dismounted. Jan reached his hand to Lucy's bridle while Jannet and Nell withdrew a little from too close proximity to prancing horses and threatening heels. Rain beating in from the opposite side, drove the party to the side of the shed nearest the house, which was not far away. There, at a side door, as the electrical display lessened somewhat, a curious figure appeared. It was bent and old, a sharp chin and piercing black eyes the most noticeable features under an old-fashioned cap. A red and black shoulder shawl, something like that which Paulina often wore, was pinned about the rounding shoulders. A long, blue calico dress came almost to the floor. The aged woman peered out and over to the little company under the shed. Jan and Chick touched their caps and the girls bowed, but no explanation seemed necessary. The storm would account for their presence. "Who lives there?" Jannet asked of Nell, the noise of the rain making it unnecessary to lower her voice. "It's one of the old Dutch farms and that is the grandmother of the farmer's wife. They are odd people, and they say that this old lady is half Indian and half gypsy. She is past ninety years old. She tells fortunes, and buys her tobacco." "Tobacco!" "Sure, she smokes a pipe," laughed Chick, who had overheard. "The women now use cigarettes, don't they?" "Not any that I know, Chick," smiled Jannet. "Miss Hilliard says that she is training 'ladies,' not the 'sporting class.' A girl who tried out smoking in our school would get sent home too quickly to know whether she was coming or going. That's in the printed rules." "The whole of it?" laughingly asked Jan. "I don't mean the way I put it. You know that. I mean that the rule is against smoking. It does say, though, that young ladies who have the habit are requested to go elsewhere." "Look, Jannet, she's beckoning to us," Nell interrupted. Jannet noticed that Jan and Chick felt in their pockets. "I've got enough change, Chick," said Jan. "The poor old woman sees a chance to make a little money, and it's kind of nice of her to ask us in out of the rain." "Gracious!" Nell exclaimed. "It will smell of stale tobacco smoke and I don't know what else, in there,--but all right, if you boys want to. A fire would feel pretty good, as wet as we are, and I know that they will have one." Jannet did not know that she cared to try it, but she would not make any objection, she thought. She would do what the rest did, though she did not want her fortune told,--she could get out of that. The boys saw that the horses were firmly hitched to the posts of the shed and presently all of them dashed across the yielding, puddly grass and ground to the little stoop of the house. A plump woman of past middle age had come to the door by this time, while the old lady hobbled back to a chair by the fire. She was moving aside to make room for the guests when they entered. "Come right in," pleasantly said the younger woman. "You got caught in one of the worst storms we've had yet. I'll hang up your raincoats in the kitchen and you can dry out a little before the fire. That rain would go through anything!" "It's around the edges that we are wettest," said Nell, going on to explain about their picnic and inquiring about the health of the family and the grandmother in particular. The grand-daughter, in the kitchen door, noting that her grandmother's back was turned to her, shook her head and tapped it with her fingers, to indicate that the old lady's mind was not just what it should be, but answered cheerfully, "Oh, Grandma is coming on all right. She can hear as well as anybody, see well enough to read the paper, and she'll be ninety-three to-morrow." "If that's so, we'll have to send her something to-morrow," said kindly Nell, "and wish her many happy returns." Jannet, altogether inexperienced in country life, was getting a glimpse of the kindly, helpful feeling that exists in many such neighborhoods. She stood at one side, near the blaze, which the farmer's wife tried to make burn more briskly. "Who's the girl?" bluntly asked the old lady. "Oh, I forgot," hastily said Nell. "This is Jannet Eldon, who has come to live with her uncle Pieter. Jannet, this is Mrs. Meer,--and her grandmother." "Jannet Eldon, huh? Jannet. That was the name of the girl,--so you are Pieter's niece, then?" "Yes'm," said Jannet, smiling at the old lady and looking at her with interest. "Did you know my mother?" "I saw her often enough. You look like her. I told her fortune once, and I'll tell yours." Janet shrank back a little, scarcely conscious that she did so. "Thank you, I don't believe that I want to have you do that. I'd rather not know, even if you _can_ tell it." "You don't believe in fortune telling, then. I'll not hurt you. If I read anything bad in your hand, I'll not tell you that." The old woman's voice rose shrilly, and Mrs. Meer looked rather distressed. But Jannet's warm heart came to the rescue of the situation. It certainly could do no harm to satisfy the old woman. "Well, maybe it would be fun, then,--if you won't tell me of any 'bad luck'," and Jannet playfully shook her finger in warning. She could see that "Grandmother," whose name she had not been told, was pleased. Her toothless mouth widened into a smile. She laid aside her pipe, which, as Nell had said, had been filling the room with a disagreeable smoke. "Sit down," she said. Jannet drew up a small wooden stool and held out her hand. Jan, with noble promptness, laid a fifty cent piece upon the mantel, hoping, as he told Jannet afterward, that the fortune would not scare her to death. The aged woman saw it and the dark eyes gleamed. Wrinkled fingers took the young, delicate hand. "They thought that you were dead," she mumbled. Jannet did not know whether this were part of the fortune or not, but it was not particularly pleasant. The old crone went on with a few facts about Jannet's past life, facts that any one could guess at, Nell said afterward. Then she took up Jannet's character, cleverly setting forth some traits that Jannet recognized, though none that were not more or less flattering. "Gee, she's giving you a good line, Jannet," said Chick. "Sh-sh, you're interrupting her," warned Nell. It grew more interesting. "Some one has looked for you," said the old woman, "some one not your uncle. If you are found, it will bring you good luck. You have had a loss, but you will find what you look for. There will be something strange in your uncle's house, but do not be frightened. Nothing will harm you. "Many like you. Some you can not trust, but you will find them out. I see a long journey. You will live to marry, perhaps twice. That is not clear. I see a long life and much happiness. You will have good luck this year and something will happen that you do not expect. That is all." As if tired, the old lady dropped Jannet's hand. "I never told your fortune, Jan Holt. You have not lived here long." "Say, you know my name already," said Jan, as if that were a sign of great cleverness. "Now give me a good one." One by one the boys and girls had their fortunes told and left almost all the change which the boys possessed upon the mantel. Then they began to gather up their coats and other articles of wearing apparel, feeling pretty well dried out by the heat from the fireplace. The storm had ceased before the aged grandmother had finished. Rapidly the four covered the distance remaining between this place and that of the Clydes, where they were to have dinner together. Nell promised to let Jannet wear one of her frocks, if necessary, for Jannet had started in such a hurry that she had not realized how odd it might be to eat dinner in her riding clothes. "I'll certainly look funny in a dress of yours, Nell,--I'd better wear one of your mother's, or else ride on home. But if you don't mind I could wear these things; they are dry now." "We'll fix you up some way, Jannet. Don't worry." "Say, Jannet," soberly said Jan, "may I be your second husband?" "_Second husband!_" ejaculated Jannet, a grin beginning to spread her pretty mouth. "Yep. I wouldn't want to be the first, because he may die, according to the old gypsy. Of course, I'll probably marry, and then my wife may have objections to the arrangement." "You crazy boy! I believe that you'd make fun about anything! Yes, I'll 'consider your application,' as Miss Hilliard says. But I'm only going to marry somebody very wonderful, and he'll not dare leave me till I'm as old as Grandma Meer, or whatever her name is." "Some outlandish name," said Nell, "that I've heard and forgotten." "Chick, she says that she is only going to marry somebody _very wonderful_. That settles it. It isn't me. Honestly, Jannet, she read you a pretty good fortune; but some of it was queer. Of course, you know that the whole countryside knows about our ghost, so she could make up anything there." "I don't mind, and I'm going to forget it, Jan. Poor old soul! Are you really going to take her something to-morrow, Nell? I'd like to do something, too, even tobacco!" "Why, Jannet!" said Jan in falsetto tones, as if representing Jannet's school, shocked beyond words. Jannet gave Jan a solemn glance, drawing her mouth down at the corners and rolling her blue eyes. Then, grinning again, she said, "Grandma Meer is too old to reform, Jan. Besides, if it isn't wicked for Cousin Andy to smoke, it isn't wicked for Grandma Meer. And she doesn't have to be a lady." This conversation took place on the way from the Clyde barns to the house. The four sauntered along in the highest of spirits, though it was almost too near dinner time, or, more properly here, supper time, for them to linger. A skirt-and-tunic dress of Nell's was found possible to arrange for Jannet, and more fun was in prospect when by the telephone it was arranged for Jannet and Jan to stay all night. "And may we have Nell and Chick over to-morrow night, Cousin Di?" Jannet asked sweetly. "Of course you may. Jan often has Chick. I don't know how it has happened that we have not had him more this time. You and Nell ought to have great fun in the 'haunted' room. I'll have Paulina cook you something, too." "Thank you, Cousin Di." Turning, after hanging up the receiver, Jannet clasped her hands together in delight, as she communicated the results of her telephoning to the rest. "Oh, we can _stay_, and Cousin Di was _too cordial for words_ about your coming over to-morrow night, Nell and Chick. Paulina will cook up something and we'll have a little evening party of it, I guess." "Good," said Jan. "Let's hope that the ghost will walk." "Mercy, no, Jan,--not really," said Jannet. CHAPTER IX ANOTHER GHOSTLY VISITATION That evening, at the Clydes' country home, Nell called up some of her friends and asked them to drive over for an evening of good times. Perhaps half a dozen girls and boys came, initiating Jannet into the pleasures of country life. It was a new atmosphere to Jannet and she liked it. They were all a little stiff at first, pleasant, but waiting to see what the girl from the city school was like. Soon, however, when Nell and Chick started some games and they found Jannet throwing herself into everything with a real delight, the party waxed merry. The next morning Jannet and Jan rode home. Jannet heard Jan and Paulina in more than one mild argument as she tried to pack for him and he objected to her packing. "Of course I'm going to take that, P'lina. That is one of the most important things. If you can't get that in, I'll tumble the whole mess out and pack it all over myself. What's the idea? Do you think that you have to do it?" "Now, Jan, your ma--" but Jannet shut the door to hear no more. She supposed, as she smiled over what she had heard, that some treasure like a bat or a ball glove or mask had been omitted. She was beginning a diary, suggested to her by her mother's having kept one. But Jannet decided that she would never destroy hers, because it would be such a good history for her children, if she had any. Jannet spent a good part of the morning in this way, after a good visit with Mrs. Holt. Then Paulina came in to sweep and clean her room. There was another servant to help with this sort of thing, but Paulina, who almost felt that she had part ownership in the place, liked to take care of this old part of the home herself. Paulina was "queer," Jannet thought. She could not tell what Paulina thought of her, but she rather hoped that Paulina did not hate her, for "Old P'lina" was a family institution, it seemed. She grew older and older in Jannet's thought, for Paulina's face was much more lined than Uncle Pieter's, in spite of the dark hair. Nell said that P'lina must dye her hair, but Jannet knew that Nell was wrong. Nell and Chick Clyde did not arrive until long after supper and said that they had company at home, unexpected company for supper. But they enjoyed the evening together, Mrs. Holt keeping her promise of the "party," which meant something good to eat at the proper time. Jannet wondered if Uncle Pieter would have approved, for they had chicken and biscuits, with other accompaniments, for a first course, and Paulina's delicious angel food cake with a whipped cream "salad" over it or "by" it, as Jannet put it. Nuts, maraschino cherries and pineapple made this toothsome. But this was Jan's last evening at home. Sometime the next day he was leaving for school. "Yes, Nell," said he, "hard-hearted Uncle Pieter is responsible for my leaving; but after all Chick could scarcely get his lessons without me, and it will be fun to see the other boys." After the refreshment the boys were restless. It was not far from bedtime and Jan suggested that Chick go with him to the attic den to see his latest invention. "You might invite us, too, Jan," said Jannet, with a freedom which she was beginning to feel in this new environment. "Oh, girls wouldn't understand, and besides, it doesn't work yet. I want to get Chick's ideas about it. Then the attic is where the ghost usually begins, you know." "Honestly, Jan, did you ever hear or see anything strange?" Jan looked mysterious, then laughed. "'Honestly,' Jannet, I think most of the noises might be from some ordinary cause. But once I did--oh, well, there are lots of odd sounds and things in an old house. But no ghost has ever come into my attic den so far as I know." "I wouldn't go up there after dark for worlds!" Nell declared. "Silly!" So her brother commented. "Jan's den is a real room, at a gable, and used to be a bedroom, Paulina says. There's a rambling sort of hall, and a door, that Paulina keeps locked, into the rest of the attic, which isn't all floored, she says. Paulina says 'Keep Out,' in large letters, doesn't she, Jan?" "Yep," answered Jan, with a look at Chick which was intended to mystify the girls. "Maybe P'lina is the ghost, then," Nell suggested, and Jannet thought to herself that it was not impossible. "I'll tell P'lina that I want to see if any of my mother's boxes or trunks are up there, and perhaps she will give me the key!" "You wouldn't _dare_, Jannet!" "Yes I would, Nell!" "_Much_ you would," and Jan's disbelieving eyes laughed into Jannet's sparkling ones. "Wait till I come home again anyhow," he added. "Perhaps I will, Jan," his cousin conceded. The boys said goodnight, leaving the two girls in the quaint old kitchen, where they had made taffy in one of the old kettles, by the express permission of Mrs. Holt, and under her supervision, for Paulina had not wanted to have the "trouble and muss" of a fire here, among the cherished antiques of the kitchen. "Before the weather gets too hot," meditatively said Jannet, taking a last piece of the sticky but very delicious sweet from one of the pans, "I'd like to have an old-fashioned taffy pull and invite some of the girls and boys that I met at your house, Nell. I'm afraid that Uncle Pieter and Old P'lina might not like it, but perhaps Cousin Di could get permission for me." "Perhaps so," doubtfully answered Nell, "but remember that Chick and Jan leave to-morrow." "That's so. Well, perhaps I'll be here next winter. I've read about the good times in the country in the winter and I almost wish I needn't go to school." "Your uncle intends to keep you here, Jannet. I heard Mother say so." Jannet looked inquiringly at Nell, but made no comment. That might not be so nice after all, not to go back to the girls and Miss Hilliard. But Miss Hilliard was her guardian, and she would do the deciding. Mrs. Holt came hurrying in to say that she had almost forgotten them, and that by all means they must get to bed. With a kind goodnight she left them, and they heard her routing the boys from their attic den. The sound of their descent by the attic stairs could have been heard in Philadelphia, Nell said. The girls went upstairs by the front staircase, turning to the right with the dark, curving rail of the banisters. To Jannet's door there was only a step, and Nell looked on along the railing to the front of the upstairs hall. "That front room on this side," Jannet explained, "belonged to my grandfather and grandmother, and the big chimney, with gorgeous fireplaces, is between their room and what was my mother's, now mine. There are plenty of other fireplaces, though," she added, "only this seems to be the biggest chimney. See, my door almost faces the corridor that leads to the new part, where Cousin Di sleeps, and Paulina's room is right off the back hall, there. Jan's room is downstairs. He picked it out himself." "Chick says that he has a cot in the den upstairs, too." "Is that so? I shouldn't think that he would want to sleep there." "Why, Jannet! I thought that you didn't believe in ghosts!" "I don't but just the same,--" and Jannet stopped to laugh at herself. By this time they were in the room, Nell wondering a little at Jannet's having to unlock the door. But she did not ask her why she kept the door locked, and Jannet did not explain. One thing after another had interfered with her having had an opportunity to open the secret drawer in her desk for a glimpse of the pearls. First she had been expecting Paulina in to clean. Then, after some delay, the cleaning took place. A call, plans with Cousin Di and a long drive with her and Cousin Andy, partly for the sake of errands, completely filled the day till time for the Clydes to come. But now, as Jannet displayed her room to her guest, placing the little overnight bag, and quietly mentioning her pleasure in having her mother's room and her mother's picture, she was anxious to assure herself of her new possession in the desk and felt impatient with herself for not having locked the door against everybody long enough to see that the pearls were safe. Of course they were, though. What was Nell saying? Oh, yes, she was commenting on the size of the house, admiring it, but telling Jannet the gossip. Some said that her uncle intended to turn it into a summer hotel, and others said that he had expected his daughter's family to occupy it with him, as well as his son's. "Andrew was going to be married, if he hadn't gotten all banged up in the war." "Oh,--too bad!" exclaimed sympathetic Jannet. "Wouldn't his sweetheart marry him?" "More likely he would not let her." "Dear me, I'll never catch up with the why and wherefore of our family. Can you keep a secret, Nell?" "Try me. Even Chick says that I can." Nell had admired the desk before, but Jannet led her to it again. "I want to show you a secret drawer, Nell, and what I found in it, something wonderful,--my mother's pearls, the ones she has on in the picture!" Nell leaned over with the greatest interest, while Jannet seated herself in front of her desk, now open, and pressed the spring as she had done before. Out came the drawer, more easily than before,--but empty! Quickly Nell looked into her friend's face, which was blank with surprise. "Gone!" Jannet exclaimed. "Why, Nell, it's just as it happened before! Mother lost them, too, or they were stolen from her desk. Oh, _who_ could have done it! Why _did_ I leave them there!" Jannet dropped her hands in her lap and sat there looking at Nell, who drew up a chair and took one of Jannet's hands to pat it and try to comfort her. "I ought not to care so much, perhaps," said Jannet, almost ready to cry, "but I loved to think that Mother has worn them. I'd think it a dream, but Nell, I put them on my neck and loved to have them there,--don't tell me that I'm quite crazy!" Jannet, smiling, was herself now. "Of course you are not crazy. I believe that the pearls were there, and where could they have gone? They did not walk off by themselves certainly, and there isn't another thing in the drawer. Could there be a crack in the bottom?" Nell tapped the delicate wood with her finger. "Not big enough to lose a big case full of pearls, Nell. Well, it can't be helped. I'll examine the desk to-morrow and see if they _could_ have been put in another drawer,--or something." As she spoke, Jannet began to open the little drawers which she knew, while Nell exclaimed over the tiny springs and the skill with which the drawers had been hidden. But Jannet did not want to make Nell have an unhappy time over her lost pearls. In a few moments she was her philosophical self again. "It can't be helped, Nell, and as I never did have them before, I can get along without them now. Let's get to bed. I'm glad that you think the room is pretty and the things nice. I'm wealthy enough in my mother's things without the pearls. It seems now as if I have been waiting all my life to come to this room!" It was as they settled down in bed, after putting the windows at the proper height and turning off the light, that Nell happened to think of something. "Jannet, you'll find your pearls! Didn't your fortune say that you would lose something and find it again?" "'You will find what you look for,'" replied Jannet, in such a good imitation of the old fortune-teller's cracked tones that Nell laughed and Jannet apologized, saying that she ought not to have made fun of Grandma Meer. "Poor old soul," said Nell, drowsily. For a wonder the girls did not lie awake to talk. It had been a full day and soon they were asleep; for Nell was an easy-going girl, not nervous about fancied ghosts in a room as bright and pleasant as this, while Jannet, accustomed to share her room and often her bed with Lina Marcy or some other school-girl, felt it quite natural to have company. What time it was when Jannet was suddenly wide awake, she did not know. A confused dream, the result, she well knew, of taffy and other good things to eat, was floating away from her. Nell was not stirring the least bit and she could not even hear her breathe. That was odd. Cautiously she turned, sighed, and reached over to touch her friend lightly, when suddenly Nell clutched Jannet's hand and reached Jannet's lips with her other hand to insure silence. Jannet squeezed Nell's hand to indicate understanding, but she was a little frightened. What was it? The same old ghost, a burglar, or was Nell only startled at some little sound? Jannet had bolted her door, but it would be possible for some one to climb up on the trellis and climb into the window which opened upon the little balcony, she remembered. That one she had not raised very high and the screen was in. It was pitch dark. There were no glimmerings of lights outside as in a city. The night was cloudy, without star or moon visible. Quite a breeze was stirring. Perhaps there would be another storm, though there were no flashes of electricity. "Tap, tap, tap, tap," she heard. Well, that might be the broken branch that she had noticed hanging against the pergola outside. Then a weird sound began. Perhaps that was what had wakened Nell. That must be the "Dutch Banshee" that Jan had mentioned. It was indescribable, something like the whistling of the wind, then a little like the hooting of an owl. Was that what Paulina meant, then? That _was_ a queer, rustling sound. Yes, it _did_ sound like someone lightly coming down a stairway; why, it sounded right in the wall, Jannet thought! Step, step, step, step, slowly. Paulina would be saying "That's '_Her!_'" Could it be true that there was something sinister and evil, or something unhappy, that could not rest, that came back to its old home? In the daytime Jannet would not have had these fearful thoughts, but it was eerie, indeed, to lie in a dark room and listen to sounds that she did not understand. A faint moaning sound began and suddenly stopped with a little choke or gasp. "Is Chick a ventriloquist?" whispered Jannet. "No," replied Nell, "and neither is Jan." For a few moments there was no sound at all. Then the "Dutch Banshee" began again. Jannet whispered, "Static,--Jan's radio!" "No," whispered Nell. "Keep still!" Jannet listened. Yes, it did sound more like a voice now. How scarey it did make a body feel! Anyhow it wasn't in the room. Jannet sat up in bed, determined not to be frightened as she had been before. If there were anything going on, she was going to see it, come what might! She wished again for the flashlight that she had forgotten and left at school. Nell gained courage and sat up, too. Now there was an odd light from somewhere. Why,--there was a dim veiled light on the wall, as if shining through! What in the world! There, it was gone. But some one was moaning,--no, sobbing! Next the sound, tap, tap, tap. Jannet again thought of Paulina's expression: "I suppose that's 'Her' coming down some stairs somewhere," she whispered to Nell, who still clutched her hand. "Let's put on the light and run to Paulina's room," Nell whispered, trying to pierce the darkness, and looking in the direction of the wall where the light had appeared. There it was for a moment again! Now it faded; then it came more strongly and went out again. "It looks as if somebody were passing back and forth behind a screen, Nell," whispered Jannet. "Come on." But just then there came that clicking sound that Jannet had heard on that other night. "Wait, Nell," she whispered. "I'll get to the door, and if nothing gets me, come, too." "No," again said Nell, holding Jannet as if to keep her in bed. There was somebody,--something,--in the room! A cover of the bed began to be drawn off, as before. Gently it moved. Jannet, ready for an experiment to find out if this were a person or a ghost that entered her room so mysteriously, reached for the slowly moving cover and gave it a jerk back toward her. She met with no resistance at all, and pulled the cover in a little heap around her by the force of her own effort. This was too much! Jannet leaped out of bed, seized Nell by the arm, and ran in the direction of the electric button and the door. As she pushed the button, she was sure that she heard a similar sound behind her, but she only glanced behind to see that no one was after them, as she pulled out the little bolt and pushed Nell into the hall ahead of her. Barefooted and breathless, the girls stood in the hall a moment, listening. Nothing followed them. They peeped back into the room after a few minutes. It was not cold, but both girls were shivering. "Do you suppose that the boys could fool us in some way?" asked Nell, who remembered her brother's tricks. "Perhaps one of them hid somewhere," said Jannet. "But how did he get out? This business of pulling a cover off happened once before, Nell. Perhaps there is a way of getting into the room. The windows were 'way up to-night, too." "Let's run down and see if the boys are in their room," suggested Nell. "All right, but the other time was before Jan got home." Back the girls went, somewhat timorously, to be sure, to put on slippers and kimonos. Thus clad, they slipped quietly down the back stairs, and Nell stepped close to the door to listen. A heavy pin, with which she had fastened her kimono, fell out at this juncture and in the stillness of the hall it made quite a little noise. "What's that?" they heard Chick say, and presently a low grunt answered him. The bed creaked and the girls flew upstairs as fast as they could, Nell retrieving her pin first. "Well," said Jannet, as they entered the room again, "shall we wake up Paulina and get things stirred up? You will be afraid to go to sleep again, won't you?" "I g-guess not," shivered Nell. "Put down the windows and leave the light on." "We'd smother, child," said Jannet. "Look under the bed, then. I refuse to get into it unless that is done." Nell tried to be jolly with poor success. "Perhaps that is where--It--was. Say, that was a funny feeling, Nell, to jerk that coverlid and find it come just too easy!" As before, Jannet went all over to see what she could see. There was no sign of any one's having been in the closets or in the bath room. The vines on the porch looked undisturbed. Jannet put the windows down to a point where they would have to be raised to admit anyone. Again she went over the paneled wall to see if there were a hidden door between her room and the next one. "But that light was too near the big chimney," she said. "Perhaps there might be an opening of some sort there." The girls looked up into the chimney with its bricks discolored by many a fire. "What's on the other side of the chimney?" Nell asked. "That other room just like this,--are you afraid to go in there?" "No," answered Nell, beginning to get over her scare. But they found the door of the other room locked and looked at each other as much as to say, "Perhaps the mystery lies here." "Nothing hurt us anyhow, Nell, as I thought before. We'll leave the side lights on and put that little screen I have up on a chair to keep the light out of our eyes. I haven't heard another sound, have you?" "No, I guess the ghosts have gotten through. What time is it, Jannet?" Jannet looked at her wrist watch but it had stopped. "The ghosts were too much for my timepiece, Nell, but it must be 'most morning. It is about the same time, I think, that the comforter went off my bed and never did come back. I've always wanted to ask Paulina about it, but someway, she is so sure about ghosts that I hated to stir her up, or draw any questions. I declare, Nell, I'm different here. _It's_ so different!" "I should say it is,--and yet you like this room." "Yes, Nell, I do, and I'm going to find out what or who does this. Maybe it's Paulina." "For half a cent I'd like to see if she is in her room. Don't you suppose she heard that moaning?" "I don't see how she could help it, and with our putting on and off lights all around, too." Jannet had scarcely stopped speaking when there was the sound of an opening door. The light went on in the hall again. "Girls," said Paulina, "did you hear it?" Jannet almost laughed out, for Paulina in her long muslin gown looked so funny. She had thrust her feet into immense woolen slippers, wore the little shoulder shawl, and--of all things--a night-cap,--over her hair! "Yes, Paulina, and we almost lost the coverlid, as I lost the blue comforter one night." "What?" asked Paulina, "that blue comforter that I put on your bed?" "Yes. I've never seen it since." "It's in the closet. I thought that you put it there." Jannet and Paulina eyed each other. Nell laughed. "It was us in the hall, with the lights on, Paulina." "I thought so. It was _Her_ in your room, then, I suppose." "Who is she, Paulina?" asked Jannet. "Not Mother, of course." "No. Ask your Uncle Pieter who cries and sobs and goes through walls. Go to bed. There'll be nothing more to-night. I'll not call you early." "Thank you, Paulina. I'm going to leave on one little light." Paulina made no reply to this remark, but went off in the sudden fashion she had, and the girls heard her door open and close. The human contact, and the assurance of "Old P'lina" that there would be no further disturbance, relieved the situation for the girls. Nell, with a sigh of relief, crawled between the sheets. "Ghost or no ghost, I'm going to sleep, Jannet." "So am I. But the next time, I'm going to '_yell_' for Paulina, and not try to see it through myself. Who do you suppose she meant when she told me to ask Uncle Pieter?" "His wife, I suppose. But there is a lots older ghost than she is, and I 'spect P'lina's mad at your Uncle Pieter about something. She's terribly queer herself, you know." "I'm going to get acquainted with Paulina and find out all about the family history. I've been afraid to ask her so far. I'm so sorry, Nell, for all this. I hope that you will sleep now." "I will. Don't worry. Some day I'll tell of this to my grandchildren and you will see their little eyes bulge out if you are around." Jannet laughed, as she arranged the screen and shook off her slippers to hop into bed. "Perhaps in time I'll get so used to our ghost," she said, "that I'll miss her if she does not perform every so often." "Sh-sh, Jannet! You might get her mad at you!" Jannet thought this so funny that she laughed till the bed shook, and Nell giggled with her. But both girls within were really rather serious over the affair, wondering and thinking for some time, Jannet's mind dwelling on the pearls as well. "Nell," she said, sleepily, after a little, "perhaps the ghost has my pearls. I've thought up a name for them,--Phantom Treasure. Now it's there, and now it isn't, but the ghost that has it had better beware!" CHAPTER X JANNET GATHERS HER IMPRESSIONS I am so ashamed, Lina, not to have written you a long letter before this. You are good to have sent me a letter in reply to those few cards. I had to write to Miss Hilliard, you know, and some way, I haven't felt like writing about some things that I have really wanted to tell you, like how I felt to be in my mother's room and all. I'll wait until I see you, I think. I am going to ask Uncle Pieter, when I know him better, if I can not have a little company this summer. I feel pretty sure that he will let me ask you for a visit, so please keep it in mind before you fill up the summer with other things. Then I can show you everything and tell you all about the mysteries here, for there are some that I do not understand. I meant to have a long talk with my uncle right away, yet I have been here for several weeks and I have not talked to him alone. I've been too timid to ask, for one thing; then he is busy about the place, and then I don't feel that I can go to him as I can to Miss Hilliard. He lets Cousin Di, or Mrs. Holt, look after my wants. Please, by the way, keep what I tell you to yourself, except what anybody might know. You will "use judgment" what to report to the girls that know you have had a letter from me. Your namesake is here, for one, in our family,--"Old P'lina," they call her and she is so odd. You will have to see her to appreciate her. She is the real housekeeper and just about owns the place. But while you are Adeline, she is Paulina, the i long. Mrs. Holt is a rather distant cousin who knows Uncle Pieter very well and was a much younger friend of his wife, who is dead. Her mother, Mrs. Perry, will be here pretty soon, they say. She went on a little visit and keeps staying. Cousin Di worries about it, though I'm sure I don't know why. Two of her friends from Albany have been here this week and they have had a fine time. Uncle Pieter likes to have company, Cousin Andy says, though he doesn't pay much attention to anybody, I must say. I suppose he just likes to have the big place full of people, not to be lonesome. Cousin Di is kind and easy-going. My lessons are a myth, for which I am not sorry. I don't see how I could have studied so far. Uncle Pieter looked at me one time, at dinner, and said, "You need not hurry about lessons, Diana. Jannet looks as if she has had about enough of school. I suppose, Jannet, that you have been trained to think that school hours are the only thing in the world worth keeping?" "Yes, sir," I said. "Aren't they? Most of the girls I know that amount to anything get their lessons." For once Uncle Pieter laughed out. "Yes, yes," he said, "I suppose that is so. Whatever you have to do, keep at it, if you want to put it through. But we shall change matters a little, with the permission of your guardian, of course." I did not like the way he said that, but then he does not know how fine Miss Hilliard is. I looked straight at him, but not saucily, and then I said, "Miss Hilliard is the one who has taken good care of me for all these years." I did not mean it for a "dig" at him, since of course he did not know that I existed. But I'm sure that he took it that way. He froze right up, and I wished that I had not said anything. "I must see Miss Hilliard very soon," he answered, "and relieve her of her charge." That scared me so that I sat right down at my lovely desk with the _secret drawers_, as soon as I reached my room, and wrote the conversation to Miss Hilliard. And I've wished ever since that I hadn't. I'm always doing something that I wish afterwards I hadn't,--but you know me, Lina! So you see that I don't know whether I like my uncle very much or not, though I am grateful to him for hunting me up and that _ought_ to make up for everything else. I think that Cousin Andy knows that his father is a little queer, for he makes it up to me by being extra nice. He is Andrew Van Meter and is somewhere around thirty years old, perhaps older, and was in the war. He was shell-shocked and wounded, but won't talk about it. He has some trouble with his back and there are days when he does not come to meals. I wanted to do something for him, read to him, or anything, but Cousin Di said not to, that Andrew wanted to be by himself at those times. But other times he is just as friendly as can be. He said that his father "is a very scholarly man," and Uncle Pieter does read in his library till all hours of the night, Cousin Di says. She told me that it was my great-grandfather who made all the first money in the family. My grandfather was a sort of "gentleman farmer" and had "investments;" and Uncle Pieter got through college early and lived in Albany with his family until his father wanted him to come out and run this place,--and, oh, Lina, it is a beautiful place! There is a big orchard and a wonderful woods. I don't know anything about what kind of land it is, but there is money enough somewhere to fix the house up and have everything the way Uncle Pieter wants it. I think that I mentioned Cousin Di's son in one of my cards. We are "Jannet and Jan," though Jan is called John at school. He is jolly and a little careless sometimes and carries his fun too far, Miss Hilliard would say, but I like him and his friend, "Chick" Clyde. I am getting well acquainted with Nell Clyde, who lives nearest of any of the young folks around here. Oh, it's so _different_, Lina, and I haven't begun to tell you the half! We have a family ghost, two or three of them, perhaps, and whatever it is, I've already had a queer experience or two that I'm not very keen on thinking about. My room seems to be the "haunted room," but I can't help but feel that somebody is responsible for these odd happenings and I'm going to find out about it just as soon as I can. You would think that I'd have loads of time, wouldn't you? There are no lessons and no recitation hours. But for some reason, I don't get half as much done. Perhaps I was a little tired, and then it has been so exciting to find my family and learn so many different things. Commencement will be here pretty soon. There is no chance of my going to Philadelphia for it, and really, Lina, I could not bring myself to leave right now. Don't say that to Miss Hilliard, though. She might think that I have lost interest, and I haven't a bit. Now you are saying that I might tell you more about the mysteries, but this letter is too long now. You can tell the girls that I'm in one of the fine old Dutch houses, with a ghost and everything, and that I've been having a great time, riding all over the place, and the country, and getting acquainted with people. I'll write you again after you are home. Do write again, though, and tell me all the news about the seniors and the play and how everything goes off. Give dear Miss Marcy a big hug for me. Aren't you lucky to have an aunt on the faculty! * * * * * So Jannet wrote to her chum and room-mate. Meanwhile Miss Hilliard and her friend Jannet's lawyer, had been making further inquiries about Pieter Van Meter, without discovering anything particularly to his credit. Miss Hilliard, busy with the last days of school, was relieved to find that there was no need to worry about the environment of her young protegée. Matters could rest where they were for the present. She had received no further suggestion from Mr. Van Meter in regard to a change in guardianship. This she did not intend to relinquish without being very sure that it was to Jannet's advantage. Of Jannet's first impressions, she thought little. Miss Hilliard's errand in Albany, upon that day when she put Jannet in charge of Mrs. Holt and Andrew Van Meter, was to the office of a lawyer in Albany, a gentleman of whom she had been told, prominent in the place and of a wide acquaintance. Briefly she related the object of her visit, when, fortunately for her limited time, she was able to have an immediate interview. "I want to make some inquiry about Mr. Pieter Van Meter and his family," she said, "and I was told that you would be a sincere source of information. I am the head of a school in Philadelphia, as you note by my card, and a young ward of mine, who knew nothing of this family, has just been discovered to be Mr. Van Meter's niece. There is some suggestion of a change of guardianship, to which I will not agree unless it is for the good of my ward. I rather think that the family must be of some standing, but the personality of Mr. Van Meter is unknown to me." Miss Hilliard paused, and looked inquiringly at the lawyer, a serious gentleman, who was listening to what she said with sober attention. "You are right in regard to the standing of the family. I should say that Mr. Van Meter's wealth would clear him from any suspicion of being concerned financially in a desire to become the guardian of his niece. I know him, but not intimately. He is regarded as peculiar, is close at a bargain, looking out for himself, but that can be said of many businessmen. I have never heard of anything dishonorable in connection with his transactions. To tell the truth, he seems to me like a disappointed and unhappy man. What there is back of that I do not know, unless it is the health of his son who is one of the war victims. Yet Andy, as we know him, is one of the finest lads, and his father may be glad to have him back at all. I understand, too, that there was serious difficulty between Mr. Van Meter and his second wife. At any rate she is not there any more. Indeed, she may not be living." "I know nothing about Mr. Van Meter's family, and only just met his son and the cousin who is practically in charge of Jannet, Mrs. Holt." "She is a very fine woman and consented to come with her mother, I understand, to make a home for Andy and give a cheerful atmosphere, needed particularly because his marriage was given up after the war. You need have no uneasiness about your ward so far as she is concerned. My family knows Mrs. Holt very well indeed." "Well, thank you, this little conference has been very helpful. I must make my train now, but I felt that I wanted some assurance in regard to the family with whom I am leaving Jannet, before I could go back to my work with a clear conscience." With this information, Miss Hilliard felt that a load had been rolled off, as she took the train back to New York, and later went on to Philadelphia with cheerful news for Miss Marcy and the other teachers who were especially interested in Jannet. "Yes, Jannet's people seem to be all that we could desire," she reported. Yet she was none the less interested in hearing what Jannet had to say about the household, and wondered over a vein of reserve in Jannet's letters, coming to the conclusion that Jannet was not relating everything, or was reserving her conclusions about her family till she was better acquainted. This Miss Hilliard quite approved. Jannet, to be sure, was quite ignorant of Miss Hilliard's conference in Albany and might have been very much interested in it, especially in one bit of information which she did not possess at this time, that relating to the fact of a second wife. CHAPTER XI JANNET BEGINS HER SEARCH It must not be supposed that "Jannetje Jan Van Meter Eldon" was frightened into leaving her room and fleeing into the newer part of the great house. She felt decidedly uncomfortable after the visitation, or the ghostly phenomena, to which she and Nell Clyde had been subjected. Had Jannet been brought up in the midst of superstition, she might not have been so sure that there was a human cause back of the manifestations, but she was more determined than ever to find out how these things had happened. She was inclined to suspect Jan, though the fact that he had not arrived at the time the blue comforter had disappeared was an objection there. "If the boys _did_ do it," said Nell, that next morning, "it was mean of them, and I don't see how I ever could forgive Chick for frightening me so." "It was possible for one of them to get into the window, I suppose," answered Jannet, "and you remember that there was a short time before we got to their door. Jan could have let himself down from the balcony and gotten into his own window in a jiffy. Perhaps he could have thrown the light on the wall in some way, and he certainly could have made those noises, only I scarcely see how they could have come from the direction they seemed to come from unless Jan knows how to throw his voice." "I'm sure that he doesn't," said Nell. "_I_ think that it was Paulina!" "_That_ could be," said Jannet. "She looked awfully queer, and she had heard it all, and she wanted us to think that it was 'Her.' But I can't imagine why she would do it. She is so mortally sensible and matter-of-fact about everything else." "That's the very kind," insisted Nell. "I don't think that Paulina is so very smart; besides, Jan and Chick say that she is 'queer in the bean'." Jannet laughed at this expression. "That sounds like Jan. He has all sorts of slang for every occasion. But I'm not so sure. Paulina may have been scared by things like this long before any of us came here, and you know how stories grow. I'm going to talk to Paulina myself. I'm not going to let this go and not try to find out about it. I may talk to Uncle Pieter, too, but not yet." "Your courage is not quite up to that yet?" laughed Nell. "Not quite, Nell." The girls did not have a chance to see how the boys looked and acted that morning, for Paulina called them so late that they missed the boys altogether. Chick had gone home, to meet Jan at the train later, and Mrs. Holt had driven off with Jan, intending to do some errands for him before he started back to school. The maid who helped Paulina gave Nell and Jannet a good breakfast, after which Nell rode home, warning Jannet in farewell not to "do anything rash." Jannet, bare-headed, stood in the rear of the house, waving goodbye to Nell. Then she slowly sauntered up the path which led to the pergola, under her own windows and those of the room in front. "I'm going in there first," she said to herself. Accordingly, she decided to get permission from headquarters, and as she had seen her uncle go into the house a short time before, she crossed the court to the rear of the new building and entered it. Her uncle was just coming out of his library when she met him. "Uncle Pieter," she began, and he stopped in front of her with the air of being in a hurry. "Excuse me, sir,--but I have just one little question." Mr. Van Meter smiled a little. "Well, Jannet, you need not be afraid to ask it. I'll not bite." This made Jannet feel more at home with him and she laughed. "Uncle Pieter, do you care if I go around the old house and find out all about it? I'd like to go into some of the rooms and into the attic, too, perhaps." "You are not afraid of Paulina's ghosts, then?" "Not so very." "Go anywhere you please, my child. Get the keys from Diana, or from Paulina. I'm rather pleased that you should take the interest." "Oh, _are_ you, Uncle Pieter? Thank you _so_ much. I'll not hurt anything." "From what I have noticed about you, I feel sure that you will not. And Jannet, I have been wanting to talk to you about the plans for our summer and other things. Come into the library after supper. No, there will be some people here. I will see you to-morrow morning about ten o'clock." "Yes, sir," Jannet replied, and Mr. Van Meter hurried on his way down the hall, into the back entry and outdoors again. Her uncle had confidence in her then, and he had noticed her, and she could go anywhere,--hurrah! Jannet felt like performing a jig then and there, but somebody might see and be shocked. It would be better to reserve such performances for her own room, whither Jannet sped immediately to think out the campaign. First, where were the pearls? Who had taken them? Second, who had played the part of ghost? Why? Or was there such a thing as an unhappy ancestral spirit that wandered around at times? This was not the first time Jannet had asked herself these questions, and now once more she examined her desk, going over every inch of it to make sure that she had not omitted any secret drawer, had not missed any little spring. Again she opened the drawer where the lovely case and pearls had lain. Regret was almost a pain when she saw it so empty. It certainly _could_ not have been her uncle, though it was possible. How about Paulina? Cousin Andy,--impossible! Cousin Di, likewise impossible. Yet the pearls were gone. Could her uncle have taken them out by a sudden thought of surprising her with them some time? He might think that she could not have found that most secret of drawers. Jannet exhausted in thought the whole range of possibility. Perhaps some one had seen her open the drawer,--from the balcony! But her back was toward the balcony,--no, she had put on the necklace and gone to her mother's picture and around the room. But who would climb the balcony, other than Jan or Chick or some other boy? Perhaps a burglar,--yet nothing else was missed, to her knowledge. It certainly was a mystery. Perhaps she would tell her uncle the next morning. Jannet rather dreaded that interview. For she was used to ladies, her teachers, and knew scarcely any gentlemen except the lawyer in Philadelphia, Lina's father, and now these relatives. After her musings and searchings at the desk, Jannet went all over her room again, looking closely at the paneled walls, and examining the chimney and mantel. She even ran her hands down the boards, to see if there were a spring, and again peered among the sooty bricks inside the great chimney. There was a small closet at one side of the chimney, where tongs and shovel or any necessary paraphernalia might be kept. This was clean and bare and gave no evidence of an opening. Thinking it likely that Mrs. Holt might be back by this time, Jannet went by the long corridor to where Mrs. Holt slept, but there was no answer to her knock. Then she wandered downstairs again; but Cousin Diana was doing errands and did not get home until after dinner. She was in fine spirits, telling laughingly things that the boys had said before their departure and displaying to Jannet some of the pretty articles which she had bought. Jannet went with her to her room to help her with her packages. "Did the boys tell you to ask Nell and me if the ghost walked last night?" queried Jannet on an impulse. "Why?" quickly returned Mrs. Holt. "Were they playing tricks on you and Nell?" "We think that perhaps they were." "I heard what Jan calls the 'Dutch Banshee,'" said Jan's mother, "but I imagine that it is only the wind, whistling in the chimney, or in some odd corner. You don't worry about ghosts, do you Jannet?" "No, Cousin Diana. And that makes me think of what I wanted to ask you this morning. I want to poke around a little and see everything, and I asked Uncle Pieter if he cared. He said he didn't and that you or Paulina would give me keys. I'd like to see again the front room on my hall, and the attic, too, and anything else that is interesting." "I used to like to poke around in attics, too," said Mrs. Holt, "but I outgrew that long before I came here. Perhaps there are boxes of your mother's in the attic, and there may be chests of bygone ancestors,--who knows? But you wouldn't want _me_ to go there with you, would you? I'm not fond of cobwebs and low ceilings to bump my head." How nice Cousin Di was! She knew what girls liked to do. "Oh, no," said Jannet, "I'll go by myself. I would love it if there were old chests and trunks that I could look into. But they would be locked, too, wouldn't they?" "I suppose that they will be." Cousin Diana went to her desk and soon handed to Jannet a jingling bunch of keys marked "Attic Keys." "There are more of them than I recalled. Keep them as long as you want them, but lock everything up when you leave the attic, please, and elsewhere, too." "I will," promised Jannet, receiving more keys. "Not many of the help are in the house at night, but any of them might take a notion to rummage around there by day; and while there can not be anything of any great value there, we do not want to lose what has been thought worthy to keep. I feel a sense of responsibility, now that I am temporarily in charge." "Has Paulina keys?" "Yes, I believe so. I have never directed her to clean the attic." "If Paulina wanted to, I don't believe that she would need to be directed." Cousin Diana answered Jannet's mischievous look with a smile. "I see that you already appreciate Paulina," she remarked. After leaving her cousin, Jannet went straight to the front room whose great fireplace was a duplicate of hers. Unlocking the door, she stepped inside, finding herself in a large, shadowy room, whose shades were down and whose furniture was draped in coverings. From these swathed chairs, perhaps, came that smell of moth balls. A large mirror between two windows revealed dimly her own figure. Jannet put up the shades and opened a window. She intended to look thoroughly for any evidences of the "ghost." Here was a possibility. Perhaps from this side there could be found some opening. There had been funny noises in that wall, at any rate. But never did walls look more innocent. She scanned them closely. There was a little closet which corresponded to the one in her room. Another, high and deep, corresponded to her clothes closet. They certainly were large closets, the depth of the big chimney, she supposed. Jannet examined the walls of the closets and of the room. She even looked at the ceiling for a possible trap door, though how the ghost could have flown so quickly out of her own room she could not imagine. This was a fine old room, but it offered no solution of her problems, so far as she could see. One thing, however, confirmed her in her idea of some secret passage,--the space between the rooms, the size of that great chimney. CHAPTER XII THE OLD ATTIC Jingling her keys happily, Jannet went up the attic stairs, which led from the second floor back hall by a door not far from Paulina's room. More than once she had heard Jan and Chick clattering down the two flights, first the attic stairs, banging the door shut, then the back stairs from the second floor to the first. If _they_ were not afraid to be up there, why should _she_ be afraid of the attic? She did wish for Nell, though on second thought she came to the conclusion that it was just as well for her to investigate alone first. There might be things that some one outside the family could not appreciate. Family was a big thing to Jannet just now. Had she not just acquired one? Inserting her key in the lock of the door opposite Jan's den, she found that it did not turn anything in the right direction to unlock it. She immediately tried the door and found that it was already unlocked. "H'lo, P'lina," she said, for there was Paulina, bending over a small trunk, her own, without doubt. "Do you keep some things up here, too? Aren't you afraid of the ghost?" Jannet was laughing as she spoke, but Paulina straightened up and favored Jannet with a stony stare. Then without a word she bent again and locked her trunk. Jannet stood quietly, looking around at boxes and trunks neatly placed in this part of the attic, and at dim shapes further along, where boards had been laid over the rafters and lath. "You ought not to be up here," hoarsely said Paulina at last. "I'm going now; come. I want to lock the attic door." "I asked Uncle Pieter for permission," Jannet returned, "and Cousin Diana gave me these keys. I did not expect to find any one at all here." Jannet dangled her keys before Paulina's eyes. "_Why_ don't you think I ought to be here, Paulina? If there is anything wrong with the place, Uncle Pieter ought to be told." "Your uncle knows all that he wants to know," replied Paulina. She frowned and was obviously displeased at Jannet's being there. Jannet wondered what she would have thought if Nell had come, too. But Paulina could just get over thinking that she could run everything. At Miss Hilliard's school, Jannet was in the habit of obedience to her elders. Here, too, she respected the authority of her uncle and her cousins, but beyond them, Jannet's Dutch independence asserted itself. "I'm sorry, Paulina," Jannet said courteously, "that you don't want me to be in the attic, but I have every right to be here and I shall stay. You need not be worried about anything of yours. I shall not touch your trunk, and if you will tell me what else is yours, I will certainly keep away from it." But Paulina made no reply. She stalked out with her usual stiffness, leaving the door open. "Of all the impolite people, you are the worst I ever saw," thought Jannet, but she did not say it aloud. Perhaps, after all, Paulina's silence was better than harsh words. The field was Jannet's. What should she do first? She did not quite like to explore the dim recesses, beyond the wider, well floored part, when she was by herself. Perhaps she would reserve that till Nell could be with her. There was a window in this part, shut and fastened with a nail, loosely pushed in. Jannet pulled out the nail, raising the old, small-paned window and finding that it would not stay up. But she saw a piece of wood that must have been used for the purpose and with this she propped the window, letting the fresh air in and also increasing the amount of light, for there was a calico curtain over the window panes, tacked to the frame. It was quite neat here, not newly mopped or fresh as the other parts of the house were, but the floor had been swept back as far as the rows of trunks and chests extended. Jannet's eye was caught by an old single bed, whose length extended along one wall, away from the window. On this were bundles, of odd sizes, she guessed, from the different bulges in the old cover over the whole, a piece of yellowed, gay-figured percale, or muslin of a sort. A rickety rocking-chair, of modern make, and a tall, gray-painted cupboard were the only pieces of furniture that Jannet could see. It was quite evident that her uncle had had all the valuable furniture of an older day put into use, keeping no useless articles to fill the attic. Even the old, old cradle stood in the old kitchen, not far from the old, old settle, with its rockers, too. Jannet's eye, which had become practiced by this time among the so-called antiques, recognized something good in the narrow bed against the wall. That was an old-timer, too; but there was, perhaps, no place for it, or it was not quite ancient enough. Jannet lifted the gay cover to peer beneath. One bundle, newly tied in newspapers not quite covering the contents, showed comforters, put away now for the warmer season. Bundles of longer standing showed dingy in muslin covers. These, surely, were not interesting. A long, painted chest whose lock was broken, disclosed piles of extra sheets, pillow cases and other stores of the same kind, when Jannet lifted its worn lid. But the trunks were more attractive in possibilities, and Jannet tried to read the names or letters on their sides. Here was one that must have been her grandmother's and this big one had her mother's initials upon it. She would open that pretty soon. And oh, what odd little things those were in the corner, two square, black trunks, if you could call them that. They were more like boxes in size, but they had all the straps of a trunk. And if there wasn't a little old hair trunk under the two of them! It was a wonder that Uncle Pieter had not taken it down into the kitchen! Jannet decided to open her mother's trunk and looked through her keys, trying several before she found one which would fit the lock. Her mother might have put away the contents just before her marriage, thinking that she would soon be home again to look them over. Jannet pulled the trunk out from the rest, opened the top and drew up the rickety rocking-chair, which she tried carefully before trusting herself to it. Comfortably seated, with a few rays of the afternoon sunlight coming over her shoulder to the trunk, Jannet commenced her survey. There were all sorts of "cubbies" in this trunk. One in the very top of the trunk opened down, when one loosened a leather strap from a button. But in this there were only a handful of flowers ripped from some hat, some pink roses, still very pretty, and a wreath of yellow buttercups and green leaves. Jannet decided to get a big sun hat and wear that wreath this summer. In the top tray, two hats, perfectly good, but of a style impossible to wear now, occupied the compartment for hats, with several veils and more French flowers. Some letters were loosely packed in along the sides, with some foreign postcards, much scribbled. In the compartment next, there were a pile of old music, some note books, photographs, more letters, and over all a sheer white organdy dress, washed but not ironed, and pressed in irregularly to fill the compartment. Jannet lifted out this tray to find another beneath it. Ah, _here_ were pretty things! Neatly folded, a light blue silk lay on top, covered with a linen towel. A lace and net dress was beneath this. Jannet did not disturb the folds. These could be examined when she had more of the day before her. In the lower part of the trunk, Jannet found more pretty clothes and a box containing her mother's wedding veil. This, indeed, she drew out, handling it with a certain reverence. Yes, it was the veil in the picture, delicate, with rose point lace and the pretty crown still as it had been worn except for the orange blossoms. These Jannet found lying in another box among the dresses. Dry and ready to fall to pieces at a touch, they were easily recognized, nevertheless. Touched and silent, Jannet sat still for a few moments, the veil half out of the box in her hands, the little box with the orange blossoms open beside her. It was sad, but it was worth everything to have these things that made her mother so real, her pretty mother! For a little while Jannet sat and read a few of the letters. It could do no harm. They were from girl friends, some of them to accompany wedding presents or to announce their impending arrival. "May you have a long and happy life together," said one. "Douglas is a dear. I had an eye on him myself, but it was of no use, with you singing the heart out of him!" Girls then were much as they were now, Jannet thought. From her short span of years it did seem so long ago. Pulling out her mother's trunk had disclosed a small box behind it, a pretty box of dark wood, stained and rubbed like the nice furniture of the house. The lock was of gilt, a little discolored, but the whole looked like something valuable, or at least interesting. Jannet tried all her keys without success and then, without thinking more of the box, she went back to the trunk, becoming deeply engaged in the contents of a little pasteboard box which was full of funny notes and the treasures of her mother's younger days. There was even a tiny doll, dressed in a wee silken dress with a train. And in the bottom of the box there was a brass key,--the very one which might fit the little dark box. Replacing the pasteboard box, Jannet with some curiosity tried the key and found that it opened the other box. A piece of old muslin covered the contents. This Jannet raised to find an old doll with a cloth body, some doll clothes, stained and faded and under these some doll dishes, carefully packed. These could not have been her mother's. They were too old, too odd. Suddenly it seemed lonesome. Jannet began to feel nervous and depressed. She blamed herself for being a little goose, not in the least realizing that a sensitive girl of her sympathies could not help having her feelings worn upon a little by all this. Jumping up from locking the little box again, Jannet closed the trunk which was proving to be such a treasure chest. She had scarcely disturbed part of it, and there were other delightful possibilities in prospect before her. She must have Nell over soon, for while she could go on by herself, and in a way she preferred to find her mother's things by herself, still,--Nell was sensible, smart and good company. She would take an interest, too, in discovering any source of ghostly revels. If Nell were afraid, this part of the attic, at least, offered no signs of anything but ordinary storage. Now, if she could only conciliate Paulina in some way and hear all that "old P'lina" thought about it. That was a good plan! She would try it! CHAPTER XIII UNCLE PIETER AS AN ALLY Promptly at ten o'clock the next morning, Jannet was waiting in the library for her uncle. She had timidly said at breakfast, "I will be in the library at ten, Uncle Pieter," and he had replied, "Very well, Jannet." She had brought with her the little slip of paper which she had found in the book. If she had opportunity, she was going to sound him about it, or show it to him, provided she could screw her courage to the point. Just why she should be afraid of her Uncle Pieter, Jannet did not know, but he did not invite confidences. She was sure that he had not the least sentiment about him. But she was not ready to accept any gossip about him. She would find out for herself what sort of a man her uncle was. As she sat there, thinking, in the midst of the books that lined the walls or stood out in their cases, she remembered what Miss Hilliard had once said in warning the girls: "Most of us are talked about from the cradle to the grave. Some of what 'they' say is true and a good part of it is not." It was a quarter past ten when her uncle hurried into the library and hung his hat on a small rack. He was in riding costume and looked very nice, Jannet thought, a little like Andy. "I'm late, Jannet. Do not follow my example. I was detained, on an errand to the next farm. Now, let me see, what were we going to talk about?" "I have ever so many things to talk to you about," soberly said Jannet, "but you had something, you said, about plans and things." "Then we'll talk about 'plans and things' first," said her uncle smiling a little. He sat down by his desk, leaning back comfortably in a large chair there and motioning Jannet to a seat near him. For a moment he drummed on the desk with the fingers of his right hand, looking down thoughtfully. "You may have wondered why I have not talked to you before," he said at last, "but it takes some time to gather up the history of fifteen years or so, and I have hoped that you might find out some things gradually and form the rest. I am not much of a talker. "The particular thing that I want to ask you is whether you like it here enough to make it your home, whether you will consent to give up your school to be tutored, with some travel, and a few advantages that I think I can give you, or whether you would prefer to go back to the other mode of life. It may be too soon to ask you this. If so, we can put it off." Jannet was surprised, and more at her own feeling. "No, Uncle Pieter, it is not too soon. I felt as soon as I reached my mother's room that here was home. But you would not mean to cut me off from the people that have been so good to me, would you?" "No, but I'd like to get you away from the eternal atmosphere of a school. I feel a responsibility, now that I know you are on earth." "Why, do you?" Jannet's face lit up. Perhaps Uncle Pieter really liked her a little, too. "That is nice, but I had vacations, you know,--only I have never really belonged anywhere." Her uncle nodded. "I thought as much," he said. "Understand that I find no fault with a school. But when I found that you had practically lived in one all your life, I thought it was time for something else." Mr. Van Meter frowned and rubbed his hands together in a nervous way which he sometimes had. "How you came to be lost to us I can not understand at all. Why your grandmother did not notify us of your father's death is another strange thing. Surely her undoubted jealousy of your poor mother would not go that far." "Oh, it didn't, Uncle Pieter! I have a little note that says she had written." "And there was the matter of your grandfather's legacy. Have you had that?" "No, sir. I have Grandmother Eldon's little fortune, enough to keep me in school. Then I thought perhaps I'd be a missionary." Mr. Van Meter's frown changed into a smile. "I've no doubt you'd make a good one, Jannet, but suppose you try your missionary efforts here for a while." Jannet met her uncle's eye. Actually there was a twinkle in it! "At least it would be as well to stay with us until you are grown, Jannet, and we have a chance to clear everything up. Now your grandfather died before your mother did. That much is sure. We have a letter, or did have it, written by your mother the day we telegraphed about your grandfather's passing. Then we received sad telegrams and orders for flowers, for she could not come, though we told her that it might be possible to wait for the funeral till she arrived. Your father wrote, also. Then there was silence, Jannet, a silence so long that we did not know what to make of it. "It was not so strange that Jannet would not write often to me, for I was so much older and your mother, too, thought that I was interfering and dictatorial and I admit that I thought her impulsive and foolish. She thought that I did Andy a great injustice by my second marriage and matters were on an uneasy footing between us when she was married." This was the first mention of the second marriage that Jannet had heard, but she kept herself from showing any surprise. "But that there should be no communication," continued Mr. Van Meter, "was strange, particularly as I had written her that when she came home in the summer, we could arrange about anything she wanted and her own furniture. Father did an unusual thing, you see. He knew that he could not live a great while and while we had no inkling of that, for he was as active as ever, he divided the property, giving me the home place, giving Jannet another farm and certain bonds and securities which were sent her and which she received. Indeed, I sold the farm for her, with Father's permission, after he finally overcame all our objections and said that he preferred to see how we would 'carry on.' Yet both of us reserved certain funds for Father. Such was the arrangement, and a very poor one from a parent's standpoint, though Father was safe enough in trusting us. "I had made a quick trip to Europe on business. My wife reported no letters from your mother on my return. I wrote, and received word that they had moved. I found the new address after considerable trouble. No one was there. A new family had moved in. The word was that all had died of the 'flu' or something of the sort. I heard several conflicting stories. The one nearest the truth, according to what I found out about you, was that your father, half ill, started East with you and that your mother died at the hospital, either before or after that time." "He told Grandmother that my mother had died," Jannet supplied. "I see. There is only one thing, Jannet, that has made me feel strange about it all, and that is a telegram that I found after a long time. Date and address were torn off. Some one in the household had made a mistake. It blew at my feet from some pile of rubbish back where it is burned." Mr. Van Meter pulled out a drawer in his desk and took from it a piece of yellow paper, such as is used in telegrams. He handed it to Jannet. "If you feel so I can never again set foot in your house." This was the message that the surprised Jannet read. She looked up into her uncle's face in inquiry. "Why, that reminds me of a slip of paper that I found in a book. Perhaps just your not replying to something may have made her send the telegram." "I did not think of that. I was away,--what was the slip of paper?" Jannet handed to her uncle the slip which she had found. He frowned over it, reading it more than once and looking off into space as if trying to recall something. "I never saw that before, Jannet," said he, handing it back to her. "This looks pretty serious, Jannet. It looks as if you owe to some unfriendly hand the fact that your mother was so separated from us and that you have been among strangers since your grandmother's death." "Do you think that my mother could possibly be alive somewhere?" "Of course I do not know the date of this telegram, but the word of her death seemed so clear that I never tried to trace the telegram after finding it. I would not cherish such a possibility, Jannet. Wherever she is, in that other world that she believed in, she will be glad that you are here, and I am glad to have an opportunity to make up to you what I seemed in her eyes to lack." Mr. Van Meter spoke kindly, but a little bitterly at the last. "Oh, I _believe_ you, Uncle Pieter!" cried Jannet, stretching out a slender hand to him. He took it, patted it and let her draw it back as gently as she had given it. Then Jannet drew her chair closer and said, "Now may I take time to tell you what has been happening?" "Yes, child. What is it?" One entering the library would have seen an interesting picture for the next half hour. The eager Jannet leaned on the desk with both elbows, and a bright face rested between her two hands as she related to her uncle every detail of her ghostly experiences and told him all about the pearls. She was utterly forgetful of herself and her fear of her uncle. Indeed, that had left her for all time. Mr. Van Meter, thoughtful, as always, listened, smiling a little from time to time, for Jannet told it all in her own vivid way, amused herself, at different times, especially when she told of how she and Nell listened at the boys' door and of how funny Paulina looked in her night-cap. At the close of the recital, Mr. Van Meter questioned her further about the pearls, as that seemed to be the most serious feature of the matter. "I feel sure that you will find Jan at the bottom of the ghost affair," he said. "Of course, you could scarcely offend Paulina more than to express your disbelief in the family ghost. But if you and Nell want to investigate, you have my full permission, so far as you keep within safe bounds. I gather that the ghost has not offered to harm you in any way?" "No, sir, even if it did want my comforters." "I fancy that there will not be any more ghostly visitations till the next time Jan is home, but let me know if there is one. I should like to enjoy it with you." Mr. Van Meter spoke so seriously that Jannet looked at him doubtfully. It was hard to tell what Uncle Pieter meant sometimes. But he wasn't such a riddle as "Old P'lina," anyhow. "Well, don't you think it possible, Uncle Pieter, that there is a secret passageway of some sort?" "It is entirely possible, Jannet. I had no work done by the carpenters about the old chimney, though it was pointed up and had bricks renewed at its top. I am too busy now to do anything, but later I may be of some assistance. By the way, Jannet, did you know that Andy mounted a horse and rode with me quite a little? All at once his back seems to be better. The doctors said it might be so. Do you like Andy?" "Oh, yes, Uncle Pieter! No one could help loving Cousin Andy." It was not until Jannet had left the library and her uncle that she recalled one thing which she had forgotten. She had not asked him how he had discovered her. But her doubts about her uncle were at rest. He was a peculiar man in some respects. Jannet felt that he was ashamed to show the least emotion, but she was sure that he had some feelings for all that. She might never love him as she could love her cousin Andy, but she respected him. More than ever Jannet felt herself a part of her mother's family. Hurrah for Jannet and Nell, the famous "deteckatives," she thought, and before dinner she telephoned Nell to see how soon she could come over. "I've got lots of things to tell you, Nell," she urged. "I'd love to come to-day, Jannet," Nell replied, "but we have company. I was just going to call you to see if you could ride over this afternoon. Can't you?" "Why, yes, I can, so far as I know now. I'll call you later." Thus it happened that attic investigations were postponed; but the detective-in-chief sought an interview with one of the main "suspects" as soon as she could. CHAPTER XIV JANNET AND "OLD P'LINA" Mr. Van Meter had advised silence on the matter of the pearls, but told Jannet to report to him if she suspected anyone in particular. "Your Cousin Di is above suspicion, and as for Andy and me, I can assure you that we have not acquired any pearls of late. As to Paulina, I could scarcely imagine such a thing. Drop into the kitchen and get acquainted with the cook, Jannet, and the maids, in a natural way." Jannet remembered this, but it was not natural for Jannet to drop into a kitchen, no matter how much she wanted to do it. Such things at school had been expressly forbidden, and at the Marcys' the members of the family were the cooks. However, she braced herself for the effort and pleased the black cook beyond expression by appearing at the outside door after a canter and saying, "Seems to me I smell something awfully good, Daphne. Don't tell me that you are baking a cake!" "Come in, come in, Miss Jannet. How come you ain't been here befo'?" The shining chocolate-colored face beamed and white teeth shone, as fat Daphne, so inappropriately named, hastened from the stove to pull up a chair for Jannet. "Jes' you wait, honey," and Daphne's fat figure shook as she hurried back to the oven door and opened it with the dish towel in her hand. "Yum, yum," said Jannet, as a big pan of ginger cookies, the big, soft kind, was drawn out and the savory odors were wafted her way. "Has Ah got cake foh suppuh? Sho Ah has! But sumpin' mus' atol' me to mek cookies." Deftly Daphne took the hot cookies from the pan with a pancake turner and set the brown crock, into which she put them, before Jannet on the table. This was fine. Jannet daintily took hold of one hot cooky and dropped it immediately, which amused Daphne very much. But that lady was pulling a second pan from the oven and hurrying to put other cookies, rolled and cut and laid in similar pans, into the hot oven. "Git a sauceh f'om the pantry, chile. Them cookies will be cool in a minute." The big kitchen of the new part was not very hot, though the day was warm. A pleasant breeze from a window near Jannet ruffled her fair hair and cooled her. She watched Daphne, as the last of the dough was rolled out upon the board and the cookies cut in different shapes with the cutters. There were plenty, and she would eat all she wanted in such a hospitable atmosphere. Daphne only wanted a listener and began to tell Jannet how she was descended from the slaves that the Dutch settlers had in the old days. "Yaas'm, Ah is practicably a membeh of de fambly. Ma fatheh, he done got lonesome, foh ain' many colohed folks around heah. So he went to Gawgia, whah a cousin lived, and he ma'ied ma motheh an' Ah lived in Gawgia. But Ah come back. Yaas," chuckled Daphne, "Ah wanted to see whah ma fatheh come f'om, an' yo uncle Pieteh, he put me right in de new kitchen." Daphne dropped her voice, looked around and rolled her eyes mysteriously. "His secon' wife, she was fussin' about havin' things the way she wanted 'em, an' Paulina, she ain' none so easy to git along with, but ma motheh, _she_ was cook in a _big place_ in Gawgia, so they seed Ah could _cook_, an' they lef' me _do_ it. Has you seen dat slick-headed gal Paulina takes around to help her clean?" "Oh, yes, of course, Daphne. There are only the two maids." "She went away when yo' uncle's second wife lef', but back she come in about a month an' Paulina got yo' uncle to take her in again. She's allays talkin'--don't like country, don' like country, but she stays, an' Hepsy says that Paulina lets her keep a box in the ghos's attic!" Again Daphne's eyes rolled and she made deprecatory gestures with her capable hands and the towel, as once more she bent to the oven. Jannet, her mouth full of delectable, warm cooky, thought that this was growing more interesting. "She helps clean Jan's den sometimes, doesn't she?" "Yaas'm, but Ah doesn't think Paulina likes huh. Sometimes Ah thinks she's got sumpin' on Paulina. Anyhow Ah hea'd yo' cousin Jan ask Paulina that once. Ah didn' know what he meant at fus'." "That's modern slang, Daphne," laughed Jannet. "Jan's a great boy. Where are the girls, anyway? I haven't seen them around." "Takin' they aftehnoon off." "I see. Well, I do thank you Daphne for letting me have the _grand_ cookies and not minding my bothering you. I'll run along now." "Yo' ain' no botheh no way. Come in any time. Oh, say, Ah'll be frostin' mah big cake in about an houah. Don' yo' want to tas' the frostin' out o' the pan?" "Yes, I do, Daphne. I'll be back to lick the pan all right!" Laughing, Jannet ran out of the back door again and around to the back of the old house. Already she had a point or two. The girl Vittoria, a harmless-looking, slim young woman, with small black eyes and a smooth black bob, revealed when her cap was off, was frequently about the halls of the old building, dusting, or doing some other legitimate work. She had been here, perhaps, that summer when the telegram,--no, she must be getting crazy. That was too long ago. Vittoria was too young,--but _was_ she so very young? How long ago did this separation between her uncle and his wife occur? Cousin Di could tell her. She would overcome her hesitation to ask these questions, since it was not curiosity that prompted her. But it was Daphne that told her, when she went back to the kitchen for the frosting, just in the "nick o' time," Daphne told her, handing her the pan with a generous leaving of the soft white mixture. Daphne had been thinking, too, and wanted to ask Miss Jannet about the ghost in the old house and if she had seen it. No, she had not seen it, exactly, Jannet told her, but she had heard what Paulina _said_ was a ghost. "Ah nebbah hea'd it but once," impressively said Daphne, raising her two black hands, "an' once wuz enough! Befo' they tuk the wings off'n the ol' house, Ah slep there one time; an' in the night,--whoo! sich a screechin' as Ah hea'd! Ah puts mah haid undeh mah kivehs--an' Ah stuffs mah fingehs in mah eahs, an' Ah _nevah knowed nuthin' mo' ontil mawnin'_. But Ah nevah let on Ah was skeered outside de fambly! A no-count hand oveh at Clyde's sez to me, 'Ah hea'd yo' wuz skeered by yo-alls' ghos' odder night, Daphne,'--an Ah sez to him, 'Huh,' Ah sez, 'ain' nuffin to skeeah a pusson 'bout _ouah fambly ghos'_,' and Ah puts mah haid high an' walks off!" "I'm glad that you are loyal to our family, Daphne," said Jannet. "How long is it since my uncle's second wife went away?" "'Bout two yeahs. Yo' uncle, he put up with it foh a long, long time. She'd have what Paulina called 'hysterics,' but I calls plain tempeh. They wuz maghty still about it and Paulina, she would git the camphire an' things an' go an' tek keeah o' Mis' Van Meteh. Sich goin's on! An' Vittoria sez that a ghos' sobs an' ca'ries on jis lak her now." "Why, is she dead, too?" "Yaas'm, Ah s'pose so. Yaas'm, she mus' a passed away." It was a sad subject, but it was all that Jannet could do to keep her face straight at Daphne's mournful shaking of the head that accompanied her last remark. "It's all too bad, Daphne. I feel sorry for Uncle Pieter." "Yo' uncle, he is a ve'y high-handed man, but ev'body in his house gits well paid." Here was one tribute to Uncle Pieter, at least. Jannet ran off to her room carrying a large piece of cake which Daphne had insisted on cutting for her, saying, too, that the cake would be cut before being served anyhow. The first adventure had been a pleasant one; but how would she fare with Paulina, whom she intended to "beard" in her room that evening? Unless she were shut out and the door locked upon her, she would have a talk with Paulina about the ghost and anything else that seemed important. Perhaps Paulina could recall that time when Uncle Pieter was away and the telegram came. There was no use in hesitating, or in waiting. She might be asking questions of the very "villainess" who would take advantage of her to conceal the truth, but one had to risk something. Out of the confusion in Jannet's mind, facts about the family were taking shape. For her uncle's sake she would like to find out who had prevented him from receiving the message from his sister, though she believed what he had told her. But nothing could make any difference now to her mother, and since Uncle Pieter had found her at last, she would try to make up to him for the old misunderstanding, as he had promised to make up to her for the years without a family. Then there was the very important matter of finding out who had taken the pearls, or, at least of recovering them, if possible. To stop the nonsense about a ghost and to prevent the repetition of such annoying disturbances made another of Jannet's purposes. She, too, suspected Jan, yet Paulina might have had a hand in it, and how about the maid, Vittoria? If she had a box in the old attic,--well, _that_ was to be considered. And all other things aside, how _thrilling_ it would be to discover some secret passage and perhaps find out why it had been made. Jannet could scarcely wait for Nell's company to go away. She made an occasional trip to the attic, but did nothing except peep into one or more of the trunks. Evening came. As Cousin Andy had once said, when the Van Meters had anything to do they did it, and in that spirit, Jannet brought herself to knock upon Paulina's door. Paulina opened it a crack and looked out with the expression of "who wants me now?" "May I come in, Paulina?" softly asked Jannet. "I just want to see you a minute." Paulina hesitated, but was taken by surprise and had no good excuse ready. "Well, come in, then," she said, rather ungraciously, opening the door widely enough for Jannet to enter. "I'll not stay but a few minutes, Paulina, if you are busy. I suspect that you are glad to get to yourself after a day of looking after other people." Jannet helped herself to a chair, a straight one as uncompromising as Paulina looked. But Jannet's introduction implied some appreciation of Paulina's work, and Paulina's face relaxed a little from its stoniness. Jannet kept right on, not looking around Paulina's bedroom, though she could see how clean and plain it was, just like Paulina. "I haven't had any chance to talk with you, Paulina, about things; and as I am going to make my home here, there are some things that are important, you know, like whether my dear room is safe or not and everything like that. You know that I didn't enjoy that last queer time a bit. There was some one in my room, Paulina. Ghosts don't pull comforters off from beds." "That is just what our ghost does." "Honest, Paulina?" "Your own mother told me that once, but I never knew of its being done to any one since I have been working for the family and that is many a long year. Your mother knew something about the history." Paulina was sitting back in her one rocking chair, her arms folded, her face almost expressing enjoyment. Good. Jannet felt that she had struck the right vein,--to come _asking_ about ghosts rather than announcing disbelief too decidedly. "What did mother tell you, Paulina?" "It is too long ago for me to remember, but she told me the old story about the Van Meter ghost that clanked a sword and pulled the comforter from a bed and scared the Tory soldiers in the days of the Revolution." "Why, I feel flattered to have the ghost come back to me after so long. Does Jan know the story?" "Yes. I told him." "H'm. But I can't understand about the _blue comforter_," meditated Jannet. Paulina did not follow her thought, naturally, and waited. "But you have talked about 'Her,' Paulina. Who was she?" "One, the one I mean, was mourning, after her husband was killed in the war, and pined away. The dog howled and the wind blew and there was queer music in the air the night he was killed and she got up from her bed and walked all over crying. The other I don't know, but it sounds the way your uncle's wife carried on. Somebody has told you about her, I suppose." "Yes," said Jannet, glad that Daphne had told her. "Did you see the light in the wall, Paulina, that night?" Paulina surprised Jannet by leaning forward with a startled look. "Was there a light in the wall, too? That was in your mother's story about the Revolutionary times." "I'm not sure just where the light was, Paulina, whether it was in the wall or on the wall, but part of the time it looked as if it shone through something. All I could think of was a secret passageway between my room and somewhere, but I can't find it. Say, Paulina, who goes into the attic besides you and me?" "I let Vittoria keep a box there. It is the one with a padlock. She is saving up her money and you must not say a word about it, because she is afraid it will be stolen." "Why doesn't she take it to a bank?" "She will some time. Now do you know everything you came to ask?" "Yes, Paulina, and I beg your pardon if you do not like it. But I had a talk with Uncle Pieter this morning and,--oh, yes, I forgot one thing. I found out that a letter and a telegram came for Uncle Pieter from my mother long ago, after he had gone to Europe, after my grandmother's death. Do you remember anything about it? He did not know about them, of course, at the time. Who was here, then?" "All the rest of us; Andy, though, was on a visit. He never stayed with his stepmother if he could help it. Vittoria was here. Mrs. Van Meter had her since she was fifteen or sixteen. Vittoria isn't as young as she looks." Paulina thought a moment, her stolid face looking more intelligent than usual. "I can't remember any letter, but I do remember answering a telegram for Mrs. Van Meter when she was beginning one of her conniption fits over nothing that I could see. Vittoria brought her the telegram and she read it. Her face got all red and she stamped her foot. 'The idea! The idea!' She said, 'what do we care? Oh, I'm going to faint, Vittoria. Help me to the davenport, Paulina!' "I told her that I guessed she could get there by herself, with Vittoria there, and I ran for the stuff we used when she went into hysterics. When I came back, Vittoria took it from me and told me to attend to the man that brought the telegram out from the village. Something was wrong with the telephone. He was impatient and pretty soon I went to the door to ask Vittoria if Mrs. Van Meter wanted to send a reply back. "But Mrs. Van Meter sat up, then, all wild, and still mad. Then she told me to write an answer. 'Say "No use," Paulina, "No use," and sign it "Van Meter"!' Then she went off into her hysterics again. I sent the answer, of course; and when the man asked where to, I told him I didn't know, but to fill it out to wherever the telegram came from, and he said he would. He told me how much it would be and I paid him." Paulina stopped and Jannet sat quite still for a moment. Then she rose. "Thank you, Paulina, so much, for all that you have told me. I have told Uncle Pieter that I will make my home with him and not go back to school next winter, so I hope that you will like me at least as much as you do Jan. I'll try to be as good as possible myself, but I have a lot to learn, I suppose. Did you like my mother, Paulina?" "Yes," bluntly replied Paulina, looking uncomfortable. Jannet was only too thankful to have escaped anything unpleasant. She did not mind Paulina's lack of sentiment, though she rather felt that she had shown a little too much. She really was _not_ silly, she told herself, as she walked away from Paulina's door. Paulina's surprise and interest could not have been feigned. She did not know about the lights, then. _She_ had not staged the performance. And now she had the answer that had been sent, she felt, to some telegram which had preceded the one which her uncle had found. But Jannet scarcely knew how she would tell him this story, about his wife. Perhaps she could write it to him,--no, that would not do at all! Perhaps he would ask Paulina, then, at her suggestion. That was it. A telephone call to Nell elicited the information that the company had gone and that Nell could spend the afternoon any time that Jannet wanted her. When Mrs. Holt was later consulted, she suggested that Jannet ask Nell to come to spend the day and night with her. "Your uncle, Andy and I are invited to a grown-up affair to-morrow night, Jannet, and we'll be home very late, it is likely. I don't want Andy to miss it, for it will do him good to get out as much as possible, instead of thinking too much. I am going to get his sweetheart here this summer, Jannet, and now that he is so much better perhaps he will be reasonable, especially when he finds that she still cares for him. "Paulina will get supper for you and Nell and herself and we'll let Daphne and the maids look after themselves. Daphne will be glad to get off." So it was arranged, very quickly, that Nell was to stay with Jannet again. CHAPTER XV LOCKED IN THE ATTIC The next morning was rainy. Nell came over to the Van Meter farm between showers, but late, and Jannet declared that it was a shame how much it rained in the country, where it ought always to be bright. Nell laughed at that and told Jannet that nothing would grow for them without the rain. "We have nothing but good showers, Jannet, mostly, at least. Besides, what fun it will be up in the attic, listening to the 'rain upon the roof.'" "That is so, Nell, and it will be cooler up there, too, if it rains." Jannet led the way to the attic as soon as Nell had laid aside her raincoat. Rather timidly Nell entered, when with a flourish Jannet threw open the attic door. "Behold the mysterious abode of ghosts, and our ancestral treasure house!" "Well, it _looks_ innocent enough, Jannet!" "It certainly does, but back in the shadows beyond our ghosts may have their lurking place!" "Don't, Jannet; you give me the creeps!" "All right, Nell, we want to have lots of fun to-day. I'm crazy to show you some of the things I've peeped at, and I hated to get out too much, too, without somebody after me. But we'll have no interruptions this afternoon, with everybody away that would bother us, though Cousin Di, Andy and Uncle Pieter won't leave the house till a short time before supper. Will you mind if I get supper for us? Daphne will have everything ready." "It will be fun, Jannet. I'll help you. You didn't know that I'm a very fine cook, did you? Honestly, Jannet, I'm learning to do _some_ things very well, Mother says." But while the merry tongues ran on, it was more interesting to get to business. Jannet pointed out some of the trunks and told what she had seen by peeping into them. Her grandmother's trunk was "sweet," she said; but she had felt almost as if she were opening a grave to disturb the things folded away so carefully after her grandmother's passing. It was different with her mother's, she felt, and a big trunk, old, but in good condition was full of old silk dresses and costumes that Jannet had only had time to discover, much less examine. "I'm a gregarious being, Nell, after being with such a lot of girls most of my life, and it wasn't enough fun to get these things out by myself." Jannet opened the window and propped it as before. Fresh, misty air came in to sweeten the close attic atmosphere. There was only a gentle patter of drops upon the roof so close to their heads and Nell said that it was an ideal day for old attics. Jannet disclosed her plan, which was to see everything first that looked interesting and then after dinner to dress up in old costumes and explore the rest of the attic, unless Nell would rather not do that. The big trunk came first in order. Jannet, with her big bunch of keys found the right one and opened it. She spread some papers, which she had brought with her, over the bulging top of the little bed and its bundles and upon the top of the large chest. Paulina's housekeeping was not to be criticised, but attics were very likely to gather dust. Then she began to take out the neatly folded garments, some to be looked at and laid aside on the papers, others to be exclaimed over. "O Jannet!" Nell exclaimed. "If your uncle gives these things to you, I'd fix some of them up and wear them, though it would be a pity to change them!" But Jannet shook her head. "Uncle has a daughter, though I suppose that I have as much right to these things as any one. I may have some of mother's dresses fixed for myself, because I'd love to wear them, but these ought to stay as they are. I wonder if we can't have a real costume party some day, Nell,--look here!" Jannet held up and shook out a gay silk costume, with skirt, blouse, sheer and thin, and a laced velvet bodice. That was not very old, the girls thought. Perhaps Jannet's mother had worn that some time. There was a funny clown's costume and a velvet colonial suit in gray and blue, with silk hose and buckled shoes and a three-cornered hat. Jannet said that it was almost the prettiest thing there. A gypsy outfit included a tambourine and when Jannet danced around over the attic floor with it, she stopped the performance to see Cousin Di standing in the attic door and laughing at her. The light clapping of Cousin Diana's hands was the only announcement of her presence. "O Cousin Di, come in!" called Jannet, running to that lady and drawing her within. "_Can_ we have a party and dress up some time?" "You can and you may," promptly answered Cousin Diana, interested. She remained long enough to see some of the main treasures, telling the girls that they had found some excellent relics of a day gone by. While some of the costumes had been made for special occasions, most of the trunk's contents were dresses of former days actually worn by the women of the family. Gayly figured lawns and chintzes, light or heavy silks with queer waists and sleeves and tight-fitting linings, trailed long lengths and voluminous skirts about the delighted girls. A square pasteboard box was found to contain a host of beads and other decorations used with the fancy costumes. As Cousin Di had suggested that they dress up in something for dinner, Jannet declared that they would change the original plan and surprise them all by doing it. Nell rather demurred at first. "Won't we feel silly, Jannet? And what will your uncle Pieter say to us?" "I'm not afraid of Uncle Pieter any more, and he'll just see that I am doing what he gave me permission to do. I just love that ducky little silk costume with the blue velvet laced bodice. I think that it is a shepherdess costume and I think that Mother must have worn it. Would you like that?" "No, indeed. That is just your color. I'll wear the gypsy suit." "Fine, you carry the tambourine and I'll take the shepherd's crook if there is any." But Jannet did not find one. Uncle Pieter was not at dinner, as it happened, which fact relieved Nell of the slight embarrassment she felt. Cousin Diana and Cousin Andy admired the result, though the costumes would have been considerably improved by pressing. Vittoria, who waited upon the table, looked curiously at the girls, so pretty in their new characters, and Jannet caught one look that was not very friendly. Perhaps poor Vittoria was a little jealous. It must be hard not _ever_ to be in things! But Jannet had too many pleasant things to think about to be disturbed by the opinion of Vittoria. Remembering what Paulina had said, Jannet asked Mrs. Holt after dinner how old she supposed Vittoria was. "Probably about thirty," said Mrs. Holt. "She is engaged to a young man who works in the village. I think that they are to be married as soon as he gets his house built. He is building it himself, as he has time, and hopes to finish it this summer." The rain had stopped by noon. Jannet and Nell walked around outside for a little while and went into the kitchen to show Daphne their finery. Paulina gave them a comprehensive glance, but made no comment. Perhaps Paulina remembered times when those costumes were worn before this. Lazily the girls rested in the swing for perhaps half an hour before they felt like returning to the attic. But by that time their pristine energy had returned. Jannet had a bright idea and collected cookies, then decided that fudge and lemonade would be good to take up with them, "so we'll not have to run downstairs every time we get thirsty, or hungry, Nell." That seemed sensible. They spent some time making fudge, a little in making lemonade, and went up the two flights about two o'clock, the ice clinking in the pitcher. Nell had been advised to bring her flashlight, in case they discovered the perhaps imaginary secret passage, and Jannet had one which was a recent purchase. But they had so much fun dressing in the various garments and were so hot, that they drank up all their lemonade and went down again about four o'clock to make more. Not a soul was around, but the house was locked, they found. They washed off their dingy hands, for handling the trunks had soiled them, though they had managed to keep the dresses from being harmed. After "splashing around" in Jannet's bathroom, they went to the kitchen, where they not only mixed fresh lemonade, but made sandwiches when they found that Daphne had left them some delicious ham in thin slices. "At this rate, Jannet, we'll not need any supper," said Nell, but Jannet thought that they would "after doing our real work of the day," Jannet said. And, indeed, the search was just to begin. Into the far corners, under the eaves, soon went the flashlight rays. What they disclosed was innocent enough, chiefly cobwebs and dust. Shrouded shapes of the few old things left around lay here and there. Most of the central part was floored. In a few places the girls were obliged to be careful where the boards seemed to be laid across loosely. Jannet said that the ghost had laid the track for itself, and Nell remarked that they could follow the trail, then. Jannet had expected to see some evidences of some one's walking through dust, but the boards had been swept since she was first in the attic, she thought. "I tell you what, Nell, I ought to have done this right at first, before the 'ghost' had a chance to cover up her--his--its--tracks." "Probably you ought, Jannet." They were obliged to look out for bumps upon their heads in places, but finally they reached what was Jannet's chief objective, the great chimney between her room and the front bedroom. There were the bricks, rough and red. But that whole end of the attic was boarded off with a rough partition. "I _thought_ so!" exclaimed Jannet. "Now for a door!" But there was no sign of a door in the boards. Certainly, if there had been a secret passage there, it could not have been concealed, the girls thought. "If Jan or somebody got in your room, Jannet, it must have been by the window," said Nell. "All the same," declared Jannet, "there is _something_ in my wall. It may not connect with the attic. I suppose now that it doesn't. But I believe that if _we_ can't find it out, Uncle Pieter will let a carpenter take away the panels on that side, to satisfy me, and himself, too. He looked awfully interested, Nell." "The queer thing," said Nell again, "is that it all seemed to begin in the attic and then come nearer. Could it _really_ be ghosts, that can go in or out of walls?" Nell half believed it, Jannet thought. "What ghost would carefully take a blue comforter through walls and finally deposit it neatly, well folded, in the closet where it belongs?" "Well," laughingly declared Nell, "Paulina told you that ghost _did_ take one once, you said." "Yes, she did," Jannet acknowledged. It took some time to go over the attic, although if there were some connection between the attic and Jannet's room, it could only be in a certain part, the girls thought, and there they spent some time. They looked dubiously at various piles of boards not far from the partition. Some old carpet close to it Jannet with great effort drew aside till she could see how the floor looked at the angle. The girls grew a little tired. What was the use of doing it all to-day? Jannet suspected the big cupboard that stood against the partition, but their combined strength could not move it, and there was no indication of a way through it and the partition. "Let's go down, have our supper, and give this up till to-morrow, Nell. We had too much fun dressing up first. Besides, we ought to have some one help us move the heavy stuff. I'll ask Uncle Pieter." Nell, who was quite ready for something different, assented. Gradually they made their way back to the trunks, though they did pause again to examine anything that seemed worth while to know about. If their hands had been soiled before, they were "filthy" with the "dust of ages," Nell declared,--"with all apologies to Paulina, Jannet." Again jingling her keys, Jannet went to the door, which she had closed before they began their search in the other part of the attic, though why Jannet scarcely knew. Surely there was no one to watch them. "Why!" Jannet exclaimed, "it doesn't open!" She looked at Nell, startled. "Try it for yourself!" Nell shook the door and they looked at each other in dismay. "Could Paulina have locked it by mistake?" asked Nell. "Some one very likely has locked this on purpose," declared Jannet presently. The two girls stood by the door, puzzled, slightly alarmed. "This _is_ a mess, Nell. It doesn't look as if I'd get you that good supper we were going to have." "Perhaps we can call to some one from the window." "Perhaps we can. But the tenant house is where all the evening activities are, unless some one has an errand here. Paulina said that she would be back about seven o'clock, unless she took a notion to go to prayer-meeting with her sister. They drive to the village church. Daphne doesn't sleep here. No telling how soon the girls will come back,--but _who_ locked us in, then?" "Never mind, Jannet. We have cookies, the fudge and something to drink. Your guardian angel must have told you to bring those up. Do you suppose we'll have to be up here after _dark_?" Jannet shook her head regretfully. "You be sister Ann, Nell, and watch the window for any one that might come. Paulina is the most likely one before dark, and it does not get dark early, fortunately. I'm going to see if I can't open the door. I will know enough to lock the door myself the next time I am up here, and leave my key in the lock on this side. That's what she has done, you see, and I can't get my key in. I left it on the ring with the rest, or--" "You say 'she,'--how do you know that it isn't 'he'?" "I don't know it, I just think it." Nell asked nothing more but sat on a box by the low window, to watch like the sister of Bluebeard's wife. Jannet tried to poke the key, which was on the outside, and force it out, but with no success. Then she shook the door and called. "The trouble is," said she, "if Paulina hears a racket in the attic, she will think it the ghost, and Hepsy and Vittoria sleep over in the new part. But there is no use in calling or going into hysterics over it. If the one who locked us in is here, very naturally she wants us to stay." Jannet thought of burglars, but did not mention that theory. It was bad enough for Nell as it was. She had heard the family car drive off some time before. Jannet worked at the key, trying to force it out. She found a bit of wire and she used the smaller keys; but when one became wedged in so tightly that she had difficulty in getting it out again, she gave it up. Nell did her best to be cheerful, but Jannet could see that it was an effort. She took Nell's place at the window and they ate what cookies and fudge were left and drank lemonade with less than their customary flow of conversation. It was, indeed, a gloomy prospect, that of spending the night in the attic. CHAPTER XVI A STRANGE NIGHT The girls had one sharp disappointment. They heard a few sounds below and called. Presently they saw a man walking from the back of the house and carrying two pails. Jannet called, and Nell, looking out over Jannet's shoulder, called also, almost in a panic for fear that they would not be heard. "It's the man bringing the milk for morning," Jannet explained. "I had forgotten him. O Mr. Hoppel! Whoo-hoo! Whoo-hoo!" Nell added to the pathos by shrieking "Help! Help!" She increased the fervor of her cries as the man kept right on, not even turning. Jannet learned afterwards that Mr. Hoppel was "as deaf as a post," but they did not know that at this time. Jannet had not yet brought herself to the point of crying "help," and felt that she was giving the enemy opportunity to rejoice over her by calling at all. But Nell thought that it was no time for pride. "Suppose there's a fire," Nell suggested. "Suppose there isn't," Jannet returned. "If there is, Nell, we'll take some of those sheets in the chest, knot them together, tie one end to the little bed, and let ourselves down through the window. I guess we could squeeze through, couldn't we?" Plump Nell looked dubiously at the window, but decided that she could. Then she suggested that they try it now, but Jannet thought that it would be a needless risk, and that it would be hard to get started safely over a projecting part of a roof. So far as they knew, no one else came within call. It began to grow dark. At one low growl of distant thunder Nell remarked that they were "in for it," a thunderstorm "in the attic." Jannet said, "Oh, no Nell, only outside," but Nell smiled only faintly at this. Jannet, however, decided that it was time for some action before it grew too dark. Hopping up, she drew the cover from the small bed and rapidly removed its bundles to the tops of various trunks. "What are you doing, Jannet?" Nell asked. "I'm going to fix a place for you to lie down if we can't raise anybody for a while." The bundles off, Jannet brushed and wiped with a newspaper, about the woodwork and the mattress which was covered tightly with muslin. Opening the big chest, she spread a sheet widely first, then laid on top a folded comforter. "There isn't the sign of a spring, Nell, but you can pretend that we're camping." Nell jumped up to help. Jannet spread on more sheets and a light comforter, though Nell protested that it would be too hot. The attic so far had not been too uncomfortably warm, for Jannet had found another opening at the other end, a round, glass window, which had given a circulation of air. But it _was_ clouding up. In a storm they might have to close both openings. Truly this was "the limit," they both concluded. In a storm, who would hear them? Paulina would come home late and go to bed. The "folks" expected to be out late anyway, and if the storm was too bad, who knew when they _would_ get home? "Well, we'll be missed at breakfast anyway," said Nell. Jannet said nothing. They might be supposed to be over-sleeping. However, she'd get _somebody_ awake in the morning! It grew darker. Jannet fixed a comforter in the rickety chair for herself and drew it near the bed, for which she had even found a pillow in the chest. With the chair tipped back and her feet on a box, she would be ready to "enjoy the evening," she informed Nell. Neither said a word about a ghost, but Nell sat close to Jannet on the little bed and watched the shadows grow darker and darker till they swallowed up the dim light in the attic. "Don't lose your flashlight, Nell," warned Jannet. "Never!" Both were startled a little later by a scurrying sound back under the eaves at a little distance. Jannet flashed her light in that direction, to find a bright-eyed gray squirrel sitting up as squirrels do, most surprised at the light. "Nell!" exclaimed Jannet, "that accounts for some of the noises in the attic, doesn't it? They are not rats, but squirrels." Jannet had scarcely said this when there was a curious sound again. Something dropped, "tap, tap tap, tap." "A nut falling down some steps! And where are the steps?" Jannet asked Nell if she had the nerve to go back in the attic with her again, but Nell said that she thought a squirrel had dropped the nut between the rafters or in the wall somewhere. "I heard a few scampering over the roof this afternoon," she added. There was a sighing sound in the trees outside. More squirrels seemed to gather in the attic's far corners; but they were not tame enough to come near the girls, who concluded that it would be well to eat their last cooky and drink up the lemonade before they had any small visitors. Jannet was more nervous about the squirrels than Nell, who was used to them. A cool air blew through the attic now, but when the drops of rain began to blow in at the window, Jannet bravely went back to close the other one. This they could watch. "It was pretty spooky, Nell, creeping back there to shut that window, but I saw where the squirrels get in, not far from just over my room. I saw one cute little chap on a rafter." The wind grew more violent and seemed to change direction, for no more rain came in at the window, though as yet there was little sound of rain on the roof. But with the veering of the wind there began that weird sound which they had heard once before, and Jannet, half laughing, half startled, exclaimed, "The 'Dutch Banshee'! Nell, we can locate it!" "Not I, thank you," said Nell, putting her head down into the pillow. But Jannet turned on her light and stood up, listening. Nell clung to her hand, but Jannet said, "I'm not forgetting, Nell, that I came to the attic to find out things. That sound is made somewhere here and the wind does it!" "All right; if you are going anywhere, I'm going too. I'm not going to sit alone in the dark." Following the sound, the girls carefully made their way back, flashing their lights into this corner and that, until they felt a little air blowing on them and saw a piece of brown sacking waving a little in a corner. "That is an awful place to get to," said Jannet, "but I'm going. Turn your flash, Nell, on the rafters,--please." "Wait," said Nell, interested now. "There are some boards. Let's put them across. You'll have to crawl there, it's so low, and you'll go through that unfloored place if you don't look out." Jannet accordingly waited, while the tiresome task of placing boards safely across was undertaken. Then she crawled, in the light of her own and Nell's flashlights, till she reached the cranny from which the loud sounds were coming. She pulled aside the piece of sacking and made signs to Nell of her success. Nell wondered what she was doing, for she saw Jannet take her handkerchief from the little pocket of her now most dilapidated and dusty sport frock. But the wild shrieking stopped almost instantly, and Jannet, with a broad grin, turned around in her sitting posture, to hitch herself back on the boards. "It's the funniest contraption you ever saw, Nell. It will pay you in the morning to crawl over there to see it. There is a bottle, and some wires are stretched across,--I left them as they were, but I stuffed my hanky in the bottle. It's that that whistled. So that is one thing that we needn't be afraid of, our 'Dutch Banshee'! Isn't that good! Hurrah for our 'ghos'es' that Daphne talked about." Even Nell grinned at the discovery. She was less afraid now. The "Dutch Banshee" was discovered. Rather wearily the girls went back to what Jannet called the "respectable" part of the attic. "I'm going to stretch out, Jannet," said Nell, "though I am ashamed to take the most comfortable place." "You needn't be. It's little enough I can do for my company,--starving her to death and entertaining her in the attic!" Nell did stretch out upon the little bed, with its dark spindles, head and foot, and Jannet rather carefully disposed herself in the armchair. It creaked even with her slight weight, but did not break. It was of no use to watch for Paulina's coming. The storm was upon them and Jannet only hoped that none of the chimneys would be struck by lightning. It wasn't much fun to be in the attic in a storm. But the electrical part of the storm was not severe, though the rain poured in sheets and beat upon the roof till they thought it must give way somewhere. Thanks to Mr. Van Meter's care of his property, there was not a leak. "I'm sorry for the poor folks," sleepily said Jannet after they had been listening to the rain without speaking for a while. But Nell was sound asleep and her hand limply fell from Jannet's clasp. It was a relief to Jannet to have Nell asleep, for she felt much responsibility. She dozed off herself, but was awake at every different sound. The situation, to say the least, was peculiar. Jannet speculated much about who had locked them in, in intervals of dozing. Suddenly there was a sound at the door. Jannet was wide awake in a moment, nor was she much surprised by what followed. "The third time is the charm," she said to herself. "Enter the Ghost, if I'm not mistaken." Slowly the key turned. Jannet fairly held her breath. The door was softly opened and closed. So much Jannet knew in spite of the rain, to whose drippings her ears were now accustomed. Next, a faint shaded light showed, "so she won't trip on the attic floor," Jannet decided, but it was not pleasant. A ghostly white figure, showing dimly in the tiny light, moved from the door to the center of the space where the girls were. A low moaning began. "Her," thought Jannet, setting her teeth. "It isn't Jan, then, not this time. She's got a sheet over her." But it was not a sheet, as Jannet soon saw, when filmy, scarf-like draperies floated out and the figure whirled past, moving back and forth, not far enough from the door for Jannet to risk darting between the Ghost and the exit, as she thought of doing, though it might seem to be deserting Nell to the enemy. But Jannet wanted freedom, and help to find out who was this ghost. "What are you, most noble ancestress?" suddenly queried Jannet, trying to keep the mocking note from her voice. At this the ghost retreated, for Jannet had descended from her chair, and Nell, startled awake, gave one cry and sprang up. "Come here, Nell," soothingly said Jannet, "it's only our family ghost, poor thing." Then she whispered, as Nell reached her, "get outside the door and keep it open for me; but if she is harmless, I may try to catch her." "For pity's sake, don't!" whispered Nell, half awake. But she obeyed Jannet, running for the door as if a dozen ghosts were after her. The ghost started to follow, but as Jannet's very palpable figure put itself in the way, the ghost changed its mind and retreated still farther into the attic. Jannet began to follow it, slowly, but steadily, not using her flashlight but grasping it firmly in her right hand for use either in its legitimate line or as a weapon, should the ghost make attack. The moaning increased and the occasional sobs, with writhings and bendings, as the ghost floated backward now. "Nice Ghostie,--does pretty dance for Jannet!" And suddenly Jannet flashed her light full on the figure, rapidly taking it in from head to foot. No shadow was this, to be seen through, and a very stout pair of low shoes were not well concealed under the filmy draperies. Obviously the ghost was not prepared for a flashlight. Immediately the figure whirled about, the light disappearing as it was held in front of her. Jannet could see the faint light ahead on the floor, but she lost no time in following it. It was difficult, though, to make time without being familiar with the place in the dark and to illumine both the floor at her feet and the flying figure of the ghost, who knew where she was going. All at once Jannet stumbled over a pile of carpet and fell, scraping her elbow and losing hold of her flashlight, which fell somewhere with a crash. "Nell," Jannet called, "lock the door on this side, and leave the key in it, and then come to me slowly, seeing that no one passes you. I've lost my flashlight." Nell had heard the crash and now most thoroughly awake, she took the key which had locked them in, though Jannet had pressed her bunch of keys into her hand before, locked the door on the inside as directed, and came waving her flashlight from side to side. "Isn't a soul that I can see, Jannet," she said, "What has become of the ghost?" "That is what I want to find out," said Jannet, rising from the pile of carpet, while the light played over it and beyond to a gaping hole. "Look!" A push by the ghost had been sufficient to remove the old carpet from a trapdoor, which the ghost had not had time to close. Somewhere in the depths she had disappeared. Jannet brushed the dust from her hands and asked Nell to hold the light for her while she found her own. "It flew down after the lady you see. I hope that it is still fit to use." "It probably isn't. Take mine." "No, you keep it and light me down. If anything happens to me, you can find your way back and out." "If anything is going to happen, you'd better not start." "Very wise remark, Nell; but don't you want to find out about it?" "Yes, I do. I'm so provoked at that ghost I could just--I don't know what! You _did_ speak of a trapdoor, but nearer the partition." It was some little distance to the first step, but Jannet sat on the edge and let herself down without trouble to that. Several more steps in this very narrow space brought her to a tiny platform. On this her flashlight lay, apparently unharmed, for its light went on as usual. "All right, Nell. There's a sort of well with a ladder down one way, and I see a bit of light through a partition here." But even as Jannet spoke the light went out and she heard a rustle inside. Hurriedly she moved her light up and down to find a way of getting within. Ah, a harmless looking nail protruded. "Come on, Nell, we can get in, I think." "But can we get out?" "That is so. I believe that you'd better go and waken Paulina. I'm going on, but I may get caught somewhere, so you can tear the house down looking for me." Nell hesitated. "Go on, Nell,--it is the only sensible thing to do." Jannet was not particularly sorry, it must be admitted, to have the adventure by herself. She was not afraid now, for the ghost did not want her identity known. Why hadn't she told Nell to have Paulina take up the hunt with her? Perhaps Nell would think of it. The sliding door here was easily found, though one not looking for it might not have thought of it, and might have concluded that the ladder was the way of a fugitive. Like part of a double door, a portion slid aside, for the apparent nail operated a spring. The opening was not large. Jannet stooped to enter where a musty smell met her, as well as a familiar scent of some sort of perfume. Here was an odd little cubby to be sure, but the ghost had gone on. Jannet received an impression of a box of a room with a long shelf or berth running its length and something like a table in front of it. On this lay a thin scarf and a filmy dress with yards of material lying in a mass. The ghost had left her costume, then. Oh, if she could only _catch_ her! Yet Jannet's purpose did not include touching her. Ahead was an opening, and Jannet had need to be careful of her steps, as she swung her light around the opening before her--to find stairs again! Oh, _here_ was where the ghost had come down, in the wall of her room by the big chimney! It was a circular stairway, built in an unbelievably small space. But Jannet was light and quick. In a moment she was at the bottom. Up and down before her again she swept the light. Good. There was a spring in plain sight. Now she knew how it was done, but she left the panel wide open behind her as she entered her own room, put on the electricity, and took the precaution to look hurriedly into her bathroom, into her closet and under her bed before she opened her door and dashed into the hall. Jannet felt that she was too late, but she flew across the corridor which led into the new part and down the hall there to the room at the end where Hepsy and Vittoria slept. No light showed under the door. All was quiet. Ordinarily Jannet was too considerate to waken any one in the middle of the night. But this time she thought that she had suffered inconvenience enough to be excused, even if she wakened the wrong people. Firmly she rapped upon the door. At first there was no response. Jannet rapped again, though much inclined to give it up, now that she had time to think. Perhaps neither of the girls did this. _Could_ it be Paulina after all? But while Jannet was wondering whether to knock again or not, the light went on and the door opened. There stood Hepsy in her long white gown, her short hair done up in curlers almost like those of a fashion long gone by. This was how Hepsy achieved that remarkable effect, then. Hepsy looked scared. "What's the matter, Miss Jannet?" "Oh, nothing. I'm just looking for a ghost." Hepsy looked more bewildered than ever. Jannet continued, "Where's Vittoria?" "She said she was not coming home to-night,--but, but I wasn't to tell. Her beau was taking her to the movie and she always stays with one of the girls, I mean, she has done it _once_ or _twice_." "Don't worry, Hepsy. I'm not concerned with whether Vittoria stays out or not. I just wanted to know if she were here. I'll tell you why to-morrow. Just go back to bed. I'm sorry I wakened you. By the way, what perfume does Vittoria use?" "Why, why that's funny, I guess she uses mine that my aunt gave me for my birthday. It's black narcissus." Hepsy spoke with much pride. "It's awful sweet. There it is on the dresser." "If you don't mind, I'll take a sniff"; and Jannet ran into the room, then out again in a jiffy. "Thanks, Hepsy. You have helped me very much." Quietly Jannet stole back, past Cousin Di's room, over into the old part once more. She found Paulina and Nell coming out of her room with anxious faces. For once Paulina did not look stolid. "Where have you been?" inquired Nell. "I had a time to waken Paulina, and then she had heard the ghost and wouldn't go near the attic, so we finally came to your room, to find the lights on, and you nowhere to be seen, and this panel open! Say, Jannet, I climbed up into that room, and Paulina after me!" "Did you find the ghost's costume there?" "No! What do you mean?" "It was there, and when we find the one who has that, we'll find the ghost. Did you meet anyone in the halls?" "Not a soul." "I am terribly disappointed, then, though I feel sure that I know who it is." "Who?" asked Paulina, silent until now. "Perhaps I ought not to say surely till I actually find her." Then Jannet asked what rooms were vacant and where some one could hide, and she found that they had made a tour of them all, looking for her. "But did you look in Jan's den?" she asked. Finding that they had not been on the attic floor at all, she asked them to follow her. Locking and bolting her door, she led the way to the attic by the new route of the secret stairs. It was true,--the filmy ghost dress was gone. Thoroughly they searched the attic, quietly, too, Nell standing at the attic door on guard. Then Paulina turned on the light in the upper hall by Jan's den and unlocked Jan's door. She understood dimly why Jannet had wanted to search the attic again, but she could not see why it was necessary to enter here. Another disappointment checked Jannet's search. She felt so sure that the ghost would be found here, spending the rest of the night. The room was empty, so far as human occupancy was concerned. Jannet stepped in and looked around at the evidences of Jan's mechanical turn of mind. But with a little exclamation she pointed to the bed. Some one had been sitting there, and there lay a tangled wisp of something on the floor, showing under the long cover which hung over the side of Jan's cot. "She was too much in a hurry," triumphantly said Jannet, kneeling down on the floor and reaching under the bed. Nell, thinking that the ghost was found, drew back with a little squeal. But Jannet drew out only the filmy mass of the ghost's dress. Paulina quickly took hold of it with interest. "One o' your ma's dresses that she was some sort of a furriner with. Somebody else has been into the trunks, then!" "I'm terribly disappointed, Paulina, for I thought that we would surely find her, after I knew that she had gone after her costume. Then I thought that she would stay in the house. I want to tell you, Paulina, that I went to the room where Hepsy and Vittoria sleep and that Hepsy is alone." Paulina, stiff and dour, gave Jannet a look of understanding and nodded her head. "It may be," she said. CHAPTER XVII THE SECRET ROOM Dawn was breaking when Paulina left the two girls, telling Jannet that she intended to watch for the return of Vittoria. Jannet persuaded Nell to lie down on her bed, but she was too highly keyed over the whole affair to feel sleepy. At a suitable time she would call Uncle Pieter and tell him about the discovery. Meanwhile she would go by herself to investigate that queer little box of a room. Nell went soundly to sleep in a few minutes, feeling perfectly safe from ghosts now in Jannet's room. Jannet sat quietly at her desk until she was quite assured that Nell was asleep. Then she rose, picked up her flashlight and the "darling" candlestick with its white candle which always stood upon her mantel, a few matches upon its base, and started for the attic stairway rather than going by the panel. It might waken Nell. The door of the attic stood open. Paulina, the neat, careful Paulina, had been too much excited to think of closing it! The trap door so near the partition also stood open. Jannet peered at a crack in the rough partition. Yes, there was the outline of where the top of the secret room stood above the attic floor on the other side of the partition. A pile of lumber, a few odds and ends of boards, rafters and even a few bricks were cleverly arranged to give the impression of waste material and nothing important, should anyone be curious enough to peep through. Now, where below was there room for the rest of the secret chamber? But Jannet recalled the long flight of stairs to the attic. Ceilings were high in the old house. She recalled, too, that the smooth ceilings of her closet and the one corresponding to it were quite low, perhaps to conceal any evidence of the circular stairs. The few steps down from the attic floor accounted for the secret room below such part of it as was raised above the attic floor, its outlines concealed. Jannet could see a glimmer of light from the outside, when she looked down into the dark well where the ladder led to the ground floor at the very wall of the house. She recalled little jogs and irregularities downstairs, but could not place this for a moment. Yet from some cracks somewhere the morning sunlight came dimly through. "The queer little tool house!" she suddenly thought. She had wondered why in the world that had been inserted in a brick wall. It was shallow and Jannet remembered a sort of rude table that stood against its back wall, "probably concealing the entrance to this secret way," with its queer ladder nailed to the wood of the enclosure. How thrilling it was! Cousin Diana, when she showed Jannet around had mentioned the tool house and let Jannet peep within when they came to it. "When the wings were built on, this was naturally sealed in," Cousin Diana had said, "but when Pieter took them away, he painted up the quaint entrance with its odd latch and open lattice." Perhaps the very ease of entering the tool house would make no one suspect a concealed ascent behind it. She turned to the right and opened the sliding door, finding it more easily opened now that she knew how. She was surprised to find light here, and looking above, she saw a round window, or ventilator at the top of the room on the side of the house wall. This, doubtless, matched the other one in the attic. But it supplied little light, and she looked around for a place to set her candlestick. She sat it down on the shelf, which had most probably been provided for a narrow bed, and saw that a board or leaf hung down from the wall on hinges. The hinges were rusty, but still good and Jannet succeeded in raising the board and propping it with the stick attached, which fitted into a place in the wall beneath. That was the table, then. It had held the ghost costume. Jannet's imagination was working in good order. With a smile she lit her candle. "Now I'm 'captive' or 'fugitive,' back in the old days, and there is a price on my head, perhaps, and I haven't anything to eat,"--but Jannet's heels struck against something of tin that made her look under the shelf to see what was there. The room was perfectly bare except at this place, and Jannet saw only an uninteresting pile of pans and dishes in one corner, all covered thick with dust. An old wooden box, a wooden pail falling to pieces, and a tin or metal kettle of an odd sort stood in a row. Jannet could scarcely see, through the dust, that the "tin" kettle was of pewter. But Jannet did not like pewter things anyhow. Cousin Di had laughed at her for this distaste. "He certainly kept everything under his bed," thought Jannet, in no hurry to touch the dusty things. But under the wooden box she saw the corner of something made of leather sticking out. With the tips of her fingers the stooping Jannet drew out a queer old portfolio. This promised to be of interest. Jannet decided to investigate it right on the spot, though she wished that she had brought a dust cloth. But she sacrificed her clean handkerchief to the cause and after blowing off some of the dust she wiped off most of the rest. Opening out the decaying leather, she found that one pocket had a few papers in it. There was a torn paper, conveying some property, that she thought would be interesting to Uncle Pieter, as she glanced at the old writing and the Dutch names. But what was this,--oh, how perfectly wonderful! For the next ten minutes there was perfect silence in the box of a room, while the candle fluttered a little and Jannet, wrapt in what she was reading, almost lost sight of where she was. Many and many a long year before, some one had read those little notes tucked away in the old portfolio with as much interest and more anxiety. "Dere Father," ran the first that Jannet pulled from the sticky leather at the side. "It is hard to get the food to the attic without being seen. The Captin watches us or some one is there while we are cooking. But they watch my mother more than they watch me. I put the food on the stair and tapped, but you were asleep, perhaps. I heard a noise and I hastened to go up and closed the trap. There was no one here. Now I will drop this down quickly. It is a good thing that I keep my dolls in the attick. They let me play here. I was eating some bread and having my table spread for my dolls when the Captin looked within the door to see what I was doing this morning. I put my old doll's head on the flagon of water and wrapped it in the plaid coat that Mistress Patience made for the doll that you brought from England." (And Jannet had found little dishes and dolls in the pretty box of dark wood, whose key had been discovered!) No name was signed to this. It had been folded tightly to be dropped at the entrance, Jannet thought, for it was greatly mussed and difficult to read. A small piece of paper with a large grease spot bore a short message. "I made these for you. Mother says that they are tasty." "Probably doughnuts," smiled Jannet, looking at the grease spot. But here was a longer letter and in another, older hand. It began without address, or was but a part of the entire message. "I can only pray that you may not be discovered. Your rash act in opening the panel and entering the room where the captain was sleeping to get the covering, was successful in a way that you may not have considered. The captain did make a to-do about it when he saw that it was not a dream. The men will not go into the room nor will they go into the attic since the wind has been making music there. The tale is that a gaunt ghost, with a clank of sword, appeared by the bed and snatched the quilt from upon the captain. The door was locked and the guard outside saw no one, yet the quilt was gone. For my sake, Pieter, do not be rash. I will continue to leave word of their movements. It will be safer to visit the attic now, I hope. Noises there are thought to be the ghost. Jannetje pretended to be frightened, but she can yet visit her dolls at times. No very good word comes from our troops. Our Tory neighbor doth rejoice in unseemly fashion for one who pretended to be our friend and he is oft at our door in converse with the captain. I am watched at all times, but I lock my door and write when I am thus alone, putting my messages inside the little waists of Jannetje, who was ten years of age but yesterday." The writing stopped at the bottom of the sheet. One more large piece of paper was written in the childish hand, but contained only a short message. The paper had been wrapped about something, Jannet thought. So Jannetje was another ancestress of the name. She spelled and composed well for a child of ten, Jannet decided. "Mother sends this," the message said. "Trupers leave to-day. She thinks that they were only searching for you or waiting for messages from spies. Wait, she says, till she can come to the attick after the Captin goes away." This was all. It had happened in Revolutionary times, of course. Jannet's imagination could supply the missing information, or some of it. Her ancestor had perhaps been visiting his family when the group of British soldiers came upon them too soon for him to escape. Or perhaps he was, indeed, in the work of a spy for General Washington's troops. Wouldn't her uncle and Andy be delighted to read these old messages, so yellowed with age! Carefully Jannet put them again inside of the portfolio, though that, too, was ready to fall apart. Thinking that there might be some further scrap of information somewhere, Jannet began to examine the dusty articles under the shelf or bed. Any bedding that had once been there had probably been removed as soon as the fugitive had found it no longer necessary to stay there. These other things were of no particular value. But Jannet had scarcely begun to move the round pewter pot from its long resting place when she heard a sound that startled her. She jumped to her feet with a moment's panic. Suppose Vittoria, for she was almost sure that the ghost was Vittoria, was hiding somewhere and--but a voice assured her, before she was fairly on her feet. There was Cousin Andy's dear head at the top of the secret stairs and peeping in. "What's all this?" he cheerily inquired. "Are you trying to burn up the house with a candle?" "Oh no; I'm ever so careful,--but do look out, Cousin Andy, for those are bad stairs!" "Would you care, then, if the old wreck got hurt again?" "'Old wreck', indeed! You're the best first cousin that I've got, and I'm proud of your scars, if you have any!" Andrew Van Meter entered and looked curiously around. "I see that there is a sliding door on this side, too, though Nell did not mention it. She had a telephone message from home, by the way, and left word for you that she was riding over later in the day if she could. She did not know where you were, she said, but when I heard the story I could pretty well guess." "I did not realize that you all would be up, I've stayed longer here than I intended to. Oh, Andy,--Cousin Andy--I've found the most interesting messages in this old portfolio!" "Take it with you, then, but I want to see first the way to the attic." Cousin Andy needed no help up the little steps, but looked down at the ladder and the dark descent. "You were wise not to attempt that, Jannet," said he. "Yes, that must be an opening to the old tool house. That was a pretty clever stunt of the old codger who built this, with three ways of exit, through the attic, the tool house, and your mother's room. But I would not have cared to occupy that little room for any length of time. A six footer would almost graze the ceiling. Yet he could sit comfortably, or stretch out on that shelf." "Do you suppose that Jan ever found this?" Jannet asked, while they made their way to the other end of the attic, after Andy had viewed the partition, and the old carpet, and other things kept over the trap door. "I do not think so. He would have told us. But it is a wonder that Paulina, with her tendency to clean up, has not found the trap door some time during all these years." "She was afraid of ghosts, Cousin Andy, but I should think that the workmen might have found it when they wired the house for lights." "It is strange, but they missed it somehow." Andrew viewed with some amusement the little bed made comfortable for the night and the rocking chair with its comforter and little pillow. The pitcher, which had held the lemonade, and the cooky plate still remained on the floor. "You missed some of your fudge," said Andy, picking up a piece and putting it in his mouth as he sat down on the bed and looked around. "It is some time since I have been in this attic. I never cared for attics; I was always for outdoor sports. Did you know that I can ride again, Jannet?" "Yes, and I'm so glad. Did _you_ know that I had a long talk with Uncle Pieter, and that I'm going to stay in the family and not go back to school?" "Good. Sensible girl. Dad and I need somebody like you around." "I shouldn't think that Uncle Pieter needed any more responsibility, and I heard Miss Hilliard say once that every young person was." "Dad doesn't regard you in that way, I guess. I think that you are an _opportunity_." "Why, aren't you nice! Oh, it is so _good_ to have a family! Shall you feel like going if Uncle takes me traveling a little bit?" "I shouldn't be surprised, if it will make me well. I had no hope of ever being well again until a few weeks ago, Jannet, but things look very different now." Jannet, looking at the more hopeful face, was delighted within herself, for did she not know of someone that was coming this summer, if Cousin Di could manage it? Dear Cousin Andy would be happy yet. But another surprise was at hand for Jannet, for as Andrew spoke they heard some one in the little hallway, and there in the door stood Cousin Diana and--of all things--Jan! "Hello, Jannetje," said Jan's none too gentle voice. "So you beat me to it! I'm provoked that I could not have discovered the secret room. How do you get there? I just got in and surprised Mother. Say, I was the fellow that took the blue comforter, but I got in a different way. I was home the night before you all knew I was there and I had no idea that there was any one in the room. It was always kept locked anyhow. So I just sneaked in and got a cover. The closet didn't seem to have any and my bed had only one blanket." "Why, Jan! And you never saw me or anything?" "Never even thought of your being there. I knew the way to the bed and I helped myself. If you will be good, I'll show you how I got in after I see all this." Jan was off to investigate on his own account, but Jannet detained Mrs. Holt long enough to ask her if Vittoria had come in yet. "No, she has not reported at all. You feel pretty sure that it was she?" "Yes, Cousin Di. I'll tell you all about it the first chance I have. But I suppose that Nell gave you a good description of our night up here." "She did, indeed. You poor children! I slept on peacefully after our late drive home, not knowing that you youngsters were having such a time. You should have called us." "No use in waking you up, I thought. Where is Uncle Pieter?" "He had to go out on the farm, but he talked with Paulina and he wants to see you as soon as he comes in. Here he comes now!" Stooping and brushing off dust, Mr. Van Meter came from the back, or more properly the front of the attic. He was smiling and remarked that he passed an excited boy on the way. "This is a new place for a family conference," he added. "We have come up in the world, I see." But Jannet, tired as she was after her experiences of the night, liked this close gathering with its entire loss of all formality. She jokingly offered him the rocking chair, but slipped a hand in his as she told him of the portfolio and its amazing notes. "Nobody _could_ have made them up and put them there, could they?" Uncle Pieter, surprised, put on his glasses and looked at the leather portfolio with its old pockets. "I think not, Jannet, but let us go down to the library and you shall tell me the whole story from the first. I can not get a very connected narrative from Paulina." Andy threw back his head and laughed at this remark. "Imagine any one's getting a connected narrative from P'lina about anything!" Jannet displayed the old dolls and dishes which the small box contained. "If they prove to be the ones referred to," said Uncle Pieter, "I may have a case made for them and the portfolio." CHAPTER XVIII UNRAVELING THE MYSTERIES Uncle Pieter and Cousin Andy were no less interested than Janet in the notes which she had found in the secret room, now no longer a secret from the family. But Mr. Van Meter had given direction that all entrances should be closed and that the affair should not be made the matter of gossip. Having before deciphered the often blurred writing on the old paper, Jannet was commissioned to read the messages to her uncle and cousin in the library. She did so, and they lost none of their point by being read by the still excited Jannet. She had often been told at school that she read with expression, but she did not see the approving, smiling glance with which her uncle looked at her cousin, as she read. When she had finished, her uncle said, "It all fits in nicely with the genealogy so far as we have it. This house, the old one, I mean, was finished about the time of the Revolution and this room may have been an afterthought, very convenient for the owner, as it happened. I know that it was often headquarters for our troops, and probably it harbored the necessary spies. I will commission you, Jannet, to look carefully through all the trunks for old letters or messages of any sort that may tell us more of the history than we already know. From some source your mother knew much about the old stories, but I can not think that she knew of this secret way." "She would have told you," said Jannet. "I am not so sure," said Mr. Van Meter, soberly. "She would have told my father, perhaps." A rap on the door interrupted the conversation at this point. It was Old P'lina who entered at Mr. Van Meter's invitation of "Come in." Paulina stood unbendingly just inside the door. "I saw the woman Hepsy sent me to and she says that Vittoria was not there last night. Then I went to see Herman at the shop and he acted as though it was none of my business where Vittoria was. That was all." Without waiting for comment or question, Paulina turned and went away. Andy, looking at Jannet, smiled at her. "You can scarcely get used to our gentle P'lina, can you, Jannet?' "She is certainly the most sudden person I ever saw!" Mr. Van Meter did not smile. He sat in thought for a moment, then arose. "I shall see the young man himself. I want to talk to Vittoria and I do not propose to wait until she may have gone away. If she is going to marry Herman, he certainly will have some news of her soon." With this explanation, Mr. Van Meter left the room. Jannet remained, talking to her cousin till she heard Jan's rapid footsteps in the hall. "He's looking for me, I suspect, Cousin Andy," she said, hurrying out. "Here I am, Jan, if you want to see me." "You are the very little Dutchwoman I'm looking for. Come on. I want to show you how I got into your room. I didn't go that round-about way through the attic, nor up a ladder through a tool house! Our ancestor had one more way of getting in and out." "But it was so funny, Jan, that you should have come to that particular room on that particular night!" "Not so very. I intended to stay all night with Chick and then changed my mind. But we fooled around, and I didn't want to wake anybody up. So I opened the back door with a key I have and went to bed. Then I was too cold and I got up to prowl around after a blanket or something. There wasn't a thing in the closet where Paulina keeps all the extra things, and I could get into your room, I knew, though it was always kept locked. I didn't even try the door, but went in, without a light, fumbled around and finally drew off a comforter that was over the foot. I knew, you see, that you were expected, but I didn't have the least idea that you were there. If I had happened to touch your face,--wow!" "Was the bed kept made up, that you knew you would find something?" "No, but I took a chance that it was made up for you. See?" "Why didn't you tell me all this before?" "I didn't know how you would take it till I got acquainted with you. Then, to tell the truth, I rather hated to do it." "You need not have hesitated. You needed that comforter and I had enough without it anyhow. But I surely did wonder about it, and with all the ghost stories and all, well, I haven't known what to make of everything." The next few minutes were most engaging, for Jan showed his cousin how one portion of a panel apparently dropped down into the floor and made a low opening large enough for one person to enter from the hall into the room. "Mercy, Jan, I'll never sleep in peace now, if there are two ways of getting in beside the door!" "Put bolts on 'em, Jannet. I'll fix it." "Ask Uncle Pieter first, Jan. Then I'll be glad to have you do it. But I want it kept possible to open in this way. It's so thrilling, you know." "Yes, isn't it? But it is hard to forgive you, Jannet, for finding this out about the secret room first." "I only followed the ghost, Jan. But you don't know how I wondered what the secret was that you had with Paulina, and oh, did you send a little message to your mother by Paulina that you were home?" "Yes, how did you know that?" "Oh, I just remember that your mother read something and looked as cross as she ever looks and she was a little embarrassed, I thought, when she excused herself. And then you came just as if you had just arrived, and told me a whopper about coming from Chick's!" "That was no whopper. I _had_ come. I rode over there early, but of course it wasn't the _first_ time I had come from there." The matter of his early appearance at this time had also to be explained, but Jan related how school was closing early and how he and Chick decided not to wait a minute after examinations if they could get permission to leave, from parents and school authorities. "Think of all that was going on at the farm and I missing it! Mother expected me this time, but I wrote her to let me surprise you." It occurred to Jannet that she had not had anything to eat, and she felt a little faint, to her own surprise. "What's the matter, Jannet?" asked Jan, suddenly noticing how she looked. "Why, I'm hungry, I believe. We had some cookies and fudge and lemonade last night but that isn't very staying." "Haven't you had any _breakfast_? Believe _me_, I never forget my meals. Come with me, child. If Daphne doesn't fill you up with griddle-cakes, then my name is Mike!" Laughing, but not so sorry for the stout young arm that led her along, Jannet willingly made the descent to the kitchen, where kind old Daphne fussed over her and stirred up a fresh supply of batter for her cakes. Jan, quite at home with the cook, made some cocoa, which might have been better had he followed Daphne's directions; but the result was hot and stimulating at least. "Now you go and lie down somewhere, honey, and git some sleep," said Daphne, who had heard what she was not supposed to hear from Hepsy, who at last understood the visit to her room in the "dead of night." Jannet needed no coaxing to take the advice thus offered. Well fortified and comfortable after her hot cakes, cocoa and real maple syrup, she was escorted to the library by Jan and tucked on the davenport there with a light cover suitable to the warm day. Jan thought that she would sleep better there than in her own room, all things considered, but Jannet knew that she could sleep anywhere. Jan drew the curtain with its fringes before the alcove in which the davenport stood. From little windows the soft breeze came in gently. Jannet never knew when Jan went away, so quickly did she sink into slumber. It must have been in the late afternoon when she wakened. She had not known when Cousin Di and Jan came and looked at her, and debated whether to waken her for dinner or not, nor when Uncle Pieter came and looked down upon her with a smile. "Poor little Jannetje Jan," he said, pulling the curtains together and going back to his desk to wait for some one. It was when conversation was going on between her uncle and some one else that she wakened. "You can wait outside, Herman," she heard her uncle say. "It will be better for Vittoria to talk to me alone, and I can assure you that she will receive every courtesy." Jannet felt very uncomfortable, though at first still drowsy. But after all, she was the one who made the first discovery. It was not eavesdropping, she hoped, and she could not help it, anyway. She almost drowsed off to sleep again in the first few minutes, while Vittoria was answering Mr. Van Meter's questions about where she had been. Vittoria was decidedly sulky and did not want to answer any questions. Finally Mr. Van Meter told her that perfect frankness was her only course. "So far as I know, you have done no real harm in playing the ghost, but we want to know why you did it, and of course we want no more of it. It was most dangerous for the girls to be locked in and frightened." "You don't intend to send me away, then, till I get married?" "Not as long as you make no trouble for us. And we want no gossip about this, either, for our own sakes and that of you and Herman." This seemed to relieve Vittoria, who began to talk. "I did it first to get even with Paulina who scared me once. I told her that I did not believe in the family ghosts. She did, but since nothing happened, she made something happen and I caught her at it, hiding in the attic where I had my box with my savings in it. She was more scared than I was, for she really believes in ghosts. "Then,--well, Mrs. Van Meter told me to make all the trouble I could for you, and she was the one that found that secret room and played ghost sometimes. She sent me back here." Vittoria paused, perhaps half afraid to go on, but her listener made no comment. "I did it once in a while, half for fun, too, to scare Hepsy and Paulina, but you never heard any of it, so why would your wife want me to do it? Then, when the girls were here, I didn't want them snooping around where I had my box, so I concluded that I'd give them a good scare. I did, too, but Jannet almost caught me last night. And when Hepsy told me that she asked about what perfume I used, I knew that she knew. I went to a show with Herman first and I had some of Hepsy's new perfume on my handkerchief and on my dress. I did not think of it when I slipped on the things I wore to scare them. "I whipped around, ahead of Jannet, and went around through the attic again to get my things; and then I was going to stay all night in Jan's room, but I heard them coming and went the other way, sticking the things under Jan's bed. They found them, Paulina said. I went to stay all night with a girl I knew, not where I usually stay. That was all." "Paulina said that you went into the trunks to get your costume." "Perhaps she thought so; but I never opened a trunk. These things I found in a box that was tied up in paper and in the back part of the attic." "Very well, Vittoria. Have your box taken out of the attic and do not go there again, please. I would put my savings in the bank, or if you care to give them to me, I will put them in my safe. Now I want to ask you if you remember some incidents connected with my sister, Jannet's mother." Jannet, behind the curtains, was thoroughly awake by this time and with half a mind to go out now, for perhaps she should not hear what was to follow. She sat up, but decided not to go out. Vittoria was in the mood to tell now. Her uncle's voice was not unkind and she knew that Vittoria must be relieved to think that she need not lose her place and the money which she wanted to make. "I have kept it in mind," her uncle continued, "that you served my former wife very faithfully, even if mistakenly at times. She had trained you and had given you some education. It was to be expected that you should have a regard for her." Then Jannet heard her uncle tell Vittoria the incident of the telegram and what Paulina had said. Vittoria remembered the occasion. "Yes, I'll tell you more, Mr. Van Meter," she said excitedly. "I did not care very much for your wife when she stood over me and threatened me with all sorts of things if I did not tear up a letter that had come to you. 'It is from his precious sister,' she said, 'and I shall say to my husband, if he asks, that I have not destroyed any of his mail.' And the telegram was from her, too, and she begged you to help her find her husband and baby." There was silence for a little. Jannet heard her uncle's slow tapping on his desk. Finally he said, "Do you remember anything else, Vittoria? Were there any other letters?" "One little letter that I had to tear up for her. There may have been other telegrams, but I did not know about them if there were. She was watching for the mail in those days, or had me do it." "I see. Well, Vittoria, this is very valuable information to me. I can not feel very happy over what you did, Vittoria, but it would do no good now to punish you in any way, even if I could. You had part in what was a very dreadful thing." "Oh, yes, sir!" To Jannet's surprise, she heard Vittoria sobbing a little. "I was only sixteen, but I knew better; but I thought since they all died, it did not make so much difference,--until she came." "It may have made the difference that we could have saved my sister, Vittoria, and that Jannet need not have been in a boarding school for years. But you are not so much to blame as the one who ordered you to do it. It must have been a shock to you when we discovered Jannet. Well, Vittoria, we can not help the past. We have all made mistakes. Try to be a good girl and a good wife to Herman. I will have some work for him when I build the new barn." "Oh, thank you, sir, I'll--," but Vittoria's voice was tearful, and Jannet heard her uncle open and close the door. Vittoria had gone, too upset to say another word. She had come in sullen and hard, and left all touched and softened by Mr. Van Meter's treatment of her. Jannet was proud of her uncle, and when he immediately crossed the room and parted the curtains to see if she were awake, she looked lovingly up into his rather troubled eyes to tell him so. "O uncle, you were so good to Vittoria! I was afraid that I ought not to be here, but I was more afraid to come out." "I knew that you were there, my child, but I'd like to be alone now for a little while." Jannet clung to his arm a minute, then ran out and to her room to get some more of the attic dust off in her tub and make herself quite fresh for supper. Her previous toilet had been made quite hastily and superficially, she knew. Hepsy waited upon them at supper, but Jannet knew that a chastened and more considerate Vittoria would be helping to-morrow. Cousin Diana and Jan had their turn at the portfolio and its messages after supper, when they all gathered for a while in the living room. Then a sober Uncle Pieter took them, to put them away in his desk, and they saw no more of him that evening. CHAPTER XIX RECOVERED TREASURE Jan's secret must be shared with his chum, but both he and Nell promised to keep it to themselves. For several days there were frequent reunions either at the Van Meter farm or that of the Clydes. The summer promised to be a happy one. Uncle Pieter said that he would have a new lock put on the attic door, but so far he had been too busy to attend to it. Vittoria had handed back the key which she had had from her mistress, the second Mrs. Van Meter. She had handed her savings to Mr. Van Meter, who took them to a bank for her. Paulina, Jannet knew, from various remarks by that worthy lady, still kept her savings at home, but no one knew just where, which was just as well. Then no one felt any responsibility. So Cousin Diana said. But it would be a shame if anything happened to that for which Paulina had worked so long, and Jannet meant to speak to her uncle about it,--some day. The ghost had been discovered, but what had become of the pearls was still a mystery to Jannet. She felt that she knew Hepsy and Vittoria, Daphne, too, and others about the place who seldom came to the house, but of no one could she suspect the theft. Her lovely pearls! She wondered that Uncle Pieter did not do something; but Uncle Pieter was very busy. Once when she was coming back from a ride, Uncle Pieter, also on his horse, rode up to her and asked, "Any sign of the pearls?" "No sir," she replied. "I will come to your room some day," said he, "and you shall show me where you found them." That was all, and Jannet would have been impatient had she had any time to become so, but there were too many pleasant plans afoot. She loved the place now and even without a horse to ride would have been perfectly content. Early apples were ripe in the orchard and the young lambs on the hills were the prettiest things Jannet had ever seen, she thought. May was hurrying by very fast, and Jannet was several pounds heavier, especially since she had joined Jan in his more or less frequent visits to the kitchen. Jan pointed to fat Daphne in warning, but Uncle Pieter pinched her cheek lightly once in a while and remarked that a farm was better than a school for growing lasses. The opening from the tool house to the ladder in the secret way had been made into a stout door, secured on the inside by a bolt; but as burglars were almost unknown in these parts, Jannet began to feel about it as the rest of them did and never bothered to bolt her door at night. She turned her key and looked to see that the panel was closed tightly and that was all. Bottle and wires had been taken from the attic and no sounds other than those made by an occasional squirrel disturbed the night. One evening Jannet wrote somewhat later than she had intended, for she was telling Miss Hilliard all about the mystery and the excitement. Could it be, Jannet thought, so short a time since she left the school and came to Uncle Pieter's? But so much had happened! And she had made herself such a part of the family, in these last days especially. Jannet felt very happy and told Miss Hilliard so, though she took care to say that not even her own family could ever take Miss Hilliard's place in her heart. "Perhaps I'll even find my pearls," she thought, as she slipped between her sheets and drew only a light blanket over her. She fell asleep thinking of school affairs, for Lina had just written that school closed a little later than usual and would not be over till the second week in June. Uncle Pieter had said that she might have Lina to visit her and she "would write to L"--, and her purpose drifted off into a dream. But a more gentle ghost was drifting toward Jannet, one as ignorant of Jannet as Jannet was of the ghost. It was about the hour for ghosts, midnight, when an automobile turned into the drive from the main road and rolled rapidly up and around the house and even into the back part not far from the barns. "I can't see a light anywhere," said the lady who sat with the driver and who was peering out with the greatest interest. "If it were not for the trees and certain landmarks, I would think that we had driven into the wrong place." "Perhaps we have," suggested the other lady who sat behind. "No, indeed. I am not mistaken, but I scarcely know what to do. If we had not been so delayed,--I just meant to call, since I was so near,--and I wanted to see--one or two things." "If this were _my_ old home, I certainly would see what I wanted to, even if I waked somebody up. You are hopeless sometimes, my dear!" The first lady laughed. "So I am. Well, I see that they have left the old house intact anyhow. Pieter said that he intended to do so. But you can scarcely understand how I want to see it and how I do _not_ want to see it. Come on, then, Francis, see me to the door, please, and Lydia, it is goodnight if I can get inside, though I may sit up until morning, thinking. I hope that you may be able to sleep in the village hotel. I appreciate your sacrifice. But call for me after breakfast, unless I telephone for you earlier." "Please spare me unless you are in danger," replied the lady addressed as Lydia. "Perhaps it will be just as well if you can not get in." No light appeared at any of the windows, though the visit of an automobile might well have aroused some one. The lady and gentleman walked through the pergola and into the court to the front door, and the lady drew a key from her purse. "Odd that you kept the keys all these years," said the gentleman. "Yes, isn't it?" the lady replied, trying the key. It turned, but there was a bolt of some sort within. "There is another door, Francis," she said, and they walked around to the rear door, where another key was inserted. "Honestly, my courage almost fails me, Francis." "Why don't you ring, then, instead of getting in this foolish way?" "I always was a little foolish, Francis, as you well know, and I am just a little afraid to meet my--why, this lets me in, Francis. Now I shall be safely inside till morning at least, and if I can reach my room without meeting old P'lina, I shall gain courage from the old background. Goodnight and thank you." The door closed and the man called Francis walked back to the car, entered it and drove away. But none of them had seen a dark figure which kept to the shadows and which stood behind a tree when the lady entered the house. Waiting a little, listening at the door, it, too, entered at the back of the old house. The lady, with a small flashlight, hurried rather breathlessly up the back stairs and stood smiling a little, hesitating between routes, and fingering a small bunch of keys. No one could see her smiles in the dark, to be sure, but by a sudden impulse she turned to the attic stairs, opened the door there and disappeared from the ken of the man listening at the foot of the first flight. Stealthily he followed, occasionally letting the light in his hand fall before him. But he was familiar with the place, it would have been evident to any one who had seen him. At the attic door, which stood ajar, he paused, looking within at the small light which proceeded a little slowly into the depths beyond. "Mercy,--I had forgotten how dusty attics are!" he heard her say, as she drew aside the carpet, which had been replaced, and opened the trap door. "Now, if only I don't break my neck!" But the neck did not seem to be broken, for there was no sound of any calamity as the light disappeared. The man then turned on his own light and softly walked across the attic. But he sat down a few moments later in the secret room, to wait, for he did not desire to be present when first she entered the room below. The panel opened without waking the quietly sleeping Jannet. The little flashlight searched the lower regions of the room first, for possible obstacles. It flashed on the rug, the desk, the little chair. Why, whose pretty slippers were those by the chair? For a moment only the light flashed on the bed, with some of its covers neatly thrown back across its foot and the outline of some small person lying beneath sheet and blanket. How foolish she had been to think that her room would not be occupied! Should she go back the way in which she had come? Once more she flashed her light upon the bed,--why this could almost have been herself in days gone by! Jannet's fair hair, her quiet, sweet young face, the slender hand under her cheek,--who _was_ this? Tossing aside the tight hat from her own fluffy golden crown of thick hair, the lady, startled, touched, found her way to the little electric lamp upon the desk and turned on the current. The room glowed a little from the rosy shade. She tiptoed to the bed, bending over with lips parted and amazed eyes. The light, perhaps, or the presence, woke Jannet, still half in a dream as she looked up into the face above her. Whose was it, so lovely with its surprised and tender smile? "Why, Mother," she softly said, "did you come,--at last?" "Dear heart!" exclaimed a low, musical voice. "It can't be true, can it? You are not my own little baby that I lost,--but you have a look of Douglas! Who _are_ you?" Jannet, her own amazement growing as she wakened more thoroughly, raised herself on her elbow, then sat up, and the lady reached for her hand. Jannet's other hand came to clasp more firmly the older one with its one flashing ring above a wedding ring. "I don't understand," she said. "I thought that you were my mother. See? You look just like her picture, and I suppose that you are too young, then." But the lady, whose breath came so quickly and who looked so eagerly into Jannet's eyes, did not follow them to the picture. "If the picture is that of your mother, dear child, then I am your mother, for that is my picture and this is the room that was mine. Oh, how cruel, my dear, that we have had to do without each other all these years!" Jannet's arms went around her mother's neck as her mother clasped her, gently, yet possessively, and the sweetest feeling of rest came to Jannet, though her throat choked some way, and she felt her mother catching her breath and trying to control herself. Then her mother sat down on the bed beside her, holding Jannet off a moment to look at her again. "I believe that this is heaven and we are both ghosts," said Jannet, half smiling and winking hard. "Not a bit of it," said the other Jannet. "We are both as real as can be, though we shall be real enough there some day, I hope. Your mouth has a look of your father,--O Jannet! The tragedy of it!" "Don't cry, Mother! I have so much to tell you,--" "And I so much to ask. Have you been here all these years?" "Oh, no,--just a few weeks. Uncle Pieter found me, and oh, we must tell Uncle Pieter right away, because he feels so terribly about things he has just found out, how you must have written and telegraphed to him and he never got the telegrams and letters!" Jannet's mother looked at her in surprise. Her face had sobered at the mention of her brother, but now she gave close attention to what Jannet went on to explain. "I should have come," she said, "instead of depending on messages. But I was so ill." A little knock drew their attention to the opening into the secret stairway, for Jannet senior had not touched the spring which would replace the panel. There stood Uncle Pieter, but everything was so surprising that this did not seem unnatural. "Pardon me, Jannet," he said, "for following you. I was sleepless, and as I was taking a turn about the gardens I saw strangers, to all appearances, entering the house. I came to see what it meant, but by the time you reached the attic I knew who it was. I sat in the secret chamber to wait for your surprise!" Uncle Pieter was hesitating at the opening, but with a few steps his sister had reached him and extended her hand. Tears were in her eyes as she said, "I am glad, Pieter, that what I have thought all these years is not true, and oh, how glad I am that you found this little girl for me! But I am in a daze just now. Can we have a talk? Where has the child been, and what can you both tell me about my husband?" "None of us can sleep, Jannet, till it is explained. I will call old P'lina. She will want to be in this, and can make us some coffee. Get dressed, Jannet Junior, and bring your mother to the library." How wonderful to have a pretty, young mother, that helped her into her clothes, kissed soundly the face that glowed from the application of rose soap and water, and selected a pair of shoes for her from the closet! But she was going to do things for her mother,--mostly. They heard Mr. Van Meter rapping at Paulina's door and heard his rapid stride as he left the house, leaving it all alight as he went through the corridors on the way to the library. Paulina, all astonished and more speechless than usual, came out of her room in time to meet Mrs. Eldon and Jannet as they started for the library. But Paulina held her mother's hand tightly, Jannet noticed, as they walked along the corridor together. "Where've you been all this time Miss Jannet?" Paulina finally asked. "In Europe, P'lina, studying, singing and giving some lessons myself. I'll tell you all about it very soon." Mr. Van Meter was pacing up and down the library, as they could hear when they approached the open door. "Why, Pieter, you have made a lovely place of this!" his sister exclaimed, taking the chair he drew up for her. "Do you think so? Wait till you see all the old treasures I have furbished up and put around in the old house. You will stay with us, I hope. But I know how overcome you must feel to find this child, and I will tell first all that we have to explain, with Jannet's help." Quietly they all sat in the comfortable library chairs, Jannet scarcely able to take her eyes from her mother, while her uncle told all that they knew, soberly saying that his wife could "scarcely have been herself" when she intercepted the messages. With a serious face, Mrs. Eldon listened to the account. One pleasant little interlude occurred when Mr. Van Meter said that Jannet had not yet heard how he found her. "You would never guess it, my child," he said, and reached into his desk for a booklet tied with gay ribbons. "Why, that's our annual 'Stars and Stripes,'" cried Jannet, recognizing it at once. "The same," said her uncle. "One of our guests left it here in my library and I idly picked it up one evening. Glancing through it, my eye fell on your picture first, then on your name, and I read your history at once." Mr. Van Meter smiled as he handed the open book to his sister. "Is this 'Who's Who,' my daughter?" lightly asked Jannet's mother, taking the book and looking at the account on the page of photographs reproduced with a short account of each pupil. "It is of our school, Mother, and those girls are all in my class." Wasn't it great that her mother had a sense of humor and was smiling over the booklet? But she began to read the account of her own child aloud: "'Janet Eldon is one of the fixed stars in the firmament of our Alma Mater, and her brilliancy is of the first magnitude. She is the daughter of Douglas Eldon and has her Scotch Janet from his mother's side of the house. Janet came originally from the Buckeye state, but claims Philadelphia as her real home. She sings and plays and enjoys our wild rides about Fairmount Park,--'" Here Mrs. Eldon stopped. "No wonder that you looked Jannet up when you read that. It was providential!" Mrs. Eldon's story supplied the rest of the explanation. She had returned from the hospital, after wondering why her husband did not continue his visits there, and realizing that he must be sick, to find some one else in their little apartment and her trunks packed and stored. The woman in charge was shocked and startled upon seeing her, having been told that she had not lived through her illness. "Douglas must have been delirious then," said Mrs. Eldon. "The poor boy was taking his baby to his mother, he told the woman, and when she asked if she should pack up the things he 'thanked her kindly' and paid her, she said. "Then I telegraphed and wrote, frantically. No word came from anyone. I see now that Mother Eldon was in a strange place, at the hospital, and probably had not yet arranged to have her mail forwarded, if she was only in the midst of her moving. She was seeing that my baby was pulled through, and very likely the final burial of my poor Douglas was postponed, for I even found the name of the minister of their old church and wrote to him about it. If he ever wrote to me, I was gone by that time. Meanwhile I had traced another young father who had been traveling about the same time with a sick baby that died. Kind people had buried the little one, and the father had wandered from the hospital in the night and found a grave in the river." Mrs. Eldon did not add to the sober look on Jannet's face by telling her that for years flowers had been placed at Easter upon a tiny grave in the far West. "I was ill again, and then friends that I had known in New York chanced upon me in Los Angeles. They urged an ocean voyage to strengthen me. It was Hawaii, then the East and then Europe and music and I have been in America only a few weeks, coming to arrange for engagements." "O Mother! I shall hear you sing!" "And you shall sing yourself, perhaps." "No, Jannet is going to be a missionary," smiled Uncle Pieter. "So she told me." But Mrs. Eldon only patted Jannet's hand and told her that it was a noble purpose. "We shall see about the future, my child, but I shall accept your invitation to stay here, Pieter, for the present. I am not real sure but all this is a dream." Coffee, sandwiches and some of Daphne's latest triumph in the line of white cake and frosting were brought in by old P'lina's capable hands, so glad to serve the older Jannet once more; and while they refreshed themselves Jannet told her mother many things about her school and her dearest friends, Miss Hilliard, Miss Marcy and Lina in particular. "We must invite them all to come here as soon as school is out," said Uncle Pieter. "Miss Hilliard is Jannet's guardian and there will be things to arrange. I tried to trace what had become of what would have been Jannet's little fortune, but without success, of course." "I had turned everything into available funds," said Mrs. Eldon, "but there is still enough for us both." There was a nap for them all after the little lunch. Then came the exciting morrow, with breakfast and the surprise of Cousin Andy, Cousin Di and Jan, and later the visit of Mr. and Mrs. Murray, Mrs. Eldon's friends. Jannet almost shivered to think how nearly she had missed seeing her mother, as the circumstances of the delay and of her hesitation were related. Mr. and Mrs. Murray, whom Jannet senior called Francis and Lydia, warned her against giving up her profession and told the glowing Jannet junior about her mother's beautiful voice. Jan telephoned the news to Nell and Chick and stopped Jannet in the hall one time to ask her, "How about the fortune that old Grandma Meer told you? I guess that you'll get the long trip to Europe with your mother, and how about the 'luck when you are found'?" Jannet beamed upon her cousin who was so kindly in his sympathy. "I still don't believe in 'fortunes,' and neither do you, Mister Jan, but it is funny how they hit it sometimes, isn't it?" It was after two blissful and thrilling days that Jannet thought of the pearls, when her mother opened the desk to write a letter. Jannet had been examining the knot hole in the panels where she had seen the light on one of those exciting nights of which she had been telling her mother; but she came to stand by her mother a moment and a vision of the pearls flashed before her. "We must share the desk now, Jannet," said the elder Jannet. "It is a shame to take it partly away from you. Your cousin has been telling me how delighted you were with the room and its furniture." "I'd much rather have a mother than a desk," lovingly said Jannet, "but I must tell you about finding the pearls,--and losing them again!" "What do you mean, child?" Mrs. Eldon laid down her pen and turned to her daughter. To her astonished mother Jannet related the story and opened the secret drawer by way of illustration. This time the drawer came out most easily, and both Jannets exclaimed in surprise. In their case, as beautiful as ever, the shining pearls lay before them! "Why Jannet!" "Mother! There must be something queer about that desk! Take them,--quick!" As if she were afraid that they would vanish before their eyes, Jannet gathered pearls and case and placed them in her mother's hands. "Oh, you shall wear them the next time you sing!" Jannet stood looking at her mother, who was turning over the pearls. Then she examined the drawer. "I have an idea, Mother," she said. "I think that somebody fixed this with a sort of false bottom. I did something before I opened the drawer that time I found them, and I think that I must have done it again when I closed it, or some time before the time, they were gone. "See this little worn place, with the wood that gives a little? There is a spring under that and it lets down things or brings them up again, perhaps." Mrs. Eldon looked doubtfully at Jannet, but Jannet dropped her own fountain pen into the drawer, closed it, and pressed the place to which she had referred. Then she pressed the spring which opened the drawer. No fountain pen was in sight. Again Jannet closed the drawer. Again she pressed the wood. Again she pressed the spring, and the drawer came out. There lay the fountain pen. "Quod erat demonstrandum!" smiled Jannet senior. "Isn't that strange? We must have Pieter up here to show us how that is managed." "I think now that a piece of wood just shoots in over whatever is there," said Jannet, "instead of letting them down." Jannet was examining the drawer again. "See, the drawer is much more shallow when what you put in isn't there!" Jannet senior laughed at Jannet junior's explanation. "You are like your father, Jannet, to want to find it all out yourself. To think of their having been there all these years!" "I called them 'Phantom Treasure,'" said Jannet, taking up a white and gleaming strand. "Like you, they were waiting for me. These are not the greatest treasure I have recovered, my darling child!" "Well, Mother, it took three 'ghosts,' and one _angel_ that descended by the secret stairs, to bring _my_ treasure to _me_. Let me give you another big hug, to make sure that you are real!" THE END 
34369	----	PENNY NICHOLS MYSTERY STORIES Penny Nichols Finds a Clue (1936) Penny Nichols and the Mystery of the Lost Key (1936) Penny Nichols and the Black Imp (1936) Penny Nichols and the Knob Hill Mystery (1939) _by_ "Joan Clark" (Mildred A. Wirt, 1905-2002) Penny Nichols and the Mystery of the Lost Key _By_ Joan Clark * The Goldsmith Publishing Company CHICAGO COPYRIGHT 1936, BY THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA _CONTENTS_ CHAPTER PAGE I. A Valuable Letter 11 II. A Mysterious Key 25 III. An Arrogant Guest 38 IV. A Face at the Window 51 V. The Lost Key 67 VI. Midnight Visitors 76 VII. "Ghost" Music 93 VIII. The Ivory Collection 102 IX. A Scrap of Paper 115 X. The Wall Safe 131 XI. A Night Adventure 140 XII. A Suspicious Act 150 XIII. The Secret Stairs 164 XIV. A Diamond Ring 175 XV. Penny's Evidence 186 XVI. Mrs. Leeds' Strategy 199 XVII. The Man in the Boat 209 XVIII. A Daring Theft 220 XIX. The Tables Turn 225 XX. A Break for Freedom 239 CHAPTER I A Valuable Letter "Hurry, Susan! We have only ten minutes before the store closes!" Penelope Nichols, the slender girl in blue, urged her companion into the revolving doors at the entrance of the Bresham Department Store. A vigorous push sent the barriers spinning at such a rate that other shoppers turned to stare at the two girls. "You nearly took off my heels that time, Penny," Susan Altman protested with a laugh as they emerged into the crowded store. "Sorry, but we've no time to waste if I get that pair of white earrings. The clerks are starting to put things away already." Threading their way through the outgoing stream of shoppers, the girls went directly to the jewelry counter. Penny peered anxiously into one of the glass cases to see if the coveted ivory ornaments were still on display. They had not been sold. "Do you think they'll look all right with my red party frock?" she asked her chum as they stood impatiently waiting for a clerk. In matters of dress she valued Susan's opinion more highly than her own. "Stunning. With your coloring you can wear anything. Now if you had a skin like mine and a snub nose--" Penny did not hear the remainder of her chum's oft-repeated complaint for she was trying vainly to attract the attention of a clerk. The only available girl at the counter was occupied in showing a tray of fine rings to a tall man in gray tweeds. "We'll never be waited on," Penny murmured in annoyance. "You can tell it's going to take until closing time before he makes up his mind which ring he wants." Susan turned to survey the customer. He was expensively dressed and upon a casual inspection appeared to be a gentleman of considerable means. Although the clerk offered several diamond rings for his approval none of them satisfied him. "Haven't you anything better than this?" he questioned. "Show me that large diamond, please." He tapped the glass case lightly with his cane. The clerk obligingly placed the ring before him. The man examined the diamond closely, comparing it with another ring previously shown him. For the first time he appeared aware of Penny and Susan. "Wait on these young ladies while I make up my mind which ring I prefer," he urged the clerk. "I am in no hurry and I can see that they are." The clerk hesitated. The rings in which the customer was interested were valuable ones. It was a rule of the store to keep them always in the locked case. Yet it would take her only a minute to wait upon the girls, and obviously the man was a gentleman. She turned to serve Penny. "I'll take that pair of earrings," Penny announced, indicating the ivory pieces. "They're three dollars, aren't they?" "Yes, that is correct. I'll have them wrapped for you." Penny offered the girl a five dollar bill in payment. She could not restrain a little sigh as she saw it deposited in the store's cash drawer. Perhaps she had been foolish to buy the earrings. It meant that she must do without a great many little things in order to keep within her allowance. Penny sighed again. At times it was trying to have a father who believed in maintaining his daughter strictly upon a budget plan. Her eyes roved aimlessly toward the man at the ring counter. She saw him cast a quick glance about. Then he walked rapidly away, making for the nearest exit. Penny's keen blue eyes riveted upon the ring tray. The large diamond was missing. She had not seen the customer actually take it--his movements had been too deft for that--yet she knew for a certainty that while the clerk's back had been turned he had secreted it somewhere upon his person. Penny did not hesitate. She darted after him. "Stop!" she cried. And then to the surprised shoppers who turned at the sound of her voice: "Don't let that thief get away!" The man wheeled sharply, his face convulsed in anger. With his cane he struck viciously at a stout woman who clutched him by the coat. A store detective blocked the main exit. Recognizing that he could not hope to escape that way, the thief turned and bolted up a moving escalator which was carrying a capacity load of passengers to the second floor. Penny, the detective, and a few of the more energetic customers took up the pursuit. In a desperate attempt to escape, the thief elbowed women roughly aside as he darted up the stairway. Upon the uncertain footing of the moving treads, several stumbled and fell. In an instant hysterical women were screaming and clutching at one another for support. A slender girl in a shabby business suit was rudely jostled. Penny, half way up the moving stairway, tried to save her from a hard fall. She was not quick enough. Down the girl went, and as she fell, the contents of her pocketbook spilled out upon the moving stairway. The thief took advantage of the resulting confusion to melt into the throng of shoppers at the top of the escalator. While store detectives carried on the pursuit, Penny tried to help the terrified women to alight from the stairway. "Are you hurt?" she asked the girl who had fallen, trying to assist her to her feet. "Never mind me! Save my pocketbook!" the other cried, frantically beginning to gather up the scattered objects. The other passengers upon the stairway were more of a hindrance than a help. Yet by working fast Penny managed to accumulate nearly all of the lost articles before the brief ride approached its end. "My letter!" At the other girl's shrill cry, Penny saw a white envelope riding serenely on the uppermost step. With a bound she covered the distance which separated her from it, pouncing upon the letter an instant before the moving belt disappeared into the flooring. Clutching it triumphantly in her hand, she turned to assist the girl who had lost it. "Why, you're limping," she observed. "Here, lean on me." "It's nothing," the girl maintained staunchly. "I twisted my ankle when I fell." Penny helped her to a nearby chair. Despite the girl's brave words, her lips quivered when she spoke and her attractive face had taken on an ashen hue. Yet, strangely, her interest centered not in her injury but in the letter which she had nearly lost. "Thank you for saving it," she told Penny gratefully. "I don't know what I should have done if I'd lost that letter. It means everything to me." Penny stared at the envelope a trifle curiously but she was too well bred to ask personal questions. Before she could make any response store officials hurried up to take charge of the situation. The girl's name was Rosanna Winters, Penny learned, by listening. She lived at a rooming house on Sixty-fifth Street, not a great distance from Penny's own home. Rosanna firmly turned down the suggestion of store officials that she be sent to a nearby hospital for first-aid treatment. "It isn't necessary. I merely twisted my ankle. I'll soon be able to walk on it." "Let me take you home," Penny offered. "My roadster is parked just outside the store. We live close to each other." The girl hesitated, then smiled as she said: "That's very kind of you, I'm sure. You don't really mind?" "Of course not. Here, let me help you downstairs." "Not by way of the escalator," Rosanna said hastily. "Hereafter I'll ride on the elevator. It's safer." Although the store's gong had announced the closing hour some minutes previously, shoppers were slow to leave the building. As the girls returned to the street floor they were embarrassed to find themselves the target for many curious stares. Penny readily was recognized as the girl who had observed the theft of the ring. "What became of that man who knocked me down?" Rosanna questioned. "I suppose he escaped." "I'm afraid so," Penny admitted, looking about for Susan. "The last I saw of him he was running toward the kitchenware department with the store detective after him." Sighting Susan near the outside door, Penny steered her new friend in that direction. Quickly she introduced the girls, mentioning Rosanna's unfortunate accident. "I saw it all," Susan declared. "Penny, you certainly did stir up things when you set the store detective on that thief." "And the worst of it was that he escaped," Penny acknowledged. "Of course, he may be caught here in the building but I doubt it." In the excitement, she had completely forgotten her package at the jewelry counter. The girls would have left the store without it had not the clerk come running after them with the purchase. "Thank you so much for calling out the alarm," she told Penny gratefully. "If the thief isn't caught I may lose my job." "Oh, I hope not." "So do I, but I shouldn't have broken a store rule. I was completely taken in by the man's appearance." "I don't wonder at that," Penny said. "He certainly looked anything but a crook. Was the ring a valuable one?" "It was priced to sell at eight hundred dollars. I don't see how I could have been so stupid." Penny felt sorry for the salesgirl, particularly so when the floorwalker came up and began to question her sharply. "It really wasn't the clerk's fault," Penny insisted. "I feel certain that man was a professional jewel thief." "Did you notice his appearance?" the floorwalker asked. "Yes, he was dressed in a gray tweed suit. I'd say he was approximately six feet in height, dark hair and eyes. His face was long and angular." The store official noted down the description and took Penny's address in case she might be needed later on to identify the crook if he were captured. "We're watching all the lower floor exits," the floorwalker informed, "but the chances are the man got away by means of one of the fire escapes." The store rapidly was clearing of shoppers. Penny and her companions lingered a few minutes longer and then they too were politely requested to leave. "I'd like to know if the store detective caught that man," Penny declared as they paused for an instant on the street. "I suppose now we'll have to find out by reading our newspapers." Rosanna Winters turned as if to leave the girls. "Thank you again for saving my pocketbook," she said to Penny. "My ankle is much better now so I'll just take a streetcar home." Penny caught her by the elbow. "You'll do no such thing. Why, I can see that it hurts you every step you take. It isn't more than a block or two out of my way to drive you home." Despite Rosanna's protests, she urged the girl into the roadster which was parked at the curbing. Penny was very proud of her car. Although it was not a new model it ran very well and she spent most of her spare time keeping it washed and polished. Since the Altman residence was close by, Penny dropped her chum off before taking Rosanna home. During the ride to Sixty-fifth Street, the Winters girl spoke scarcely a word. Several times Penny cast a curious glance in her direction. Rosanna was the quiet type, she decided. A striking brunette with a thoughtful, almost sad face. "I live at the next house," the girl said as they turned a corner. "The one on the right." It was a modest but not unattractive boarding house. The porch was clean and the yard more orderly than the majority in the neighborhood. "I'm only staying here a few days until I can find another place," Rosanna mentioned, feeling that some explanation was due her companion. "You are a stranger in Belton City?" Penny guessed. "Yes, I came here looking for work. But now that won't be necessary." Rosanna hesitated, and then, because Penny had seemed so very friendly, decided to offer additional information. "I am an orphan, Miss Nichols. Until this week I had begun to think that fortune had turned against me." "And now you've had a piece of good luck?" "Yes," Rosanna's face glowed as she opened her purse and took out the letter which Penny had picked up from the escalator. "If you hadn't saved this for me, I should have lost everything." "Then I'm glad I snatched it up in time," Penny smiled. She could not imagine the contents of the mysterious letter. It was all she could do to keep from asking questions. "I'd like to have you read it if you care to," Rosanna said a trifle timidly. "I'm anxious to learn the opinion of another person." "Why, I'll be glad to look at it if you wish," Penny returned, a little surprised at the request. "And as far as advice is concerned, I love to offer it." She accepted the envelope which Rosanna proffered. As she took out the folded letter a key dropped out into her lap. "What's this?" Penny demanded. Rosanna laughed nervously. "If what the letter says is true, it seems to be the key to my inheritance! But read the letter for yourself." CHAPTER II A Mysterious Key Unfolding the paper, Penny noticed that the message had been written under the letterhead: "J.C. Elfhedge, attorney, Brookport." The communication stated briefly that Rosanna Winters was the sole heiress of the late Jacob Winters, her uncle, and that she had inherited his mountainside estate at Raven Ridge. A key to the property was enclosed. She was urged to inspect the estate at her earliest convenience. "Well, what do you think of it?" Rosanna questioned as Penny studied the letter in silence. "Why, it's fine," Penny returned after a slight hesitation. "Did you know Jacob Winters well?" "I didn't know him at all. In fact I never even met him." "Oh! Then the inheritance must have come as a surprise." "It did. Even now I can't help thinking there must be some mistake. Did you ever hear of Raven Ridge?" "Yes, indeed," Penny told her. "It is a lovely spot near Snow Mountain." "I must go there as soon as I can," Rosanna said. "Will the car fare be very much do you think?" "Probably not more than ten dollars." "That's a large sum for me," Rosanna smiled ruefully. "Of course, now that I've actually inherited Uncle Jacob's estate, I suppose I shouldn't worry about money." "Well, I shouldn't spend lavishly until I was certain there would be no slip-up about getting the property," Penny advised bluntly. "Perhaps I shouldn't say it, but there's a certain tone to this letter that I don't like." "What do you mean?" Rosanna questioned. Penny found it difficult to explain. "Brookport is only a few miles from here and yet I've never heard of a lawyer by the name of Elfhedge. It seems a trifle strange too that he should enclose a key to the property." "It struck me that way too at first," Rosanna admitted unwillingly. "Of course, I do have an uncle named Jacob Winters--my mother often spoke of him. He was always considered queer." "It may be all right. No doubt you have inherited a fortune. Only I think I'd be a trifle cautious until I was certain it wasn't a hoax." "But what can I do except to obey the letter and visit the property?" Penny glanced again at the letterhead. "Why not visit this lawyer and have a talk with him? Brookport isn't far from here and it might save you a trip to Raven Ridge." "Can I reach Brookport by train or bus?" "I'm afraid not," Penny said. "It's off the main line of travel. You haven't a car of your own or one you could borrow?" "No." "I'll take you to Brookport if you like," Penny offered generously. "We might go tomorrow." "Oh, I shouldn't like to trouble you, Miss Nichols. I can probably rent a car." "There's no need of it for I would enjoy the ride. Besides, I am curious to learn if there is an attorney by the name of Elfhedge living in Brookport. Suppose I call here for you around ten o'clock tomorrow morning." "All right," Rosanna smiled. "It's good of you to offer. Perhaps I can repay you someday." The girls parted, Penny driving directly to her own home. Entering the house by the back door she found Mrs. Gallup, the housekeeper, cooking dinner. The kitchen was permeated with the delightful aroma of frying chicken. "Is Dad home yet?" Penny inquired, pausing to sniff the air. "He's in the study," the housekeeper informed. Penny found Christopher Nichols occupied at his desk. Sometimes it was difficult for her to realize that she was the daughter of a detective who had gained state-wide recognition for his ability in solving baffling cases. Mr. Nichols had served an apprenticeship on the police force, had risen from the ranks, and later had started his own private detective agency. Yet, despite his success, he was quiet and unaffected. Mr. Nichols had no real hobbies and only two absorbing interests in life--his work and his daughter. Penny had been left motherless at an early age. Because there had been only a slight feminine influence in her life her outlook upon the world was somewhat different from that of the average high school girl. She thought clearly and frankly spoke her mind. Yet if she enjoyed an unusual amount of freedom for one so young, she never abused the trust which her father placed in her. Penny loved adventure. Recently, somewhat to her father's chagrin, she had involved herself with a daring gang of automobile thieves. The story of her exciting encounter with underworld characters has been recounted in the first volume of the series, entitled, "Penny Nichols Finds A Clue." "Now what?" Mr. Nichols demanded gruffly as his daughter perched herself on the corner of his desk. "Has that car of yours broken down again?" Penny laughed as she shook her head. "No, believe it or not, I still have a few dollars of my allowance left. I'm after information this time." "What sort of information?" "Preferably accurate," Penny smiled. "Tell me, did you ever hear of a lawyer by the name of Elfhedge with an office at Brookport?" "No, I never did," Mr. Nichols returned instantly. "There is an attorney in the Stover building by the name of Hedgel. Perhaps you're mixed up." "I have the name right," Penny insisted. She then related the contents of Rosanna Winters' letter. "It sounds like someone's idea of a practical joke," Mr. Nichols declared. "I'd advise the girl not to spend any money until she's done a little investigating." "That's what I did tell her." "I'll look this man Elfhedge up in a day or two if you like," Mr. Nichols promised. "It sounds like a fictitious name to me but of course the letter may be _bona fide_." Mrs. Gallup interrupted the discussion to announce that dinner was ready. Immediately after the meal had been served, Mr. Nichols left for his office and Penny saw him no more that evening. He left the house before she was up the next morning so she had no opportunity to explain that she was driving Rosanna Winters to Brookport that day. At ten o'clock she rang the doorbell of the rooming house on Sixty-fifth Street. Rosanna already was waiting. "I thought you might have changed your mind about wishing to make the trip," she declared, following Penny to the car. "No, I'm more curious than ever to talk with your lawyer. It will be wonderful, Rosanna, if the estate turns out to be a valuable one." Rosanna smiled a trifle ruefully. "Yes, I will have plenty of use for the money. I can't believe yet that Uncle Jacob left everything to me." Penny refrained from saying anything which might disturb Rosanna. Actually, she had not the slightest reason for doubting that the girl had come into an inheritance, save that the letter from Mr. Elfhedge did not have a genuine tone. It occurred to her that a scheme might be under way to induce the orphan to part with her own savings. During the ride to Brookport, Rosanna mentioned a few of the hard experiences she had undergone in the past year. First her mother had died, then an aunt with whom she made her home, likewise had been taken from her. She found work of a sort in a grocery store, but long hours and trying conditions had worn her down. She had taken sick. Hospital bills claimed the greater part of the money which her mother had left her. She could not secure her old job back, nor could she find a new one. In desperation she had decided to come to Belton City, hoping that she might secure a position there. "You can imagine that I was pretty well discouraged when the letter arrived from Mr. Elfhedge," Rosanna ended. "You don't know what a fright you gave me by suggesting that it might be a hoax." "I'm sorry if I caused you worry. I had no reason for thinking that someone wrote the letter for a joke." "Uncle Jacob was noted for doing queer things," Rosanna informed. "I never met him but Mother often mentioned his name. He was quite a traveler, I believe, and collecting was his hobby." "What did he collect?" "Oh, things from the Orient and antiques from all over the world." "Then if you've come into his property, you may have inherited some real treasures," Penny commented. "It would be fun to visit that house at Raven Ridge." "Yes, but I dread going there alone. Penny, I wish you could go with me." "I wish I could too, but I guess I'll have to stay at Belton City this summer." It was only a little after eleven o'clock when the girls reached Brookport. The town was less than a hundred thousand population and Penny had no trouble in finding the main business section. After cruising about for some minutes, they located the street where Mr. Elfhedge had his office. The number which they sought brought them to an imposing seven-story brick building. Penny parked the roadster and they went inside, searching the directory for Mr. Elfhedge's name. It was not listed. "That's odd," Rosanna remarked with a troubled frown. "His office must be here somewhere in the building." Penny went over to make inquiry of the elevator boy. "There's no one in this building by that name," he insisted. Thinking that the boy might be misinformed, Penny and Rosanna sought the building superintendent. To satisfy them, the man looked carefully through his list of tenants. No one by the name of Elfhedge occupied an office in the building. "There is an attorney in Room 309 but his name is Rogers," the superintendent told the girls. "You might talk with him. He may know this man Elfhedge." They went up to Room 309 and after a brief wait were ushered into the lawyer's private office. Rosanna was too shy to state the purpose of her visit, so Penny explained why they had come. The lawyer had never heard of a colleague by the name of Elfhedge. "He's never been in this building and I doubt that he's even located in the city," they were told. "You must have made a mistake in the address." The girls had made no mistake, that they knew. The address was plainly written on the outside of the envelope which Rosanna had in her purse. She showed it to the lawyer. "Yes, that seems to be this building," he admitted. "It looks as if someone used a fake address." They left the office completely discouraged. Penny felt sorry for her companion. Rosanna had counted so heavily upon the inheritance. Now it appeared that someone had played a cruel joke upon her. "You were right," Rosanna acknowledged as they walked slowly back to the car. "You were suspicious of that letter from the first." "It struck me as peculiar that it was written in longhand instead of on a typewriter," Penny explained. "I suppose it is nothing but a joke," Rosanna acknowledged, "and yet why should a key be enclosed in the letter?" "It's beyond me, Rosanna. Even if the trip is wasted, you might feel better about it if you went to Raven Ridge and investigated." "I'd go in an instant if I had the money to spare." "I'll loan it to you." Rosanna shook her head. "No, I can't take it although it's kind of you to offer." "I wish I could help you, Rosanna." "You've helped me a great deal already. Perhaps a little later on I'll find some way of getting to Raven Ridge." Penny tried to urge the loan, but Rosanna, who was unusually proud, would not hear of it. The girls parted at the latter's boarding house on Sixty-fifth Street. "I'll see you within a day or two," Penny promised as she drove away. "Perhaps by that time Father will learn something about Mr. Elfhedge." She did not really believe that Mr. Nichols could find anything to report. Doubtless, the name had been a fictitious one. Yet who had played the joke upon Rosanna and for what purpose? "There's more to the affair than what appears on the surface," she reflected. "If only I had the chance, I'd do a little investigating." Penny smiled at the thought, little dreaming that such an opportunity was to present itself very shortly. CHAPTER III An Arrogant Guest That evening at the dinner table Penny told her father about the unsuccessful trip to Brookport. "It looks like someone played a practical joke on your friend," he commented. "But who could be so mean, Dad? Rosanna has had such a desperately hard time to get along. Now if she wastes money going to Raven Ridge on a fruitless visit, it won't seem fair." "Well, it's likely to amount to just that," Mr. Nichols returned. "I tried to locate that attorney, Elfhedge today." "Any luck?" "No, I doubt if such a person exists." "So do I," Penny agreed. "By the way, what became of the newspaper today? I wanted to read up about the department store theft." "To see if your name was mentioned?" her father teased. "No, I was just curious to learn if the thief was captured." "I can set your mind at rest on that point," Mr. Nichols informed. "He wasn't. If you're interested in the details, you'll find the paper on the front porch." Penny helped Mrs. Gallup clear the table of dishes, then went outside to get the paper. The story appeared on the front page. It was a slightly distorted version of what had happened and Penny was just as well pleased that her name was not mentioned. According to the account, the thief had escaped by means of a rear fire escape. The ring, valued at approximately nine hundred dollars, was fully covered by insurance. While Penny was reading the story, Mr. Nichols came out and sat on the porch steps. "How would you like to take a little trip?" he asked casually. Penny dropped the newspaper. "With you?" she questioned eagerly. "Yes, I've been working hard lately and I feel like taking a rest over the week end." "Where will we go?" "I thought of Mt. Ashland. It will be cool in the mountains and at this time of year the hotels will not be too crowded." "Why, Mt. Ashland isn't very far from Snow Mountain, is it?" Penny demanded with interest. "I'm going to look it up on the map." She ran into the house for the big red atlas. A moment later she returned, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Mt. Ashland isn't more than a two hours' drive from Snow Mountain," she told her father. "And just what difference does it make?" "Why, Raven Ridge is located on Snow Mountain, you know." "Oh! So that's what you have in your mind!" Penny perched herself on her father's knee, smiling her most beguiling smile. "Never mind, you little tease," he said hastily. "I give in." "You don't even know what I want," she laughed. "Yes, I do. You want to take this new friend of yours along with us." "I think it would be nice, don't you?" Penny beamed. "Then while you're having a good rest at Mt. Ashland we could drive on to Raven Ridge. Rosanna could investigate her property there, if she has any, and it wouldn't cost her much of anything to make the trip." "You seem to have it well planned," the detective marveled. "Well, what's wrong with the idea?" "Nothing. We'll take her along if she wants to go. She may help keep you out of mischief." "When do we start?" Penny demanded gaily. "Tomorrow afternoon as soon as I can get away from the office." "Then I'll dash over to see Rosanna now and ask if she can go with us," Penny announced. Without giving her father an opportunity to change his mind, she hurried to the garage for her roadster. At the rooming house on Sixty-fifth Street, the landlady, a stout woman with a tired, lined face, admitted her. "Miss Winters has the attic room," she informed. "Five flights up." At the top of the last flight Penny paused to catch her breath before rapping on Rosanna's door. The orphan was a trifle startled at seeing her. "Do come in," she said cordially. The room was oppressive and warm, although the tiny windows were open wide. A bed, a chest of drawers, two chairs and a cracked mirror composed the entire furniture. "I don't expect to stay here long," Rosanna said apologetically. "I thought it would do until I found work." "Why, of course," Penny agreed instantly. "Did you have any luck today?" Rosanna shook her head and sank wearily down upon the bed. "No, everywhere I went it was the same old story. I'm beginning to think I'll never find employment." "Perhaps you'll not need it if you come into an inheritance," Penny smiled. "Rosanna, I've found a way for you to get to Raven Ridge." The orphan's face brightened but for a full minute after Penny had explained the plan, she sat silent. "Don't you want to go?" Penny asked, perplexed. "Yes, of course I do. It isn't that. You've been so good and kind to me. I'll never be able to repay you for your trouble and expense." "Nonsense! The trip will be more fun if you go along, Rosanna. Besides, I have an overwhelming curiosity to see Raven Ridge and your uncle's estate. Please say you'll go." "All right, I will," Rosanna gave in. "Good. Father and I will stop for you tomorrow. I must get back home now and start packing." Penny clattered down the creaking, narrow stairway and disappeared into the night. Although the trip was only a short one, and at the longest would occupy less than a week's time, Penny spent many hours planning her wardrobe. She packed an evening gown, several afternoon frocks, and sports clothes. Then, reflecting that Rosanna would not be so well fixed, she hung the garments back in the closet, substituting her plainest dresses. "There, that will be much better," she decided. "A wise traveler goes light anyway." At three o'clock the following afternoon, Penny and her father stopped at Rosanna's rooming house to pick up the orphan. She was waiting on the porch, and as Penny had thought, confined her luggage to one overnight bag. At first the road to Mt. Ashland wound through fertile valleys and low hills. Gradually, they climbed. The curves became more frequent. Tall pines bordered the roadside. Six o'clock found the party well into the mountains, although still some miles from their destination. Noticing a pleasant little inn at the top of a ridge, they stopped for dinner which was served on the veranda overlooking a beautiful valley. "I wonder if Raven Ridge will be as pretty as this?" Rosanna mused. "It's even more beautiful," Mr. Nichols told her. "The scenery is very impressive." Before they arose from the table it was growing dusk for they had lingered to watch the sunset. "It's just as well that I wired ahead for hotel reservations," Mr. Nichols remarked as they hurried to the parked car. "Getting in after dark it wouldn't be so pleasant to find all the rooms taken." At exactly nine o'clock the twinkling lights of the Mt. Ashland Hotel were sighted, and a few minutes later the automobile drew up in front of the large white rambling building. An attendant took the car and they all went inside. "I doubt if you'll get rooms here tonight, sir," a bellboy told the detective as he carried the luggage to the main desk. "There's been a big rush of guests this week-end." Mr. Nichols was not disturbed. At the desk he merely gave the clerk his name, claiming the two rooms which he had reserved by wire. "We saved two very fine rooms for you," the clerk returned politely. "Both overlook the valley." While Mr. Nichols signed the register, Penny and Rosanna sat down nearby. Their attention was drawn to the main entrance. A large touring car had pulled up to the door. A pompous looking woman of middle age and a younger woman, evidently her daughter, had alighted. Both were elegantly if somewhat conspicuously dressed. Several suitcases, hat boxes and miscellaneous packages were unloaded. The older woman carried a fat lapdog in her arms. "They seem to have brought everything but the bird cage," Penny said in an undertone. The two women walked up to the desk. "I am Mrs. Everett Leeds," the one with the dog announced a trifle too loudly. "I have a reservation." "Just a minute please," the clerk requested. It seemed to Penny that he looked disturbed as he thumbed through his cards. "There is no occasion for delay," Mrs. Leeds declared blandly. "My daughter and I always engage the same room--305." "Why, that was the number of one of the rooms assigned to my party," Mr. Nichols observed. "There's been some mix-up," the clerk said in distress. He turned again to the two women. "Your reservation isn't on file, Mrs. Leeds. When did you send the wire?" "I reserved the room by letter," the woman informed him coldly. "It was never received here I am sure." "No doubt the letter was lost." "You are certain it was sent?" "Of course I am," Mrs. Leeds declared icily. "My daughter mailed it. Didn't you, Alicia, my dear?" A queer expression passed over the girl's face. It struck Penny that she probably had forgotten to post the letter. However, Alicia staunchly maintained that she had. "It's most provoking that you have misplaced the reservation," Mrs. Leeds said irritably to the clerk. "But of course we can have the room?" "I am afraid that is impossible, Mrs. Leeds. The room you wanted was reserved for two young ladies." With a nod of his head the clerk indicated Penny and Rosanna. Mrs. Leeds and her daughter turned to stare somewhat haughtily. "What other room can you give us then?" the woman demanded angrily. The clerk cast Mr. Nichols a despairing glance. He knew he was in for trouble. "Practically everything is taken, Mrs. Leeds. In fact the only available room is on the top floor." "And you expect us to take that?" Mrs. Leeds cried, her voice rising until everyone in the lobby could hear. "I never heard of such outrageous treatment. Call the manager!" Penny had risen to her feet. She moved quickly forward. "There's no need to do that," she said pleasantly. "If Rosanna doesn't mind, I am perfectly willing to exchange rooms with Mrs. Leeds." "Why, of course," Rosanna agreed. "It doesn't matter to me where I sleep." Satisfied at having her own way, Mrs. Leeds quieted down. She even thanked the girls graciously for the sacrifice they had made. The clerk gave out the keys. "Why did you do that?" Mr. Nichols asked gruffly as he and the girls followed a bellboy to the elevator. "Your room up by the roof will be hot as blazes." "I know, but I didn't see any sense in making such a fuss over a room, Dad. Besides, it's only for one night." "I'd insist that you girls take my room if it had a double bed." Penny shook her head. "No, you came here for a rest. Rosanna and I really won't mind." The three entered the elevator and a minute later Mrs. Leeds and her daughter likewise stepped into the lift. "I hope you girls will not find it uncomfortable on the top floor," Mrs. Leeds remarked, trying to make pleasant conversation. "It isn't very warm tonight," Penny returned politely. "Besides, it will only be for one night. We're going on to Raven Ridge in the morning." The elevator was whizzing them upward. "Did you say Raven Ridge?" Mrs. Leeds questioned sharply. "Yes." A queer expression had come into Mrs. Leeds sharp, blue eyes. She seemed on the verge of speaking, then apparently changed her mind. The elevator stopped at the third floor. Without a word, the woman urged her daughter out the door, following her down the hall. CHAPTER IV A Face at the Window The little room on the top floor of the hotel was as hot and unpleasant as Mr. Nichols had predicted. Even with all the windows open wide the air still seemed close. "Rosanna, I shouldn't have forced you into this," Penny said apologetically. "I've slept in far worse places than this," Rosanna laughed. "We have a comfortable bed and a private bath. I didn't fare half so well at Mrs. Bridges." "You're a good sport anyway, Rosanna. That's more than could be said for Mrs. Leeds or her daughter." "I wonder how old the girl is? She looked about our age." "I'd guess she was two or three years older," Penny returned. "She had so much paint on it was hard to tell." Both girls were tired from the long day's drive. Rosanna immediately began to undress. Penny sat on the edge of the bed, thoughtfully staring into space. "Did it strike you as queer the way Mrs. Leeds acted when I mentioned we were going to Raven Ridge tomorrow?" she questioned her companion. Rosanna kicked off her slippers before replying. "Well, come to think of it, she did look a little startled. She put on such a scene downstairs that I didn't pay much attention." "We'll probably never see her again." With a shrug of her slim shoulders Penny arose and began to unpack her overnight bag. According to the plan which they had worked out with Mr. Nichols, the girls expected to leave for Raven Ridge the next morning directly after breakfast. It was their intention to motor to the mountain resort, inspect the Winters' property and see if they could learn anything concerning Rosanna's uncle. They intended to return either the next night or the one following. Few guests were abroad when the detective joined the girls at breakfast. It was only a little after seven o'clock. "Sleep well?" he inquired, looking over the menu. "Not very," Penny admitted truthfully. She might have added more had not Mrs. Leeds and her daughter entered the dining room at that moment. The two bowed slightly and selected a table in the opposite corner of the room. "Social climbers," Mr. Nichols said in an undertone. "I can tell their type a mile away." Breakfast finished, the girls prepared to leave for Raven Ridge. Their bags were already packed and downstairs. "Now drive cautiously over the mountain roads," the detective warned as he accompanied the girls to the waiting car. "If you can't get back by evening send me a wire." As Penny took her place at the steering wheel she observed that Mrs. Leeds' automobile had been brought to the hotel entrance by an attendant. Apparently, she too was making an early morning departure. "You're not listening to a word I am saying!" Mr. Nichols said severely. "Yes, I am." Penny's attention came back to the conversation. "I'll drive carefully and deliver your precious car back to you without a scratch." "I wasn't exactly worried about the car." "Well, there's no need to be uneasy about Rosanna or me. We'll have no trouble." With a laugh of careless confidence, Penny started the car and drove slowly away. It was not the first time she had driven over mountainous roads. She handled the wheel exceptionally well and used due caution on all of the sharp curves. The brakes were good but she dared not apply them too steadily on the steep inclines. "We'll have to rush if we get back to Mt. Ashland this evening," Penny announced, slowing down to read a signpost. "I declare, a mountain mile seems to be three times the length of an ordinary mile." They had gone only a short distance farther when a tire went down. Penny knew it instantly by the feel of the steering wheel. She pulled off at the side of the road. "Now we are in it," she said in deep disgust. "At least ten miles from a garage. I can change wheels on my own car, but I doubt if I can on Dad's automobile." The girls waited for a few minutes hoping that someone would come along to help. When no one did, Penny dragged out the tools, and after considerable trouble succeeded in jacking up the rear axle. "I see a car coming," Rosanna reported hopefully. "Let's flag it," Penny suggested. "I could do with a little masculine help." In response to her signal of distress, the approaching automobile slowed down. The driver was a man and there were no passengers. "He's stopping," Penny said in relief. There was a screech of brakes as the automobile came almost to a standstill. Then surprisingly, it speeded up again. But not before Penny had caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver's face. "Well, of all things!" Rosanna exclaimed indignantly. "I call that a mean trick." "I believe he was afraid to stop," Penny announced excitedly. "I think I recognized him. It was the same man who stole the ring from Bresham's Department Store!" "Are you sure?" Rosanna demanded incredulously. "I couldn't be absolutely certain, of course. He was traveling too fast for me to catch more than a passing glimpse of his face. But if he didn't recognize us, why did he slow down and then speed up?" "He did act suspiciously. But what can we do about it?" "Nothing, I'm afraid. We may as well devote our energies to this wheel." Rosanna was more than eager to help but she had never even seen a tire changed and had no idea how to go about it. After a little annoying experimentation, Penny got the wheel in place and tightened the lugs. "There, it's done," she said in relief, "but my dress is a mess. I'm afraid we'll have to stop at the first garage and have the old wheel fixed, for I don't carry another spare." A signpost at the next bend in the road advised them that Simpson's Garage was located only six miles away. They made it in a few minutes. There was no town, only a post office, one general store, and the garage which obviously was a remodeled blacksmith shop. "I'm glad it's nothing more than a tire which needs repairing," Penny commented as the garageman came to learn what they wanted. He promised that the tire would be ready in half an hour. Glancing at her wrist watch, Penny saw that it was already past lunch time. She inquired if there was a cafe nearby. "Not in Hamilton, there ain't," the garageman told her. "Ma Stevens, across the street in the big white house, serves meals to tourists now and then." Rather than spend an unpleasant half hour in the garage, the girls walked over to the rambling white house. They were reassured to see that the yard was well kept and that everything appeared orderly and clean. "Let's take a chance on the food," Penny decided. "I'm hungry enough to eat a fried board!" Mrs. Stevens, a motherly looking woman in a blue checked gingham dress, opened the door. She looked slightly troubled at their request for food. "It's later than I usually serve," she explained. Then noticing their disappointed faces, she added hastily: "But if you're not too particular, I can find you something." The "something" consisted of a generous platter of mountain trout, fresh from the stream and fried to a golden brown, French fried potatoes, a salad, and cherry pie. "Dear me, after such a meal, we may not be able to get to Raven Ridge," Penny remarked, finishing her second piece of pie. "I never ate so much in my life." "Did you say you were going to Raven Ridge?" Mrs. Stevens inquired. "Yes, we're waiting now to have a tire patched." "You're the second party through here today that's heading for Raven Ridge," Mrs. Stevens informed. "A man stopped for lunch about an hour ago. Only he thought it wasn't cooked well enough for him." "He must have been particular," Penny commented. "What did he look like?" "He was tall and dark and he had a sharp way of watching one." "I wonder if it could have been that man who passed us on the road?" Penny mused. "Was he driving a gray coupé?" "Yes, I believe he was." Penny was convinced that the man Mrs. Stevens described was the same person who had declined to help her on the road. She wondered what business took him to Raven Ridge. Could she have been mistaken in believing him to be the thief who had stolen the diamond ring? Paying for the luncheon, the girls went back to the garage. The tire was ready for them. Soon they were on their way again. They had driven for perhaps an hour when Penny observed that the road seemed to be leading them out of the mountains. She began to wonder if they had taken a wrong turn. She stopped at the next filling station to inquire. To her dismay, she was told that she had traveled nearly twenty miles out of her way. "I thought this didn't seem like the right road," Penny declared ruefully to her companion. "Now we'll be lucky to get to Raven Ridge by dinner time, to say nothing of returning to Mt. Ashland tonight." "I've put you to a great deal of trouble," Rosanna said regretfully. "Not at all. This trip to Raven Ridge is an adventure, and I like it. It will be more fun to stay over night anyway." An occasional road marker reassured the girls that at last they were on the right highway. The mountain curves were sharp, and Penny did not make as good time as she had anticipated. She became a little alarmed to see that storm clouds were rapidly gathering. "It looks as if we may have rain," Rosanna commented. "A great deal of it, I'd judge. Those clouds are black as ink." In less than half an hour the storm struck them in full force. A great gust of wind dashed huge drops of water against the windshield, there was a vivid flash of lightning, then the rain came down in steady sheets. Even with the wiper going Penny could see only a few feet ahead of the windshield. She pulled up under a huge oak tree at the side of the road. The girls waited a quarter of an hour and still the rain fell in torrents. At length, however, it slackened slightly, and not wishing to lose any more time, Penny cautiously drove on. "It can't last much longer," Rosanna said optimistically. Despite her hopeful words, the rain showed no sign of stopping. Penny reconciled herself to a slow pace for the remainder of the journey. She was beginning to grow tired. Her back and arms ached and it was a strain to keep such close watch of the road. With the sun hidden from view, night came on early. Nervous at the thought of driving over unfamiliar mountain roads after dark, the girls did not stop for dinner. Nine o'clock, in a pouring rain, found them drawn up at a filling station to inquire how much farther it was to Raven Ridge. "Why, you're practically there now," the attendant informed. "What place are you looking for?" "The Jacob Winters' estate," Penny replied. "Then keep on this road for about two miles more. When you come to the top of the ridge, take the gravel road to the left. It will lead you to the house. There's no one there though, unless maybe a caretaker." "Oh," Penny murmured, "then perhaps you can direct us to a place where we can spend the night." "The nearest is at the town of Andover, five miles beyond the Winters' place." The girls thanked the man for his assistance, and once more followed the winding road up the mountainside. "Shall we go on to Andover or stop at the Winters' house?" Penny asked her companion. "I don't know what to do," Rosanna faltered. "We're both so tired." "The place surely must have a caretaker, Rosanna. Let's take a chance and stop." At the top of the ridge they watched for the gravel road and were elated to find it. The entrance was barred by a white gate. Rosanna stepped out in the rain to open it. "This may have been a foolish thing to do," Penny admitted as they drove between tall rows of whispering pines. "We could have gone on to Andover only I dreaded driving down the mountainside with slippery roads." Rosanna huddled closer to her friend. The road was dark and the rustling of the wind in the pine needles made her uneasy. Soon they came within view of the house. It was built of native stone, half hidden by the luxuriant growth of shrubbery and trees which surrounded it. No lights gleamed in the windows. "There's no one here," Rosanna declared. "Let's knock anyway. The caretaker may be at the rear somewhere." They parked the car as close to the front door as possible and made a dash for the porch. Penny knocked several times on the massive door but there was no response. "We might try your key, Rosanna," she proposed. "If it fits I'll begin to think there's something to that mysterious letter you received." Rosanna groped in her pocketbook for the key. Impatient for action, Penny turned the handle of the door. To her astonishment the latch clicked. "Why, the door is already unlocked, Rosanna!" "But of course we won't dare go in." "Why not?" "Well, it doesn't seem right. The people may not be at home." "Someone must be around or the door wouldn't be unlocked. Besides, you have a key, Rosanna. And according to the letter, this is your inheritance." Penny swung wide the door. She peered inside but could see nothing. Her hand groped for the electric switch. She found the button by the door and pressed it. Instantly everything was flooded with light. The girls found themselves in a long, narrow living room. The ceiling was beamed, the furniture was rustic, and a great fireplace occupied one end of the wall. Penny crossed over to the hearth. There was no fire but logs were in readiness to make one. "I don't feel right about coming in here," Rosanna said nervously. "Nonsense, if it's your property you're not trespassing," Penny insisted. "Besides, it looks to me as if you were expected, for everything seems in readiness for guests. I'm going to build a fire and see if I can't thaw out my chilled bones." Reluctantly, Rosanna went to help her. Soon they had a roaring fire in the hearth. As they grew more comfortable they took more interest in their surroundings. The room was plainly but expensively furnished. Curious objects from many lands occupied the tables and bric-a-brac shelves. "Your uncle must have lived an interesting life," Penny commented, picking up a tiny ivory box from a nearby stand. "Yes, Mother often told me----" Rosanna's voice broke in the midst of the sentence. Turning, Penny saw that her friend's eyes were fastened upon the window. All color had drained from Rosanna's face. Her eyes were dilated with fear. "What is it?" Penny demanded. Rosanna clutched her hand. "I saw someone just then," she whispered. "A man's face at the window!" CHAPTER V The Lost Key Penny turned quickly toward the window. She saw nothing save the rain trickling down the panes. "You must have imagined it, Rosanna." "No, I didn't. I know I saw a face." Rosanna huddled close to Penny. She was afraid. "I'll go and look out," Penny proposed daringly. Before Rosanna could stop her she moved to the door and flung it open. A man in oilskins confronted her. His face was half hidden by the felt hat which he wore low over his eyes. "What do you want?" Penny asked nervously. Without answering, the man stepped into the room. Under the electric light he did not look as terrifying as he had at first glance. Penny saw when he swept off his dripping hat that he was an elderly man although spry for his years. She felt slightly reassured. "I came to find out what you mean by entering Mr. Winters' house when he's away?" the man demanded curtly. "Don't stand there staring like a blind owl! Answer." Rosanna had completely lost her power of speech, so Penny tried to explain the situation. She told how they had been caught by the storm and mentioned Rosanna's key and letter which gave her right to investigate the property. "So you're old Jacob Winters' niece?" the man questioned gruffly, peering intently at Rosanna. "At least that's what you say." "Of course he's my uncle, although I never saw him," Rosanna defended. "I can prove it by my letter." "Probably wrote it yourself," the man snapped. "But let's see it anyway." "Just a minute," Penny interposed, feeling that it was time the newcomer answered a few questions of his own. "Are you the caretaker of this house?" "Yes, and no. I'm a neighbor of Mr. Winters and he asked me to keep an eye on his house while he was away. I saw the light in the windows and came to see what was wrong." "My uncle is dead," Rosanna said quietly. "I have inherited the estate." "Jacob Winters dead!" the man exploded. "Why, I had a card from him last week. Mailed from some place down in Africa. Let me see that letter you claim to have." Rosanna opened her pocketbook and searched for it. A troubled look came over her face. She was certain she had placed both the letter and the key in the inside compartment. Now she could find neither. "So you haven't got it?" the man said suspiciously. "I must have it somewhere. I can't imagine how I misplaced it. You remember the letter don't you, Penny?" "Of course. You had it in your pocketbook the last time I saw it. We're telling you the absolute truth Mr.----" "Caleb Eckert," he supplied. "If you didn't have a key how did you get into the house?" "Why, the door was open--that is, it was unlocked," Penny explained. Caleb Eckert peered at her sharply as if trying to make up his mind if she were speaking the truth. Rosanna, who by this time had emptied her purse out upon the table, was growing more upset every minute. "Oh, let's leave this house, Penny," she burst out. "I've lost the letter and the key and so we've no right to be here at all. I didn't mean to trespass. I wish we'd never have come at all. That letter has caused me so much grief." Rosanna looked as if she might cry at any moment. Caleb Eckert softened. "Now, I wouldn't want you to go out into this storm. As far as I'm concerned you may stay here for the night." "We don't care to intrude," Rosanna said stiffly. "It isn't safe to go down the mountain in this rain," the man declared, adopting a more friendly tone. "Now don't be offended by the way I acted. My bark is worse than my bite." "We can't blame you for being suspicious," Penny admitted. "It may be that someone played a joke on Rosanna in sending her the letter and key. We were afraid of that from the first." Caleb Eckert's eyes roved to the crackling fire, then to the splattered windows. "Tell you what," he proposed gruffly. "You girls stay here for the night. In the morning we'll see if we can't straighten things out." "But if Mr. Winters is alive we have no right to use this house," Rosanna protested weakly. "You're his niece, aren't you?" Caleb demanded. "Jacob Winters wouldn't turn anyone out in a storm, much less one of his own kin folks. Have you had supper?" The girls admitted that they had not had any food since lunch time. Caleb led them to the kitchen, showing them where canned goods were stored. "If you're handy with a can opener there's no need to starve," he declared. The girls thanked him for his trouble. Rosanna timidly ventured a few questions concerning her uncle. "Did you never see him?" Caleb asked. "No, once I wrote him a letter but he never answered. I've heard Uncle Jacob was very eccentric." "Some might call him that. He liked to live alone and mind his own business which is more than most folks do. He traveled a lot too. I guess he must have visited every country in the world." He added slyly: "If Jacob _is_ dead, you'll come into possession of some valuable things." "I hope that nothing has happened to him," Rosanna said sincerely. "I don't really care for riches. All I want is a home." "Jacob Winters never liked girls." "I know," Rosanna sighed. "I guess that's why he never answered my letter." "You counted a lot on the inheritance, didn't you?" Caleb questioned shrewdly. Rosanna flushed but did not deny the accusation. "I thought that it might make my future more secure," she acknowledged. "Since Mother died I've battered around from one rooming house to another. But even if I don't come into the inheritance, I'll be glad that my uncle is still alive." "I don't know that he is," Caleb Eckert said hastily. "He was alive when he sent that postcard from Africa. Since then we've had no word from him here at Raven Ridge." While the girls prepared food for themselves, Caleb sat by the kitchen stove watching. He showed them how to start a fire in the range but would not partake of supper when it was cooked. "Had mine four hours ago. I'll show you where you can sleep and be getting on home." "Do you live near here?" Penny asked curiously. "Not far. If the rain would let up you could see my cabin through the dining room window. It's perched on the edge of the cliff, overlooking Lake Chippewa." Rosanna remarked that the scenery around Raven Ridge must be beautiful. "'Tis," Caleb agreed enthusiastically. "You'll have to walk down to the lake in the morning. There are some mighty pretty trails to follow too." "If we have time before we go, we'll surely explore," Penny promised. Caleb conducted them upstairs, opening the door of one of the bedrooms. It was stuffy and dusty but otherwise ready for occupancy. Penny turned back the coverlet of the bed and found that it was equipped with clean sheets and blankets. The furniture was massive and all hand carved. "I guess you can make out here for one night," Caleb said. "We'll be very comfortable," Penny assured him. Returning to the lower floor, Caleb lighted his lantern and prepared to leave. With his hand on the door knob he turned to face the girls again. "Oh, yes, there was something I forgot to mention. If you hear queer noises in the night don't be upset." "Queer noises?" Penny echoed. Caleb nodded soberly. "Folks around here claim the house is haunted but I never took stock in such stories myself. I just thought I'd warn you." And before the girls could recover from their astonishment, he firmly closed the door, disappearing into the rain. CHAPTER VI Midnight Visitors "I wish," Rosanna commented emphatically, "that I had never brought you to this queer old house." Penny laughed as she went over to the fireplace and dropped on another stick of wood. She stood watching the sparks fly up the chimney. "I think Caleb Eckert was only trying to be funny when he warned us of ghosts," she declared. "At any rate, I'm too tired and sleepy to care much whether the place is haunted or not." "It's a good night to sleep," Rosanna admitted, going to the window. "I believe the storm is getting worse." Rain pounded steadily upon the roof and the wind was rising. It whistled weirdly around the corners of the house. The tall maple trees which shaded the front porch bent and twisted and snapped. For a time the girls sat before the fire. Presently Penny suggested that they retire. "I don't believe I can sleep a wink tonight," Rosanna protested. "Even though Caleb Eckert said it was all right for us to stay here, I don't feel entirely easy about it." "I don't see why not," Penny protested as they mounted the creaking stairs to their bedroom. "According to the letter, you've inherited the house. And you have a key." "I had a key you mean. I can't understand how or where I lost it." In thinking back over the activities of the day, Rosanna could not recall taking either the key or the letter from her purse. However, several times for one purpose or another she had opened her pocketbook, and it was quite likely that the articles had fallen out unobserved. She thought possibly she might find them on the floor of Penny's car. She intended to search in the morning. The upstairs room was damp and chilly. The girls hurriedly prepared to retire. Penny put up the window, snapped out the light and made a great running leap which landed her in bed. "Listen to the wind howl," she murmured, snuggling drowsily into her pillow. "Just the night for ghosts to be abroad." "Don't!" Rosanna shivered, gripping her friend's hand. "I can almost imagine that someone is coming up the stairway now! I'm afraid of this lonely old house." "I won't let any mean old ghost get you," Penny chuckled teasingly. "I love stormy nights." Rosanna lay awake long after her companion had fallen asleep. She listened restlessly to the crash of the tree branches against the roof, the creaking of old timbers and boards. But the steady beat of rain on the windowpanes had a soothing effect upon tense nerves. Presently she dozed. Suddenly she found herself wide awake. She sat upright in bed, straining to hear. She was convinced that some unusual sound had aroused her. Then she heard it again. A peculiar pounding noise downstairs. She clutched Penny by the arm. "What is it?" the latter muttered drowsily. "Wake up! I think someone is trying to break into the house!" As the words penetrated Penny's consciousness, she became instantly alert. She too sat up, listening. Someone was pounding on the front door. "What shall we do?" Rosanna whispered in terror. Penny sprang from bed and snapped on the light. "I'm going to dress and go down. It may be Caleb Eckert." "Or a ghost," Rosanna chattered. "If you're going down, so am I." With the appearance of a light in the bedroom, the clanging on the door increased in violence. Penny, who was dressing as rapidly as she could, began to grow irritated. "Are they trying to break down the door?" she grumbled. "I should think whoever it is would know we're hurrying." Without delaying to lace up her shoes, she ran down the stairs, Rosanna close at her elbow. Before snapping on the living room lights the girls peered out the window. Slightly reassured by the appearance of the midnight visitors, they cautiously unbolted the front door. Mrs. Everett Leeds and her daughter Alicia, swept into the room. Both were bedraggled and obviously out of sorts. Mrs. Leeds shook the rain from her cape, flung her wet hat into the nearest chair, and then coldly surveyed the two girls. "What are you doing here, may I ask?" she inquired. "We _were_ sleeping," Penny smiled. "I mean, what are you doing in this house?" "It seems to belong to Rosanna," Penny said evenly. "She inherited it from her uncle, Jacob Winters." Mrs. Leeds' expression was difficult to interpret. For an instant she looked stunned. But she quickly recovered her poise. "Nonsense!" she said shortly. "This house belongs to me. Jacob Winters was my cousin. He died recently, leaving me everything. I have a letter and key to prove it. Naturally I couldn't use my key to get into the house for you had it bolted from the inside." Mrs. Leeds looked accusingly at the girls as she offered the letter to Penny. A casual glance assured the girls that it was identical with the one Rosanna had received and lost. "It's too late to go into this tonight," Penny protested. "Let's discuss it in the morning." "Very well," Mrs. Leeds agreed coldly. "Where are we to sleep?" Penny informed her that there were several empty bedrooms upstairs. She led the way to the upper floor. Opening the door of one of the rooms, she was surprised to see that it was not as well furnished as the bedroom which she and Rosanna shared. Mrs. Leeds uttered an exclamation of disgust. "Surely you don't expect me to sleep here, Miss Nichols. The room is dirty. Positively filthy." "Look at that long cobweb hanging from the ceiling!" Alicia added indignantly. "I'd have hysterics if I slept here." "Perhaps the adjoining room is better," Penny commented. An inspection revealed that if anything it was even more neglected. "I'm afraid you'll just have to make the best of it for tonight," Penny declared, "unless you care to drive on to the next town." "We'll stay," Mrs. Leeds decided instantly. "I'd prefer to sit up all night, rather than brave those horrible mountain roads again." "We slipped into a ditch coming here," Alicia informed. "That's what made us so late. We've had a terrible time." In a closet at the end of the hall, Penny and Rosanna found blankets and linen. As they made up the beds, neither Mrs. Leeds nor her daughter offered to assist. It was after one o'clock when the girls went back to their own room. "Mrs. Leeds means to make trouble about the inheritance," Penny remarked in an undertone as they snapped out the light once more. "I wonder if by any chance she could have picked up your letter and key?" "Oh, I doubt it," Rosanna returned. "I remember when we were at Mt. Ashland she dropped the hint that she was going to Raven Ridge. At least, she acted strangely when we mentioned the place." "Yes, she did. I had forgotten for the moment. Oh well, in the morning we'll learn exactly what she intends to do." Penny rolled over and soon was sleeping soundly. Toward morning she awoke to hear a clock somewhere in the house chiming four. At first she thought nothing of it, then it occurred to her that no one had wound any of the timepieces the previous evening. While she was musing over such an odd happening her keen ears detected the sound of soft footsteps in the long hall outside. "It's probably Mrs. Leeds or her daughter," she reasoned. The sounds persisted. At length Penny quietly arose and tiptoed to the door. She looked out into the dark hall. No one was within sight. Mrs. Leeds' door was closed. Penny went back to bed, taking care not to awaken Rosanna. Scarcely had she pulled the blankets up than the soft pad of footsteps could be heard again. "I hope it isn't that ghost Caleb warned us about," she thought uneasily. "Oh, bother! I know there aren't any ghosts!" Penny closed her eyes and tried to sleep but found it quite impossible. Even after the noise in the hall ceased she caught herself listening for the footsteps. At a quarter to seven she dressed and stole downstairs to see what she could find for breakfast. At eight o'clock when Rosanna came into the kitchen, Penny had coffee, cereal and crisp bacon ready. "The larder seems very well supplied," she informed cheerfully. "Someone left milk on our doorstep too. I imagine it must have been Caleb." "I'm hungry enough to eat anything," Rosanna declared. "Shall I call Mrs. Leeds and Alicia?" "Yes, do, although I don't know how they'll take to my cooking." Rosanna went upstairs to rap on Mrs. Leeds' door. She returned a minute later, reporting that neither of the guests would be down for breakfast. "They were quite put out at being disturbed so early," she told Penny ruefully. "We'll let them get their own breakfasts then. Come on, we'll have ours anyway." Penny had learned to cook very well under the tutelage of Mrs. Gallup. She had done remarkably well with the meager supplies at her disposal and Rosanna declared that the breakfast was excellent. The girls had finished the dishes and were stacking them away when Alicia came down the stairs. "Mother and I will take our breakfast now," she informed. Rosanna started toward the kitchen, but Penny neatly blocked the way. "Sorry," she said cheerfully, "but we've just finished ours. You'll find supplies in the kitchen." Alicia started to reply but without waiting to hear what she might have to say, Penny and Rosanna went out the back door. "While she cools off we may as well look over the grounds," Penny laughed. "If Mrs. Leeds and Alicia expect to get along with me, they'll have to learn that this household is going to operate on a cafeteria basis." From the rear door a sandstone path led down a steep incline to the brow of a high cliff. A river wound its way directly below, emptying into a crystal blue lake. Deep in the pine woods, some distance from the path, a cabin could be seen. The girls decided that it must belong to Caleb Eckert. While they were admiring the rugged scenery, someone came up behind them. They wheeled about to face Caleb himself. "Well, well, you both look bright and gay this morning," he greeted heartily. "Sleep well?" "Quite well," Rosanna told him shyly. "That is, we did until the visitors arrived." "Visitors?" Rosanna explained about Mrs. Leeds and her daughter while Penny added omitted details. For some reason they both were beginning to feel that Caleb was their ally. "All this talk about letters and keys and inheritances certainly has me puzzled," he proclaimed, shaking his head. "It's hard to believe that Jacob Winters is dead. I think I'll walk back to the house with you and have a little talk with Mrs. Leeds." "Did you leave milk at our doorstep this morning?" Penny questioned as they returned together. Caleb admitted that he had placed it there. "You've been very kind," Rosanna said gratefully. "I want to thank you before we leave." "You're not aiming to leave today?" Caleb asked quickly. "Well, yes, I imagine we will. I don't feel right about staying here." Caleb lowered his voice. "Take my advice, Miss Winters, and don't leave while that other woman and her daughter are here. From what you've told me, I think they mean to grab the property." "But what can I do?" Rosanna asked helplessly. "I've lost my letter and the key. I haven't any proof that the property was left to me." "Maybe this Leeds woman hasn't any proof that it was left to her either," Caleb said sagely. "Anyway, we'll find out what she has to say." At first, Mrs. Leeds, accosted in the living room of the old house, had little comment to make. She was out of sorts from lack of sleep the previous night, and the breakfast which she and Alicia had endeavored to cook had not been a success. Nor was she impressed with Caleb who wore high boots, an old pair of dirty trousers and a crumpled felt hat. "I don't see why I should discuss my business affairs with you," she said aloofly. "I have inherited this property from my cousin and I mean to remain here in possession of it indefinitely if necessary." "May I see the letter which you say you received?" Caleb inquired. Mrs. Leeds hesitated, then reluctantly handed it over. Caleb studied it briefly and returned it. "You will require more than this as evidence of Mr. Winters' death," he said quietly. "For all I know, you may have forged this letter." "Preposterous!" Mrs. Leeds snapped. "I refuse to discuss the matter with you further. I shall send for my attorney and he will straighten out everything." "Not without the will, he can't," Caleb returned grimly. "And there's no telling what became of it." "The will?" Mrs. Leeds caught him up. "Are you sure there was a will?" "Mr. Winters told me once that he had made one and hidden it somewhere in the house." "Then of course it can be found." "Mr. Winters wouldn't want anyone prying around in his private papers," Caleb insisted. "Until I have definite word that he is dead, I can't let anyone hunt for it." "I shouldn't call searching for the will exactly prying!" Mrs. Leeds retorted indignantly. "What right have you to say what is to be done here? Are you the caretaker?" "Well, not exactly, but Mr. Winters asked me to look after things until he got back." "That will must be found." Caleb's face tightened. "Mrs. Leeds," he said severely, "I repeat, things in this house must not be disturbed." Mrs. Leeds drew herself up proudly. "Unquestionably, the will leaves everything to me." "That may be," Caleb acknowledged, "but this girl here has a claim too." He indicated Rosanna. Mrs. Leeds froze her with a glance. Her eyes snapped like brands of fire as she listened to Rosanna's account of the letter and key. But a look of relief, which was not lost upon either of the girls, came over her face as she learned that they had been misplaced. "The story sounds ridiculous to me," Mrs. Leeds declared coldly. "If you can't produce the letter or the key, what proof have you that you actually are Jacob Winters' niece?" "I could get evidence within a few days," Rosanna declared. "The letter and key may show up too." "I think perhaps you dropped them in the car," Penny interrupted. "Let's look now." Leaving Mrs. Leeds and Caleb embroiled in another argument, they went outside where the automobile had been parked near the house. A careful search of the flooring and pockets of the car did not reveal the missing letter or key. Rosanna was completely discouraged. "Do you think Mrs. Leeds could have picked it up?" she asked gloomily. "I don't see how," Penny returned thoughtfully. "But there's one thing certain. She intends to make trouble. You surely don't intend to go away from here while she and her daughter are camped in the house?" "What else can we do?" "Send a wire to Dad that we're staying on a day or two," Penny answered instantly. "But won't that inconvenience both of you?" "No, I suspect Dad will be grateful for the rest and as for myself, I'd enjoy seeing this thing through." It required little urging to convince Rosanna of the wisdom of remaining on the scene. She had taken an immediate dislike to Mrs. Leeds and her daughter, and agreed with Penny that they were determined to claim more than a rightful share of the inheritance. Once the girls arrived at a decision they lost no time in driving to the nearest town where Penny dispatched a message to her father. Noticing an inviting looking restaurant, they ate lunch before motoring back to the Winters' mansion. It was nearly two o'clock when they reached the Ridge again. An unfamiliar car stood on the driveway. Penny was certain it did not belong to Mrs. Leeds for her mud-splattered sedan was parked some distance away. "It looks like more visitors," she commented as they crossed the veranda together. At the doorway both girls involuntarily paused. Mrs. Leeds was engaged in conversation with a stranger. For an instant Penny and Rosanna stood and stared. It was the same man who had refused them help on the road. CHAPTER VII "Ghost" Music As Penny and Rosanna entered the living room, the stranger turned to face them. For a long moment Penny was convinced that he was the shoplifter who had stolen the diamond ring from the Belton City department store. His build was the same and the general lines of his face were similar. Then the man spoke and she was not certain at all. The tone of his voice was entirely different as was his abrupt manner of speaking. A trifle nervously, or so it seemed to Penny, Caleb Eckert introduced the stranger. "Max Laponi," he said. "He represents himself as a nephew of Jacob Winters." "Not only do I represent myself as such, but I have proof that I am Uncle Jacob's nephew," the stranger retorted. "You'll find my credentials in order. I've come to take over the estate." The girls were not greatly surprised when he took from his pocket a letter similar to the one which Mrs. Leeds had produced. They were more impressed with the other papers which he offered for Caleb's inspection--a birth certificate, a letter of identification from a well known Chicago banker and various legal documents. "It looks to me as if someone has played a joke on all you folks," Caleb said slowly. "We don't know that Mr. Winters is even dead." "Oh, yes, we do," Max Laponi insisted, producing another letter. "This came from my attorney this morning. It definitely states that Mr. Winters--Uncle Jacob--was buried at sea." Caleb sank down in a chair. He scarcely read the letter although his face had turned an ashen hue. "I can't believe it even now," he murmured. "There must be some mistake." "There's no mistake," Max cut in sharply. "It's clear enough that I am the heir too. By the way, didn't the old man have a valuable collection of ivories?" Caleb stiffened visibly. "Ivories?" he asked blankly. "Sure, some pieces he collected years ago on his tours. Read about it in the paper." "Oh, so you read about it?" Caleb echoed significantly. "Uncle Jacob told me about the collection too. He always intended me to have it." "Then you should know where to find it," Caleb retorted bluntly. "I'm sure I don't." With that he turned and walked to the door. There he paused to fling over his shoulder: "I wash my hands of the whole matter. You folks will have to fight it out among you." Mrs. Leeds had managed to hold her tongue very well, but the moment that the door closed behind Caleb, she began an angry attack upon Rosanna and the newcomer, accusing both of being impostors. Unwilling to listen to such an unreasonable tirade, Penny and Rosanna fled out of doors. "Such a mad house!" Penny exclaimed, taking a deep breath. "I have to keep pinching myself to believe it's real!" "I never saw such a hopeless muddle," Rosanna added. "Everyone is so eager for the property no one gives the slightest thought to the tragedy which befell poor Mr. Winters." "Perhaps he isn't dead," Penny suggested. Rosanna stared. "What makes you think that? Didn't Mr. Laponi have proof of it?" "He seemed to have proof of everything," Penny admitted with a rueful laugh. "That's what makes me suspicious. There's something strange about this entire affair." "I agree with you there." "I'm convinced of one thing, Rosanna. Either Mrs. Leeds or this man Laponi is an impostor. At first I thought Laponi was the same person who stole the ring. Now I can't be sure." Rosanna did not believe that the two were identical although she admitted there was a close resemblance. However, she was quite willing to agree that the man seemed like an impostor despite his credentials. "He may have picked up that letter and key you lost," Penny went on, thinking aloud. "And there was something rather sinister in the way he mentioned the collection of ivories." "I noticed that. Caleb seemed disturbed." "It wouldn't surprise me if he knows where Mr. Winters kept the collection," Penny continued. "At any rate, he's wise to pretend ignorance. With such a mad lot of people in the house, anything might happen." Noticing a nearby path which led to a spring house, the girls followed it, drinking of the cool mountain water. They sat down on a bench which afforded a view of the tall chalk-like cliffs. After a time they felt soothed and tranquil again. They presently walked back to the house. Max Laponi was nowhere to be seen although Alicia told them that he was busy moving his things into one of the upstairs bedrooms. "Mother's worried since he came," the girl confided, growing more friendly. "They had a dreadful quarrel. Now she's hunting for the will." "But Caleb Eckert warned her not to do that," Penny protested. "That old meddler has nothing to do with this place," Alicia declared with a toss of her head. "I hope he minds his own business and stays away." The girls found Mrs. Leeds in the library. She was going through the drawers of the desk in systematic fashion, tossing papers carelessly on the floor. One drawer was locked. She shook it viciously. "Like as not Jacob Winters' will is locked up in there," she said irritably. "I'm half a notion to break into it." "Oh, you mustn't do that," Rosanna cried indignantly, before she could check herself. "And why shouldn't I?" Mrs. Leeds demanded tartly. "Jacob Winters is dead isn't he? And his will must be found. I suppose you're afraid to have the document come to light for fear you'll be cut off completely." Rosanna's cheeks flushed. "I never thought of such a thing, Mrs. Leeds. I think it's disgraceful the way everyone is acting about the property!" Before Mrs. Leeds could reply, she ran from the room. Penny loyally followed, joining Rosanna in the bedroom which they shared. She found the orphan in tears. "Forget it," Penny advised kindly. "Mrs. Leeds is so intent on getting the money that she doesn't realize what she says." "I'm sorry I ever came here. I want no part in this disgraceful grab for Uncle Jacob's money." "I know how you feel," Penny agreed, "but let's stay a day or two. I'm curious to learn just what is going on here." In truth, she was completely baffled. It was difficult for her to make up her mind whether or not the entire arrangement was a hoax. Somehow she had distrusted Laponi's credentials. She distrusted him too. "I don't believe he could be a nephew of Jacob Winters," she thought. "I wish there was some way to trace down his past." It was clear to Penny that Rosanna would never defend her claim to the inheritance. Unless she personally took a hand in the affair, Mrs. Leeds and Max Laponi would ignore the orphan completely. "I'll let them make the first move," she decided shrewdly. "For the time being I'll play a waiting game." For the greater part of the afternoon, Penny and Rosanna remained in their own room. Toward nightfall they walked about the grounds and later motored to a nearby inn for dinner. At nine o'clock when they returned to the big empty house, the downstairs was dark. They judged that Mrs. Leeds and Max Laponi had already gone to their rooms. "We may as well turn in too," Penny suggested. "The mountain air makes one drowsy." Both girls were soon sound asleep. However, sometime later Penny was awakened by the sound of footsteps in the hall. She thought little of it, and rolling over, tried to go to sleep again. Suddenly she heard soft music from above. She sat up in bed, listening. A strain of a famous opera resounded through the room, rising in volume, then falling away. Penny knew that she was not imagining it. She nudged her companion who quickly awakened. "Do you hear the same thing I do?" Rosanna clutched the sheets more tightly about her. "Ghost music," she whispered in awe. "It sounds like pipe organ music coming from a long distance away," Penny whispered. "I'm going to find out!" Before Rosanna could prevent it, she stole from bed and swiftly tiptoed to the door. CHAPTER VIII The Ivory Collection Penny quietly opened the bedroom door, peering out into the long dark hall. She could hear the music distinctly. It seemed to be coming from almost directly overhead. By this time, Rosanna, overcoming her fear, crept beside her friend. They huddled together, listening. "It's an organ. I'm sure of it," Penny whispered. "But where can it be hidden?" "I'm afraid of this place," Rosanna chattered. "Let's lock the bedroom door and leave in the morning." Penny made no response. For that matter she did not even hear for she was intent upon trying to localize the sound of the music. Never inclined to be superstitious, she had no thought that the old house was haunted. She felt certain that the ghost-like music was man made. "This house must have a third floor or an attic," she declared softly. "Let's see if we can find our way up." "Never!" "Then I'm going alone." Penny started off down the hall. Rosanna hesitated, and then, unable to watch her friend walk into danger alone, hurriedly followed. Halfway down the hall she reached for the electric switch but Penny caught her hand before she could turn on the light. "Don't! It would give warning that we're coming." Groping about in the dark the girls went past Mrs. Leeds' bedroom and the one occupied by the stranger. Penny noted that the doors of both were tightly closed. At the end of the hall she found still another door. Gently she turned the handle and opened it. A steep flight of stairs led upward. "Oh, please, let's not go up," Rosanna pleaded, trembling. "You stay here," Penny said in a whisper. "If anything goes wrong, let out a cry for help." The mysterious music had ceased for the moment. Penny waited until it began again, and then, following the sound, crept noiselessly up the stairs leaving Rosanna on guard below. At the top of the last step Penny paused to listen again. Actually, she was not as courageous as she had pretended. She could hear her own heart pounding. It was so dark on the third floor that at first she could distinguish nothing. The music had increased in volume and Penny was more sure than ever that it came from a hidden pipe organ. As her eyes focused better she found herself standing upon a small landing from which branched two closed doors. After a slight hesitation she tiptoed to the nearest one and opened it a tiny crack. Although no sound had betrayed her, the music from within ended with a discordant crash. Startled, Penny allowed the door to swing wide. She started forward, and suddenly tripped. Until that moment her nerve had held steady. But as she stumbled and fell she uttered a shrill cry of terror. Rosanna, fearing the worst, came running up the stairs. "Penny! Penny! Are you hurt?" Reassured by her friend's voice, Penny scrambled to her feet and met Rosanna at the door. "I'm all right," she said shakily. "But I've done enough investigating for one night!" "What frightened you so?" "I'll tell you later." They lost no time in returning to the lower floor. Down the hall, Mrs. Leeds' door had opened. A light flashed on. "What is going on here?" Mrs. Leeds demanded, emerging into the hallway. "Such a house I never saw! First it's music--then a scream! It's enough to send one into hysterics." Penny and Rosanna could not refrain from smiling, for Mrs. Leeds looked ridiculous in her curlers which were sticking out from her head at all angles. Before they could answer, Alicia joined her mother. "I should think you could go to your room and let folks sleep!" she said irritably. "You've been running up and down the hall all night." "You're wrong there," Penny returned. "This is the first time Rosanna or I have stirred from our room. We got up to investigate the mysterious music." "Then you heard it too?" Mrs. Leeds breathed in awe. "I thought perhaps I had imagined that part of it." "No, you heard music all right," Penny told her grimly. "It isn't--you don't think the house is haunted?" Alicia stammered nervously. "That old man--what's his name--was trying to tell us about someone having died in a room on the upper floor!" "Well, the music seemed to come from the third floor," Penny informed, relishing the effect which her words produced. "As for the scream, I can account for that. I tripped and fell. Now I think we may as well all go back to bed. There's been so much commotion that I rather judge our 'ghost' has been frightened away for the time being." "I can't sleep a wink after all this has happened," Mrs. Leeds declared. "I shall sit up until morning." "As you wish," Penny said indifferently. "I'm going to bed." As she walked down the hall to her own room she glanced rather sharply at the door of Max Laponi's room. It was still tightly closed. "Our friend appears to be a sound sleeper," she remarked to Rosanna. In the privacy of their bedroom, Rosanna demanded to know exactly what had happened. "Well, I didn't see much," Penny admitted. "But I did learn one interesting thing. There's a pipe organ installed in this house. I might have discovered who was playing it too only I tripped over a rope which had been strung up in front of the door." "Placed there deliberately, you think?" "Of course. It startled me so that I let out that wild yell. I don't care to do any more investigating tonight, but in the morning I mean to have a good look at that room upstairs." "You have more nerve than I," Rosanna declared admiringly. Penny carefully locked the outside door before turning out the light. It was twenty minutes after twelve by her wrist watch. "I shouldn't call it nerve exactly," she replied thoughtfully, climbing into bed. "The truth is, I'm a little afraid, Rosanna." "Then why do you go up there again?" "Oh, I don't mean that. It isn't the music that has me frightened." "But what else is there to be afraid of?" Rosanna persisted. "It's just a feeling, I guess," Penny admitted. "I can't explain--only it seems to me that some sinister plot is brewing in this old house." "I have the same sensation," Rosanna confessed. "Let's leave in the morning." Penny laughed softly and settled herself more comfortably in the pillows. "Never!" she retorted. "I'm the daughter of a detective you know! This is our own special mystery case, and unless that ghost gets me first, I intend to get him!" With that threat, Penny rolled over and lost herself in sleep. The warm sun was streaming in at the windows when the girls aroused themselves. They dressed and went downstairs, finding the house quite deserted. Apparently Mrs. Leeds, her daughter and Max Laponi had gone to the village for breakfast. "I wish they had vanished for good but there's no use hoping that," Penny commented. "I doubt if even a ghost could keep Mrs. Leeds from remaining until the estate is settled." The girls cooked their own breakfast, utilizing supplies which they had purchased at the nearby town. As they washed the dishes and stacked them away, Rosanna mentioned again that she did not feel comfortable about making such free use of her unknown uncle's property. "Perhaps it isn't just the thing to do," Penny acknowledged, "but the situation isn't a normal one either. If Mr. Eckert says it is all right for us to stay on, I don't think we should worry." "Will it do us any good to remain?" Rosanna pondered in a troubled tone. "If Mr. Eckert can't tell us what became of my uncle, who could?" "That's just the point, Rosanna. I believe he knows more than he lets on." Penny's gaze wandered to the tiny log cabin set back in the pine woods. Wisps of thin smoke curled from the chimney. That meant that Caleb must be at home. "Let's walk down there and talk with him," she proposed impulsively. "It's time he answers a few of our questions." Caleb did not come to the door to answer their timid knock. Instead he called out a hearty, "Come in," which they instantly obeyed. Caleb was the picture of comfort, sitting propped back in his chair by the window, puffing at an old pipe. He arose reluctantly and dusted off two camp stools for the visitors. "We thought perhaps you might furnish us with a little information," Penny began pleasantly. Her eyes roved swiftly about the room. She noticed the open bookcase with four rows of well-thumbed volumes. The titles were impressive. Caleb Eckert, despite his rough appearance, seemingly had a liking for intellectual books. "Well, what is it you want to know?" Caleb demanded, not unkindly. "I've told you before that I'll have nothing to do with this muddle over Mr. Winters' property." "I've given up all hope of inheriting any of the estate," Rosanna said. "But I should like to hear about my uncle. What was he like?" "Some folks said he was the queerest man on Snow Mountain. I liked him because he attended to his own business. He was considered a remarkable sportsman by some." Penny's eyes traveled to a huge bear skin which hung on the cabin wall. Caleb followed her gaze. "Mr. Winters gave me that skin last year when he came back from his trip north. A mighty nice specimen." "Do you have a picture of Mr. Winters?" Penny asked, abruptly changing the subject. Caleb shook his head. He began to talk about the bear skin again. Rosanna listened eagerly, but Penny sensed that the old man was trying to monopolize the conversation and thus keep her from asking questions which he did not care to answer. When she succeeded in breaking in it was to bring up the subject of Mr. Winters' ivory collection. Caleb seemed reluctant to offer definite information. "All I know is that Mr. Winters was supposed to have one," he answered. "Folks said it was worth a fortune and that he had spent years gathering it." "What became of the collection?" Penny inquired curiously. "How should I know?" Caleb retorted crossly. "Seems to me you girls ask a lot of silly questions." "We didn't mean to be inquisitive," Penny apologized. "Only it struck me that Max Laponi has an unusual interest in that collection of ivory." Caleb eyed her strangely. "So you noticed it too?" he asked. Penny nodded. "Perhaps I shouldn't say it, but I don't trust that man, Mr. Eckert. If Mr. Winters' collection of ivory is still in the house, don't you think it should be removed to a safer place?" "That's what I'd like to do," Caleb muttered, looking out the window. "Then you do know where the ivory collection is," Penny tripped him. Caleb glared at her. "I didn't say so, did I? Why should Mr. Winters tell me where he kept his valuables? Bosh! I tell you I won't be mixed up in the muddle. Now go away and let me sleep!" Caleb stretched himself out on the couch and closed his eyes. Thus dismissed, the girls hastily departed. "Such a cross old man!" Rosanna exclaimed when they were out of earshot. "But even though he is irritable, I rather like him." "So do I," Penny admitted with a laugh. "You know, I think our questions about the ivory collection disturbed him more than he cared to show." "He did seem reluctant to tell us anything about it." "We'll nail him down yet," Penny declared grimly as they walked slowly toward the house on the cliff. "Unless I'm sadly mistaken, that ivory collection is hidden somewhere on the premises and he's scared silly for fear someone will find it!" CHAPTER IX A Scrap of Paper Penny and Rosanna entered the house by the side door. Hearing a murmur of voices from the direction of the library, they involuntarily paused to listen. "If we go into this thing as partners we're both bound to profit," they heard a man say in an insistent tone. "Think it over and I know you'll see how easily it can be accomplished. Those two girls are nit-wits. They'll make no trouble." Penny and Rosanna exchanged a startled glance. They recognized Max Laponi's voice. So he was plotting against them! Undoubtedly, planning to secure complete control of the Winters' estate. "I'm going to find out with whom he is talking," Penny whispered. Before Rosanna could protest, she walked to the library door and opened it. Mrs. Leeds and Max Laponi were sitting at the desk, examining some document which was spread out before them. As Penny came in, Laponi whisked it into his pocket. "Oh, I beg your pardon," Penny said casually. "I didn't mean to interrupt." "You aren't at all, my dear," Mrs. Leeds said more graciously than was her custom. "Mr. Laponi was just showing me a letter from his sister." "Yes, from my sister," Laponi echoed with a slight smirk. "She lives in Naples and writes such interesting letters." Penny found it difficult to refrain from smiling. She pretended to search in the bookcase for a volume. "I thought possibly you had discovered the will," she remarked mischievously. "The will! Oh, no!" Mrs. Leeds assured her. "That is a good joke," Laponi echoed. "Ha! Ha! Even a ferret couldn't find old Jacob Winters' will in this house!" Penny was aware that both Mrs. Leeds and Max Laponi were watching her shrewdly, trying to make up their minds if she had overheard anything. She dared say no more lest she betray herself. Picking up a book she quietly withdrew. "It's just as I thought," she told Rosanna when they were together in their bedroom. "Laponi is trying to get Mrs. Leeds involved in some scheme to steal the property. Unless we watch out, Rosanna, they'll get everything away from you." "I don't much care," Rosanna returned in disgust. "I never saw such disgraceful actions in all my life. As far as I'm concerned, I'd rather leave this place tomorrow and let the lawyers settle everything." "There will be nothing left to settle when Mrs. Leeds and Laponi get through. It's pretty evident that one or the other is an impostor." "But we can't prove that, Penny. If only I hadn't lost my key and the credentials!" "We're only starting to work on this case," Penny said cheerfully. "Let's keep our eyes and ears open. We may discover something of value." Since their arrival at the old house, the girls had awaited an opportunity to inspect the third floor, hoping to discover the cause of the mysterious music which had disturbed the household. Penny suggested that while Mrs. Leeds and Laponi were occupied in the library they might make their tour of investigation. Rosanna agreed but without enthusiasm. She was not as venturesome as her companion. Penny led the way to the third floor landing. The hall was dark and dusty; cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling. Penny cast an appraising glance about her. The doors leading from the hall were all closed. She was certain that upon her previous visit one had been slightly ajar. She reached for the knob and turned it. The door did not give. It was locked. "That's funny," Penny murmured. "What is?" "I'm sure this door was unlocked before." "Perhaps it was the other one," Rosanna suggested. They moved on down the hall to try the second door. It too was securely fastened. "I distinctly recall opening that other door," Penny maintained. "I started to go in and tripped over something. I suspect it was a rope stretched just inside the door." "Well, if we can't get in I guess we can't learn anything," Rosanna said, somewhat in relief. Penny made no response. She bent down to peer through the keyhole. "See anything?" Rosanna asked. "Just a big empty room. But there is something up against the far wall! Rosanna, it's a pipe organ!" After a minute she stepped away that her friend might see for herself. Rosanna agreed that the shadowy outline was an organ and a magnificent one. "The music came from this room all right," Penny said excitedly. "I wish we could get in." After trying the door again, the girls returned to the second floor. As Penny closed the stairway door she noticed that it had a key. Upon impulse she turned it in the lock and pocketed the key with a smile of satisfaction. "That should put a stop to the music for a few nights," she remarked. "I'll show that ghost I can lock a few doors myself!" As they reached their own bedroom, Rosanna said that she believed she would lie down for a half hour. The events of the past few days had worn her down, both physically and mentally. "Do," Penny urged: "A sleep will refresh you. I think I'll go downstairs and see if I can discover what plot is brewing." She descended the spiral stairway and paused at the library. It was empty. The house was strangely silent. Penny crossed the hall to the living room. Heavy draperies screened the arched doorway. As Penny pulled them aside to enter, she saw Mrs. Leeds standing at the fireplace, her back to the door. Something about her manner aroused Penny's suspicions. She waited and watched. Mrs. Leeds had built up a roaring fire on the hearth. She held a paper in her hand. Deliberately, she tore it into a dozen pieces and dropped them into the flames. Penny hastily entered the room. Mrs. Leeds wheeled, her cheeks flushing. "How you startled me, Miss Nichols! You surely have a way of coming in quietly." "Sorry," Penny said, walking over to the hearth. "How nice to have a fire, although it is a little warm today." "The room seemed damp," Mrs. Leeds said nervously. "I was cold. I think I'll go to my room and get a sweater." The instant Mrs. Leeds had disappeared, Penny snatched a charred piece of paper from the hearth. It was the only scrap which had not been completely consumed by the flames. Only a few scattered lines with many words missing were visible. The others were blackened or torn away. Penny distinguished a part of the writing: "Last will and testam-- --do bequeath to my niece, Ro--" "This must be a portion of Jacob Winters' will!" she thought. "Mrs. Leeds probably found it somewhere in the house and decided to destroy it because she or her daughter weren't mentioned!" She stared at the word which began Ro----. The remaining letters had been torn away. Had Mr. Winters written Rosanna's name? If only she had entered the living room a minute earlier she might have prevented the document from being destroyed! In reviewing Mrs. Leeds' actions during the past two days, Penny could not doubt that the woman had actually found the missing will. Since her arrival at Raven Ridge she had spent most of her time poking about into odd corners of the house. The locked drawer of the desk had annoyed her exceedingly. "I'll just take a look and see if it's still locked," Penny thought. She opened the desk and tried the drawer. It readily opened. "Empty," Penny commented grimly. "Just as I suspected." She examined the lock. It was evident at a glance that it had been broken by a sharp instrument and not unlocked with a key. "The will was hidden in this drawer," she mused. "I feel confident of it. And it must have been drawn up in Rosanna's favor or Mrs. Leeds never would have destroyed it." Penny closed the desk and carefully placed the charred bit of paper in her dress pocket. She was deeply disturbed over the discovery, realizing that Mrs. Leeds, by destroying the document, had gained a great advantage. However, she had no intention of abandoning the fight. "I'll keep this strictly to myself," she decided. "For the present I'll not even tell Rosanna. It would only disappoint her to learn that the will has been burned." Since Mrs. Leeds' arrival at Raven Ridge, Penny had done everything in her power to avoid a break with the arrogant society woman. She had ignored snubs and many unkind remarks. Now she felt that if Rosanna's interests were to be safeguarded, she no longer could afford to play a waiting game. "Mrs. Leeds and Max Laponi have shown their hand," she reflected. "They mean to gain their ends by any possible means. But since they're stooping to underhanded tricks, I may have a few little schemes of my own!" Penny was unusually silent that evening. Rosanna noticed it at once but thinking that her friend was absorbed in her own thoughts, refrained from questioning her. At six o'clock the girls motored to Andover for dinner. To their chagrin, Mrs. Leeds and her daughter Alicia chanced to select the same cafe. All during the meal, Penny noticed the woman's eyes upon her. As she and Rosanna arose to leave, Mrs. Leeds hastily followed them. "Miss Winters, may I speak with you a moment?" she began coldly. "Why, yes, of course," Rosanna responded. "I mean alone." Rosanna hesitated and glanced at Penny. The latter started to move away. "No, don't go," Rosanna said quickly. "I am sure that anything Mrs. Leeds may wish to say to me can be said in front of you." "Very well," Mrs. Leeds returned icily. "Evidence has reached me today which proves conclusively that I am Jacob Winters' sole heir." Rosanna took the blow without the quiver of an eyelash. "What evidence, may I ask, Mrs. Leeds?" "I don't feel compelled to go into that, Miss Winters. Certainly not in the presence of strangers or on the street." "Penny isn't exactly a stranger," Rosanna smiled. "From the first I have been very tolerant, I think," Mrs. Leeds went on, ignoring the orphan's remark. "By your own admission you have no credentials--we have only your word that you are even related to Jacob Winters." "I had a letter and key--the same as you," Rosanna faltered. "Either I lost them or they were stolen." "And Rosanna happens to be a niece of Mr. Winters," Penny added significantly. "I believe you are only a cousin, Mrs. Leeds?" The woman eyed her furiously. "Just what is it that you want me to do?" Rosanna asked. "I think you both should leave immediately." "And allow you to have everything your way," Penny interposed sweetly. "Now wouldn't that be nice--for you!" She took Rosanna by the arm and urged her toward the car. "Don't allow Miss Nichols to poison your mind!" Mrs. Leeds pleaded, following Rosanna to the curbing. "Unless you leave immediately you will receive no part of the fortune. If you go without making any further trouble, I might agree to some small settlement. After all, I mean to be generous." "Thanks for telling us," Penny smiled. She closed the car door and they drove away. "Perhaps we shouldn't have been so short with her," Rosanna said uneasily as they returned to the house on Snow Mountain. "If it's true that the property has been left to her, then she was being generous to offer to give me anything." "Don't worry, she'd forget her promise soon enough if she succeeded in getting you away from here, Rosanna. I detest that woman. She thinks she is so subtle and she's as transparent as glass!" "I wonder what evidence she referred to?" Rosanna mused. Penny started to speak, then changed her mind. Although Mrs. Leeds had no suspicion that she guessed the truth, she was well aware of the nature of the new evidence. However, she refrained from mentioning the burned will, realizing that Rosanna, in her present depressed state of mind, would be greatly disturbed by the information. If the orphan believed that she no longer had a definite claim to the fortune, she would insist upon leaving Raven Ridge without further delay. Penny did not intend to quit the scene until she had answered several questions to her satisfaction. The entire case seemed a trifle fantastic as she reviewed it. First, Rosanna had received the strange letter signed by a fictitious name. Then, although the orphan had lost the key, they had found the door of the Winters' mansion unlocked. Close upon the heels of their arrival, Mrs. Leeds, her daughter, and Max Laponi appeared. Since then, the house had been disturbed by haunting organ music and one baffling event had crowded upon another. "It's all very bewildering," Penny reflected. "But I believe that everything can be fitted together if only I am able to learn the identity of the mysterious ghost." The night closed in dark and windy. Penny and Rosanna sat by the fire, trying to read. They were relieved when Mrs. Leeds and her daughter retired to their rooms shortly after eight o'clock for it gave them an opportunity to talk. At ten o'clock the girls went to their own room. Max Laponi had not yet returned from Andover where he took his meals. Penny was tired and fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Hours later she was awakened by Rosanna who was sitting upright in bed. "What is it?" Penny mumbled drowsily. Then she knew. The house reverberated with the soft chords of a pipe organ. Without switching on the electric lights, Penny drew on her dressing gown. She started toward the door, then returned to grope in the drawer of the dresser where she found the key which locked the door leading to the attic floor. "What are you going to do?" Rosanna asked anxiously, drawing the bedclothes closer about her. Penny already had gone. Stealing quietly down the dark hall she reached the end of it and stood listening. The door leading to the third floor was closed. She could hear the music more distinctly than before and knew for a certainty that it came from above. She gently tried the door. It was still locked. Penny was momentarily baffled. She had half expected to find the door unlocked. She had been so confident that by taking the key she could put a stop to the ghost music. "How did the organist reach the third floor if he didn't pass through this door?" she debated. "That ghost must be quite a clever fellow if he can enter without keys." The entire house had been carefully locked up for the night. Penny and Rosanna had attended to it the last thing before retiring, knowing that Max Laponi could come in later by using his own pass key. They had secured every door and window. "Well, I won't learn anything by standing here," Penny thought uncomfortably. "I'll have to go up there." Her usual courage was at low ebb. She dreaded the ordeal. However, before she could open the stairway door, a shrill scream echoed down the hall. Terrified, Penny crouched back against the wall and waited. CHAPTER X The Wall Safe Recovering from her fright, Penny reached up and snapped on the light. She heard a door open down the hall. Mrs. Leeds, a dressing gown clutched about her unshapely figure, stumbled toward the girl. "There's something in my room! It struck my face while I was sleeping! Oh, oh, such a horrible house!" "Control yourself," Penny advised, taking her by the arm. "We'll see what it is." Mrs. Leeds jerked away, assuming an attitude of tense listening. For the first time she had paid heed to the organ music from above. "There it is again!" she whispered in awe. "This house is haunted." Rosanna came down the hall, joining the two at Mrs. Leeds' door. Alicia huddled nearby, too frightened to speak a word. Penny opened the door and groped for the electric switch. As the room was flooded with light, she looked quickly about. Everything was in disorder but that was because Mrs. Leeds had done no straightening or cleaning since her arrival. Suddenly Penny began to laugh. "Pray what do you find that is so humorous?" Mrs. Leeds demanded indignantly. "Bats!" Penny answered, laughing again. There were four of them blinded by the light, cowering in the corners of the room. Penny opened a window and with Rosanna's help drove them out into the night. "They must have come in through an open window," she said to Mrs. Leeds. "I didn't have a window open," the woman retorted. "I can't bear to sleep in this room again. Tomorrow I shall move into another. Come Alicia, we'll sit up until morning in the living room." Returning to her own room, Penny listened for the organ music. It had ceased as mysteriously as it had begun. She glanced curiously toward the room occupied by Max Laponi. The door was closed. He alone of the entire household seemed undisturbed by the strange things which went on about him. "I'd like to know if he really is in his room," Penny thought. She hesitated by the door but did not have the courage to try the knob. After a moment she followed Rosanna to their bedroom at the other end of the hall. Morning found Mrs. Leeds even more upset than upon the previous night. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face sallow, her clothes unpressed. She quarreled with her daughter and ignored Penny and Rosanna. However, when Max Laponi came down the stairs looking as dapper as ever, her attitude instantly changed. She spoke to him in a softer tone. "We were beginning to wonder if the ghost made off with you last night," she said archly. "What ghost?" "You mean to say you didn't hear the music?" "Not a sound," Laponi told her. "I am a very hard sleeper." He seemed disinclined to listen to Mrs. Leeds' account of all that had transpired, and very shortly drove away in his automobile, ostensibly to have breakfast in a nearby town. After straightening their room and making the bed, Rosanna and Penny went for a short walk. They sat down by the cliff where they could see the river below, discussing the situation. "I don't see that it's doing a particle of good to stay here," Rosanna insisted. "I don't feel right about letting you waste so much time and money." Rosanna was thinking of the expensive meals which they bought at Andover. Because her own supply of cash had run so low, Penny paid for everything. Rosanna meant to settle the debt and it steadily grew larger. "Now don't worry," Penny advised kindly. "I'm staying on here largely because I've determined to discover the identity of our ghost. Then, too, I can't bear to see Mrs. Leeds gain what doesn't belong to her." "I'd be glad to stay if I thought it would do the slightest good--" "I think it will Rosanna. I have a scheme which I intend to try. It will take a few days before we can work things out." Penny then explained a part of what was in her mind. She was not certain as to all the details of her plan, but little by little it was taking shape. After a time the girls walked down to Caleb Eckert's cabin. He was not at home. They sauntered leisurely back to the house on the cliff. Neither Mrs. Leeds' car nor the one belonging to Max Laponi was on the driveway. "I guess we're the only ones here this morning," Penny commented. They entered by the front door. From the direction of the living room they heard a muffled exclamation of impatience. Signaling for silence, Penny tiptoed toward the velvet curtains which hid the living room from view. She parted them. Caleb Eckert was working at the dials of a wall safe which had been concealed in a secret panel behind a large oil painting. Although the girls had made no sound, Caleb sensed their presence. He turned and faced them. "Why, Mr. Eckert, doesn't this call for some explanation?" Penny asked in bewilderment. "Surely you have no right to tamper with Mr. Winters' safe." The old man plainly was embarrassed. He moistened his lips, looked away, then said gruffly: "I didn't come here to steal. I came because I wanted to protect Mr. Winters' valuables. There's folks in this house that I don't trust." "But how does it happen you know the combination of the safe?" Rosanna inquired. "Mr. Winters gave it to me before he left. You see, he was my best friend. Jacob trusted me." "He must have," cut in a sneering voice from directly behind. Everyone turned to see Max Laponi standing in the doorway. His sharp little eyes moved swiftly about the room taking in everything. They came to rest upon the wall safe. Caleb spun the dials. He hastily pressed a concealed button and the picture swung back into place, hiding the safe. "Neat little device," Laponi commented dryly. His eyes narrowed. "Trying to steal the Winters' booty, were you?" "Certainly not," Caleb retorted angrily. Laponi caught him roughly by the shoulder, forcing him back against the wall. "You know a lot more than you let on," he accused. "Tell me, is that where old Winters hid his ivory collection?" "I'll tell you nothing," Caleb snapped. "You'll tell or I'll--" "Mr. Laponi, you're hurting him!" Rosanna cried. "Perhaps we should call the police if there's to be trouble," Penny added cunningly. At the mention of police, Laponi instantly released his grip on Caleb. He laughed harshly. "We'll let it go this time," he said, "but I'm warning you, Eckert, stay away from this house and this safe if you know what's good for you." "You might take that advice to yourself, too," the old man retorted, edging toward the door. From the window the girls watched him hurry down the path to his own cabin. His departure was almost flight. Obviously, Caleb was afraid. Penny did not know what to believe. An hour before she would have taken oath that he was strictly honest, devoted to the interests of Jacob Winters. Now she could not be sure. Max Laponi lingered in the living room. Suspecting that he intended to investigate the wall safe the instant he was alone, Penny and Rosanna settled themselves for a long stay. They pretended to read. After an hour, Laponi grew tired of the game, and went off, grumbling to himself. "We outlasted him that time," Penny chuckled. "However, we'll have to be on the lookout or he'll sneak back sometime when we're gone. I wonder if Mr. Winters did leave his ivory collection in the safe?" "Laponi seems to think so," Rosanna commented. "I'm glad he doesn't know the combination. I distrust him even more than I do Caleb." "So do I, but I intend to watch them both," Penny responded thoughtfully. "I'm convinced there's a deep plot brewing--something far more sinister than we've suspected." CHAPTER XI A Night Adventure Since taking leave of Mr. Nichols at Mt. Ashland, Penny had received no word from her father. She did not worry actively, yet it was a great relief when later in the afternoon a uniformed messenger boy delivered a telegram into her hand. "Remain as long as you wish," her father wired. "Am enjoying good rest here." From an upstairs window Mrs. Leeds had noted the arrival of the messenger boy. She came hurrying down to see if the message was for her. While Penny read the communication, the woman eyed her suspiciously. At last her curiosity could no longer be restrained. She asked carelessly: "I don't suppose your wire has anything to do with Jacob Winters or the estate?" "Only indirectly," Penny responded mischievously. To avoid further questioning, the girls went outdoors. "Let's see if Caleb is at home," Penny proposed. They rapped several times upon the door of the cabin and were about to turn away, when the old man opened it. "Sorry to bother you," Penny apologized. "I wanted to ask a few more questions about Mr. Winters." Caleb looked ill at ease. "Questions!" he fumed. "Well, what is it you want to know this time?" "Tell me, isn't there a pipe organ on the third floor of Mr. Winters' house?" "Certainly. Jacob was a talented musician. He installed the organ nearly fifteen years ago. But what of it may I ask?" "We'd like very much to see the organ." "Well, why don't you look at it then?" "We can't because the door is locked." "Locked?" Caleb seemed surprised. "That's funny. I didn't know Mr. Winters ever locked up his conservatory." "Then you haven't a key?" Penny asked. "Why should I have a key?" Caleb snorted. "You act as if I'm the caretaker of that house. It's nothing to me what goes on there, except that I don't like to see folks overrun the place and steal Mr. Winters' fine things." "You needn't look at us so accusingly," Rosanna said with surprising spirit. "We wouldn't take or damage one single thing in that house." Caleb's face softened. "I didn't mean to suggest that you would. I believe you two girls aren't like those others. But you were speaking of the organ. Why are you so interested in it?" "Because we've been hearing music at night," Penny informed. "It seems to come from that room on the third floor." Caleb regarded her in awe. "Then it's true, the things they say." "What things?" Rosanna asked impatiently. "That the house is haunted. If Mr. Winters really is dead it may be----" "Nonsense!" Penny cut in. "Rosanna and I don't believe in ghosts. And what's more, I doubt if you do, Caleb Eckert! That so-called ghost is a very live one. If you won't help me, I'll solve the mystery alone!" And with this declaration, Penny stalked from the cabin, followed by the faithful Rosanna. "Perhaps you've antagonized him now," the latter said as they went back to the house on the cliff. "I don't care if I have! Caleb knows a great deal more than he pretends. He could help us if he wanted to!" No one was stirring on the lower floor of the Winters' house when the girls entered. To Penny it seemed an admirable time to institute a search of the premises. "We'll let Mrs. Leeds hunt for the will," Penny declared, "but we'll look for something which may prove equally valuable." "What?" Rosanna asked curiously. "A picture of Jacob Winters." "I can't see what good it will do to find one except that I'd like to have a photo of my uncle as a keepsake." "If my plans work out I'll have a more important use for it," Penny smiled mysteriously. "I should think we could find one somewhere in the house," Rosanna declared. "Most people have old photographs stuck around in odd places." For nearly an hour the girls poked about in drawers and clothes closets until Rosanna protested that she felt as prying and sneaking as Mrs. Leeds. "This is in a better cause," Penny laughed. "It looks that way to us because it's my cause," Rosanna smiled. "Still, I'd never examine private papers or locked drawers." Penny made no response for in a lower table drawer she had come upon an old album. She displayed her discovery and page by page the girls went through it, laughing a little at the strange old-fashioned costumes and the stiff poses of the subjects. Names were written under a few of the photographs but Rosanna recognized only one or two as relatives. "I never knew many of my relation," she admitted. "If Mrs. Leeds and her daughter are samples, perhaps it's just as well." "The people in this album look nice, Rosanna. I suppose most of them are dead by this time." Penny turned a page and stared blankly down at an empty folder. "Why, here is your uncle's name," she cried, indicating a signature at the bottom of the page. "But the photo is gone!" "Oh, how disappointing." "Someone removed the photo, Rosanna. Perhaps deliberately too." "What makes you think that?" "I only said it. I have no evidence of course. Oh, all my plans will be upset if I don't find the photograph!" The arrival of Mrs. Leeds cut short the conversation. The girls hastily returned the album to the table drawer but not quickly enough to avoid being detected. Mrs. Leeds triumphantly pounced on the leather bound book. "Only an old-fashioned album," she said in disappointment, tossing it aside. "Did you think it was the will?" Penny chuckled as she and Rosanna departed. The girls impatiently awaited the coming of night. Penny had determined to make a supreme effort to discover the cause of the mysterious organ music. At first Rosanna had been enthusiastic over the plan but as nightfall approached she tried to dissuade her friend. "It's too dangerous," she insisted. "Please give up the scheme." Penny shook her head. She had made up her mind to spend the night on the third floor. Soon after the household retired she intended to steal upstairs and establish herself by the door of the conservatory. Evening came. At nine Mrs. Leeds and her daughter shut themselves into the bedroom which they had selected since their upsetting experience with bats. At eleven Penny heard Max Laponi's door close. She looked out into the hall. It was dark and deserted. "Please don't attempt it," Rosanna shivered. "What if something should happen?" "I hope it does," Penny said grimly. "It won't be any fun to sit up half the night without any purpose. I'll be disappointed if our ghost fails to provide his usual midnight concert." "If anything goes wrong scream for help," Rosanna urged. "I'll run for assistance." Penny promised. While Rosanna stood at the bedroom door watching, she tiptoed down the hall, past Mrs. Leeds' room, past Laponi's chamber to the third floor stairs. There she hesitated. Without a light the region above looked even more dark and awe-inspiring than she had remembered it. "Coward!" she accused herself, and quietly went up, leaving the door unlocked behind her. All was quiet on the third floor. Penny tried the door to the conservatory expecting to find it locked. To her astonishment it opened. The discovery disconcerted her for an instant. A minute later she mustered her courage and stepped inside the room. In the darkness she could make out objects only vaguely. The organ with its huge pipes occupied one end of the room. Sheet-draped chairs gave everything a ghostly atmosphere not at all conducive to a peaceful state of mind. After making a brief inspection of her quarters Penny sat down on the floor with her back against the outside door. She riveted her eyes upon the organ. Time dragged slowly. When it seemed to Penny that several hours must have passed, she heard a clock downstairs striking eleven-thirty. "At least another half hour to wait," Penny thought, shifting into a more comfortable position. She grew drowsy. Several times she caught herself on the verge of napping. She aroused herself only to find her eyes growing heavy again. It became increasingly difficult to watch the organ. "I wish that ghost would hurry up and come," she mused impatiently. "Perhaps after all my trouble this won't be one of his working nights!" That was the last thought of which she was aware. Suddenly she heard soft organ music rolling and swelling about her. With a start she aroused herself. She had been sleeping. It took an instant for Penny to gather her wits. She was still sitting with her back to the conservatory door. Yet at the far end of the great room, she distinctly could see a shadowy figure seated at the organ. Penny scrambled to her feet, starting forward. The floor creaked alarmingly. Penny halted, but too late. She had given warning of her presence. The shadowy figure at the organ jerked into alert attention. There was a discordant crash of chords, then silence. Penny blinked. She thought she had heard a sharp click as if a secret panel had opened and closed. That was all. And the organist had disappeared. CHAPTER XII A Suspicious Act Penny caught herself shivering. She decided that she had seen quite enough for one night. She turned toward the door, but with her hand on the brass knob, stood tensely listening. Someone was tiptoeing along the hall. It occurred to her that the mysterious organist might have escaped from the music room by means of a secret panel which opened directly into the adjoining corridor. Even now he could be effecting his escape to the lower floor. Crouching against the wall, Penny waited. She was startled to hear the footsteps coming closer. Then the door opened a tiny crack and the beam of a flashlight slowly circled the room. "Penny!" an anxious voice whispered. "Where are you?" Penny laughed in relief as she reached out to grip Rosanna's hand. "Oh! How you startled me!" the girl gasped. "I'm so glad you're safe, Penny. You stayed up here so long that I was frightened." "I had to wait for the ghost." "I heard the music," Rosanna said in awe. "It broke off so suddenly." "That was because I frightened the ghost away. At first I thought perhaps I had dreamed it all, but if you heard the music too then it must have been real." "It was real enough. But it lasted only a minute or two." "When the organist saw me I suspect he slipped out of the room by means of a secret panel," Penny reported. "But where he went is a mystery. You didn't see anyone as you came up the stairs to find me?" "No, I'm sure no one was in the hall, Penny." "I'm as certain as anything that this room has a secret entrance. Give me your flashlight and we'll see what we can discover." "Not tonight," Rosanna shivered, pulling her friend toward the door. "We can come back in the morning." "The room may be locked again then." "That's so." "Let's take advantage of the opportunity while we have it." Rosanna handed over the flashlight and together they crossed the room to the big organ. They inspected it with interest and Penny ran her fingers lightly over the keys. However, no sound came forth. "That's queer," Rosanna whispered. "I think someone has to pump air," Penny said. "It's probably shut off." She next turned her attention to the walls in the immediate vicinity of the organ. She could locate no hidden panel although in one place it seemed to her that when she rapped on a certain sector it emitted a hollow sound. "It's too dark to see anything tonight," Rosanna protested nervously. "I guess we may as well give it up until morning," Penny agreed. The girls stole quietly down the stairs to the lower floor. However, an unpleasant surprise awaited them. As they opened the door into the main passageway they found themselves face to face with Mrs. Leeds and Alicia. "So I find you here again!" the woman exclaimed. "I suspected before that you girls were at the bottom of these nightly disturbances. Now I have the proof." Penny was too annoyed to even try to explain why she had visited the third floor. She would have ignored the woman and passed on to her own room had not Rosanna been so distressed by the ridiculous accusation. "We've had absolutely nothing to do with the queer things which have been going on in this house," the orphan maintained indignantly. "Then why were you upstairs at this time of night? Only a minute or two ago Alicia and I heard music." "We were trying to learn what caused it, Mrs. Leeds." "A likely story!" Alicia said with a toss of her head. "You may believe it or not, just as you wish," Penny returned coldly. "It seems to me, Miss Nichols, that you are taking it upon yourself to do entirely too much investigating," Mrs. Leeds said cuttingly. "This isn't your home and you're not a relative of Jacob Winters." "And unless I'm sadly mistaken there are others here who are similarly situated!" Penny retorted. "Do you mean to suggest that Alicia and I are not related to Jacob Winters?" "I'm not suggesting anything," Penny replied evenly. "However, since you brought up the matter of an investigation, I might ask you about that paper which I saw you burn in the living room fireplace." Mrs. Leeds' face changed color and she grew confused. "Why, I don't know what you're talking about." "You know well enough, but we'll let it pass for the time being. Come on, Rosanna." The two girls walked down the hall and entered their own room, closing the door firmly behind them. "You held your own with her that time," Rosanna chuckled. "My, I wish I could talk up to people the way you can." "I talk entirely too much. But she made me provoked when she accused us of causing all the disturbance in this house." "What did you mean by asking about a paper she had burned?" Rosanna asked curiously. "Oh, I just wanted to throw a scare into her," Penny responded evasively as she snapped out the light and crept into bed. "I really have no proof of anything." Long after Rosanna had fallen asleep she lay awake thinking. Proof! The word seared itself into her brain. If only she could secure some evidence which would aid Rosanna! "The entire affair seems unreal," she mused. "Almost like a movie. It's obvious that someone is playing at being a ghost, trying to frighten the occupants of this house. But what can be the purpose behind it all?" Although Penny had been careful to make no such admission to Rosanna, she was becoming increasingly troubled. Nor were her worries confined solely to the hide-and-seek organist. She feared that the time was fast approaching when Mrs. Leeds or Max Laponi would make a legal claim to the Winters' property. "The chances are that Mrs. Leeds destroyed the will," she reasoned. "In that event, Rosanna may lose everything." Penny felt baffled, yet she was unwilling to admit defeat. Certainly not until Mrs. Leeds had thrown all her cards on the table. Events were fast approaching a crisis. Penny sensed that from the woman's attitude of increasing hostility and assurance. "I'm not defeated yet," she thought grimly as she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. "I still have a few tricks up my sleeve!" When Rosanna and Penny descended the stairs the next morning they heard a murmur of voices in the library. The door was closed. "I imagine Laponi and Mrs. Leeds are having another one of their secret conferences," Penny commented. "They're up to some mischief." "Why not leave this place today?" Rosanna demanded, "I don't care about the fortune any more. I'm so tired of all this plotting and scheming. I'd rather just go away and let them have it." "Now don't look so distressed," Penny smiled. "The battle of wits has only begun." "But I don't like to battle. It isn't my nature." "I'm your appointed gladiator, Rosanna. You have no idea how much pleasure it would give me to see these grasping imposters exposed." "We haven't any proof they're imposters," Rosanna said soberly. "After all, they had letters and keys to the house. I haven't even that much." "It's too bad they were lost, but you mustn't let it worry you," Penny chided. "Right now I'm more concerned over another matter." "The mysterious ghost?" "Yes, although I wasn't thinking of that at the moment. It's Mr. Winters' photograph. Who tore it out of the album?" "For all we know it may have been removed years ago." "Yes, that's so, but somehow I have a hunch it disappeared at a far more recent date. If I don't find a picture of Jacob Winters, I'm afraid my little plan will fall through." "You haven't told me much about this secret plan of yours, Penny." "That's because I haven't worked it out clearly in my own mind yet. But unless I find the photograph there simply won't be any." "We might search the house again." "I intend to do that if we can ever find a time when Mrs. Leeds and Max Laponi are both gone. Just now I'm eager to make another inspection of the organ room upstairs. This is our chance while those two are closeted in the library." Rosanna was not especially anxious to visit the third floor again, but she offered no objection to the suggestion. Penny led the way up the creaking stairs. The door of the music room was unlocked as they had left it the previous evening. However, the window shades were all drawn and the room was dark. Penny raised the blinds to admit light. Curiously, the girls gazed about them. Everything was covered with a thick coating of dust and cobwebs hung in misty veils from the corners of the room. Penny crossed over to the organ. She indicated the bench in front of it. "I guess that proves whether or not our ghost was real." "You mean the imprint on the dusty surface of the organ bench?" Rosanna asked doubtfully. "Yes, you can see where the organist sat." "Perhaps one of us brushed off the dust without realizing it. You tried to play a few notes on the organ, you know." "Yes, but I didn't sit down on the bench, Rosanna." Losing interest in the organ, Penny began to search for the secret panel through which she was firmly convinced that the "ghost" had disappeared. As her eyes moved swiftly over the smooth wall, she suddenly uttered a low exclamation. "See, Rosanna! The imprint of a man's hand!" The marking upon the wall was so faint that at first the other girl did not see it. But she too became excited as Penny pointed it out. "How do you suppose it came to be there?" she asked in awe. "I suspect our friend the organist was groping about in the dark searching for the secret panel. No doubt his hand was dusty and when he pressed it against the wall it left a faint imprint." "If you're right, we have a valuable clue as to the location of the panel!" Penny nodded eagerly. Already she was exploring the wall with her hand. "It's funny," she murmured impatiently. "I'm as sure as anything that the panel is here----" She broke off suddenly as her fingers touched a tiny round object which was hidden under the wall paper. "I believe I've found it!" she exclaimed gleefully pressing the button. The girls heard a faint click. But the panel did not open. "The stubborn thing!" Penny cried impatiently. "Why doesn't it open?" She pushed with both hands against the section of wall where she felt convinced the panel was located. To her own surprise and the horror of her companion, it suddenly gave way. Penny plunged headlong through the opening. And before Rosanna could recover from the shock of seeing her friend disappear, the panel fell back into place. "Penny, Penny," she cried anxiously, pounding upon the wall. "Are you hurt?" For several minutes there was no answer. Then Rosanna heard a smothered little giggle. "All my bones are still together I guess. But I seem to have tumbled down a flight of stairs. Come on in." "I don't know how to get in. The panel slammed shut when you fell through." "It's hinged at the top I think. Find the little button and press on it. Then when you hear a click push on the panel. Only push easy or you'll take a tumble the way I did." In a minute Rosanna had located the button. She pressed upon it as she had seen Penny do. Then as the lock clicked, she cautiously pushed against the panel. Light as was her touch the sector of wall swung instantly back and she stepped through the opening. So concerned was she over Penny that she failed to hear the panel close behind her. At first Rosanna could see nothing. Then as her eyes became accustomed to the gloomy interior she made out a long flight of stone steps leading downward into inky blackness. She felt reassured when Penny grasped her hand. "Come on, Rosanna! Isn't it exciting? Let's explore!" "Oh, it's too dark!" Rosanna whispered nervously. "What if we should run into that dreadful man--the organist?" "Well, perhaps it would be wiser to go back for a flashlight," Penny conceded. "Only we mustn't let Mrs. Leeds or Max Laponi suspect what we're up to. We must keep this discovery strictly to ourselves." She returned to the head of the stairs but although she groped her hand carefully along the wall she could find no hidden button or spring which controlled the panel. By this time Rosanna had grown frightened. "Don't tell me we're locked in!" Penny forced herself to speak calmly. She knew that it would never do to let Rosanna realize that she too was alarmed. "For the moment I'm afraid we are," she admitted quietly. "But don't give up hope. We'll get out of here somehow." CHAPTER XIII The Secret Stairs Ten minutes of unrewarded search convinced Penny that they were only wasting their time in attempting to locate the hidden spring without a light. "Let's follow the steps down and see where they lead," she suggested. "Surely there must be another exit." Rosanna permitted Penny to lead her down the steep flight of stairs. They presently reached the bottom. It was too dark to see very much but by feeling along the damp stone wall they discovered that they were in a narrow passageway. As they moved cautiously forward a breath of cold air struck Penny's face. "This must be the way to the exit," she declared cheerfully. "We'll soon be out of here now." "It can't be too soon for me," Rosanna chattered. Hand in hand they groped their way along the subterranean passage. Soon they came to the end of it but instead of an exit they found another flight of steps leading downward at a steep angle. "Careful or you'll fall," Penny warned as they began the treacherous descent. "Some of the stones are loose." "I wish we had a light," Rosanna complained. "Where do you suppose we're going anyway?" "Maybe to the center of the earth," Penny chuckled. "It seems like it anyway." "Unless I'm mixed up in my directions we're moving toward the lake." "It seems that way to me too," Penny readily agreed. "But we've twisted and turned so many times I couldn't be sure of anything." By this time the girls were convinced that they were underground for they had made a long, straight descent. The walls were moist and damp; the air chilly. Yet one thing puzzled them. If they actually were traveling toward the lake that meant that the tunnel had been bored into the side of the cliff. But such a feat obviously was nothing less than an engineering enterprise. At length the girls reached the bottom of the second flight of stairs only to find themselves in another passageway. It was much larger than the other and lighter. "Do you think we could be in an abandoned ore mine?" Penny suddenly demanded, pausing to inspect the walls. "It does look a little like it. Only I never heard of stone steps in a mine." "No, they have shafts. But it strikes me that the steps may have been added later, if you noticed, the upper passage was much smaller than this one." "As if it had been dug out to join with this one," Rosanna added eagerly. "Exactly. It's my theory that some person knew about this old mine and decided to connect it with a smaller tunnel which would lead up into the house." "But who do you suppose conceived such a plan?" "I can't answer that one," Penny laughed. "But come on, let's see if we aren't approaching the exit." Eagerly they moved forward, guided by the streak of light. A minute later Penny who was in the lead, gave a joyous shout. "We've come to the end of it! I can see trees!" "Thank goodness," Rosanna sighed in relief. "I was afraid we'd never get out alive." Penny parted the bushes which barred the exit and they peered out. "You were right, Rosanna. We did travel toward the lake. We're almost in it for that matter!" The water came within a few yards of the entrance and during a storm the girls imagined that it must flood the lower passageway. Penny noticed a rowboat tied up in a clump of bushes. "I suppose that's how our ghost makes his quick get-away," Penny remarked dryly. "We might take a ride on the lake," Rosanna proposed. "Don't you think it might advertise that we've discovered this tunnel? Especially if the ghost should happen to see us using his boat." "Of course, I didn't stop to think. Oh, Penny if only we knew the identity of this person who annoys the household!" "It shouldn't be so hard to learn it now," Penny declared in satisfaction. "At night we'll station ourselves here by the mouth of the tunnel and watch." "It wouldn't surprise me if it should turn out to be Max Laponi," Rosanna remarked. "He never seems to be in his room at night." Penny offered no response. Fearing that their long absence from the house might have aroused suspicion, the girls hurriedly left the scene. They found a trail which wound along the base of the cliff and which presently took them toward the house on the hill. As they passed the Eckert cabin they saw the old man cleaning fish by the back door. They greeted him perfunctorily and would have walked on had he not seemed in a mood to talk. "Out early this morning, aren't you?" he questioned. "Yes, we were down by the lake," Penny answered. "You must have crawled out of bed before the sun was up. I've been cleaning fish here all morning and I didn't see you go past." "We went around a different way," Penny answered, and then before he could ask another question, interposed one of her own. "By the way, do you know where I could get a picture of Jacob Winters?" Old Caleb dropped his fish knife. It took him a long time to recover it from the ground. "What do you want of a picture?" he questioned gruffly. "Oh, I just need it," Penny said evasively. "I'd like to have one myself," Rosanna added sincerely. "I never had a photo of my uncle." "If you find he's cut you out of all his property I guess you probably won't be so anxious to have a picture of the old cod," Caleb observed. Rosanna drew herself up proudly. "It wouldn't make the slightest difference, Mr. Eckert. After all, my uncle never saw me so why should he have left me any of his money? You say such disagreeable things!" "I'm a disagreeable old man," Caleb admitted cheerfully, "but my bark is worse than my bite." "Well, please don't call my uncle names," Rosanna went on with spirit. "Names?" "You spoke of Uncle Jacob as an old cod. I don't like it a bit." Old Caleb was startled by the outburst. But his eyes twinkled as he replied soberly: "Well, now, Miss Rosanna, I didn't mean to offend you or to speak disrespectfully of Jacob either. It was just my way of talking." "Then I'll forgive you," Rosanna smiled. The girls were on the verge of moving off when Caleb checked them with a question. "You haven't heard Mrs. Leeds or that Laponi fellow say anything about leaving have you?" "I don't believe they intend to go unless they're put out," Penny responded. "I heard Mrs. Leeds say the other day that she had sent for her lawyer." "They stick tighter than cockle burs," Caleb commented. "If only I had the right, I would send them both packing. Especially that Max Laponi. I don't trust him." "Neither do I," Penny agreed promptly. "That's why I think you should try to help me clear up this dreadful muddle." "What can I do? I have no authority." "It will help if you can find me a photograph of Mr. Winters." Caleb's face puckered into troubled wrinkles. "It's too late," he muttered under his breath. "It wouldn't do any good." "What was that you said?" Penny questioned sharply. "Nothing. I was just talking to myself. About the picture. I'll see what I can do. Don't count much on getting it though because I doubt if I can locate one for you." The girls chatted a few minutes longer but Caleb was not very good company. He responded briefly if at all to their conversational sallies and for the most part seemed lost in thought. They soon left him to his fish cleaning and went on toward the house. "I wonder what got into him all at once?" Rosanna mused. "Perhaps he was offended at the way I spoke to him." "I don't think he gave it a second thought," Penny responded. "I suspect Caleb rather likes to have folks talk up to him. No, I'm sure it wasn't anything you said that annoyed him. Likely enough it was my request for Mr. Winters' photograph." "Why should that bother him?" "That's what I'd like to know. Caleb is a queer one to say the least." "Do you think he'll ever produce the photo?" Penny laughed shortly. "It would be a great surprise to me if he did. And yet from the way he acted, I'm convinced he could get me one if he chose. Like as not he has one in his cabin now." Penny lapsed into a moody silence. From the day of her arrival at Raven Ridge she had sensed old Caleb's reluctance to help her. While she could not say that he was exactly unfriendly he had made no positive move of assistance. She had believed for a long time that he knew a great deal more than he would tell regarding Jacob Winters' absence. The girls entered the house by a side door. They noticed that Mrs. Leeds' car no longer stood on the driveway and took it for granted that she and her daughter had driven to Andover as was their daily custom. They glanced casually into the library and noticed that it was empty. However, Penny's keen eyes traveled to the desk. She observed that the ink bottle had been left uncorked and that a pen had been removed from its holder. "I wonder what Mrs. Leeds and Laponi were up to?" she speculated. "Oh, well, I'll probably find out soon enough." "I believe I'll go upstairs for a few minutes," Rosanna excused herself. "I haven't straightened my things yet this morning." Left alone, Penny crossed over to the desk and examined the paper in the wastebasket. She looked closely at the blotter, even holding it to the mirror, but it had been used so many times that the words which appeared upon it could not be read. There was not a scrap of evidence to show what Mrs. Leeds and Max Laponi had been writing. In disappointment Penny picked up a book and sat down to read. Presently she heard soft steps in the hallway but paid slight attention thinking that it was Rosanna. She was on the verge of calling her friend's name when she thought better of it. The sound of the footsteps told her that the person had gone into the living room. And by this time she was convinced that it was not Rosanna. She waited, listening. She heard a faint metallic click which caused her to lay aside her book and quietly steal to the doorway of the living room. Max Laponi stood with his back toward her, so absorbed in what he was about that he had not the slightest suspicion that he was being observed. Penny saw him carefully remove the oil painting from the wall. He deftly opened the panel, exposing the safe. Then, with a sureness of touch which amazed Penny, he began to spin the dials. CHAPTER XIV A Diamond Ring "Mr. Laponi, kindly move away from that safe!" Penny spoke sharply as she quietly stepped into the living room. The man whirled and saw her. Taken by surprise, his hand fell away from the dials and he looked confused. "You seem to be very much interested in Mr. Winters' valuables," Penny said sternly. By this time Max Laponi had recovered his composure. "Why shouldn't I be?" he retorted. "After all, I am Mr. Winters' heir." "That remains to be seen, Mr. Laponi. You appear to be very handy at opening safes, I notice." Penny crossed the room and after turning the handle to make certain that Laponi had not succeeded in his purpose, closed the panel and returned the oil painting to its former position. "I suppose you think I was trying to steal," Laponi began after a minute of dead silence. "Nothing was further from my intention." "No?" "Ever since I caught Caleb Eckert trying to break into this safe I've been worried. Last night I saw him prowling around the house after dark and it made me uneasy. I was afraid he would make another attempt to steal Mr. Winters' valuables." "So you thought you would just beat him to it!" Penny retorted sarcastically. "Certainly not. When you entered the room I was merely inspecting the safe to make certain that it was securely locked." Penny could not refrain from smiling. She did not believe a word of what Max Laponi was telling her. "That safe seems to be the real attraction of this house," she remarked. "I've suspected for some time that it contains Mr. Winters' ivory collection." If Max Laponi were taken aback he did not disclose it. But he eyed Penny shrewdly. "You're a smart little girl. Too smart to go around making trouble for yourself. Now if you're wise you'll team up with me and I'll promise you that you'll come out at the top of the heap." "Just what is your proposition?" Penny asked quickly. Max Laponi was too alert to place himself in any trap. "If you're willing to follow my orders I'll promise you that when I come into my fortune you'll be well paid." "And what are your orders?" "I'll tell you after you give me your promise." Penny regarded him coldly. "I'll promise nothing, Mr. Laponi, except that I intend to see justice done to Rosanna Winters! You and Mrs. Leeds are trying to cheat her out of her rightful inheritance." "She'll never get a cent. If you had an ounce of sense you'd ditch her and come in with us. It's all fixed--" "Fixed!" Penny tripped him. "And by 'us' I imagine you mean Mrs. Leeds. You're both hatching some scheme to defraud Rosanna." Laponi smiled impudently. "Well, don't say I didn't give you your choice, Miss Nichols. It is your decision to have no share in the spoils?" "It is." Laponi's face darkened slightly. "As you wish, Miss Nichols. But let me give you a little warning. Keep your nose out of my affairs or it will be the worse for you!" He turned and walked from the room. A minute later Penny saw him leave the house by the side door. "If he thinks he can frighten me with a threat he has another guess coming!" she thought indignantly. "For two cents I'd call in the police." Upon second consideration she decided that such a move would not be wise. After all she had no real evidence against Laponi. While she was convinced in her own mind that his motives were dishonest the police might take a more conservative attitude. Then too, she would be forced to offer a satisfactory explanation for her own presence in the house. "Laponi is after something more valuable than a will," Penny mused as she stood at the window watching his car vanish down the driveway. Her eye wandered to the oil painting on the wall. She felt certain that the safe which was screened beneath it guarded Mr. Winters' collection of ivory. And from the expression of Laponi's face when she had mentioned her belief, she was sure that he shared the same conviction. "He practically admitted he was involved in some scheme to defraud Rosanna," she thought. "I can't help feeling he's a crook even if he is a relative of Mr. Winters. I wish I dared search his room for evidence!" The more she considered the idea, the greater became its appeal. Probably Laponi would not return to the house for at least an hour. She would have ample time. Still, the undertaking would be a risky one and not at all to her liking. "I suppose a professional detective wouldn't feel squeamish about entering another person's room if the case demanded it," she encouraged herself. "Laponi practically admitted his guilt--that was because he thought I couldn't do anything about it. Maybe I'll show him!" By this time Penny's mind was made up. Quietly she stole up the stairway. In the upper corridor she paused to listen for a minute. Everything was still. Penny tiptoed down the hall to Max Laponi's room. She tried the door. It was locked. "That's funny," she thought. "He must keep something inside that he's afraid to have folks see." She was more eager than before to search the room. But with the key gone it seemed out of the question. Then Penny's face lighted as she recalled the empty bedroom adjoining the one occupied by Laponi. It was possible that they might have a connecting door. Looking carefully about to make certain that she was not under observation, she moved on down the hall and tried the next door. To her delight it opened. She entered the dusty chamber, gazing quickly about. She was disappointed to see that the two bedrooms had no connecting door. However, when she walked to the window and raised it, she noted a wide ledge which ran the length of the building. "If only I dared lower myself to it I could reach Max Laponi's room, for the ledge is only a few feet below from his window!" she reasoned. Penny decided that the chance was worth taking. She naturally was athletic and had confidence that she could maintain a foothold. Lowering herself to the ledge she flattened herself to the wall of the house and moved an inch at a time toward the next window. It was a long fall to the ground. Penny did not dare glance downward. Although the distance between the two windows was not more than twelve feet it seemed an age until her hands clutched the sill. As she pried at the window a sudden fear assailed her. What if it too were locked? The window had only stuck a little. A quick jerk brought it up. By sheer strength of muscle, Penny raised herself to the level of the sill, swinging her feet through the opening. "I must work fast," she told herself, glancing appraisingly about. "I'd not care to be caught here." Her attention was drawn to Max Laponi's open suitcase which had been left carelessly on the bed. Crossing over to it she began to explore the contents systematically. "My hunch about Laponi may have been wrong," she thought uncomfortably as the search revealed nothing of interest. Just then her hand touched something hard and cold. Penny knew instantly that it was a revolver. She was not afraid of firearms for her father had taught her to shoot. Carefully she inspected the weapon. "All this heavy artillery must have been brought here for a purpose," she reflected grimly. "It's clear Laponi is out to get what he wants by one means or another." After an instant's hesitation Penny placed the revolver on the table. She had decided to take it with her when she left. "Things in this house are fast approaching a crisis," she reasoned. "Before I get through I may need that weapon myself." Save for an inner pocket in the suitcase, Penny had completed her inspection. She ran her hand into the cloth pouch and brought to light several papers. Rapidly she went through them. Suddenly she uttered a cry of delight. She had discovered the letter which Max Laponi claimed had been sent him by the same lawyer who had notified Rosanna of her newly inherited fortune. Although Laponi, upon his arrival at Raven Ridge, had flourished the document, he had permitted no one to inspect it closely. Now as Penny read the letter carefully she recalled that the wording was identical with the message which Rosanna had received. Closely she studied the salutation, holding the paper to the light. "I believe the name has been changed!" she exclaimed. "Max Laponi has cleverly removed Rosanna's name and substituted his own. This must be the letter which Rosanna lost!" It occurred to her that the man doubtlessly had found the missing key as well. She again ran her hand into the cloth pocket and triumphantly brought it forth. "He's nothing but a rank impostor!" she told herself. "I'll keep this letter as evidence against him and the key will come in handy too!" Penny hastily rearranged the suitcase as she had found it and prepared to depart. The search had well repaid her for her efforts, but it had taken longer than she had intended. However, as she crossed the room toward the window she noticed a number of small objects spread out over the dresser and could not resist pausing to inspect them. They held her interest only briefly. She turned away again but as she moved off a button on her sleeve caught in the lace work of the runner which covered the dresser top. It pulled awry and Penny paused to straighten it. As she rearranged the piece, her fingers touched a small hard object on the under side. Her curiosity aroused she turned back the runner and looked beneath it. There lay a diamond ring. "A diamond!" she exclaimed. "As big as a house too. It's evidently been hidden here by Max Laponi!" She picked it up and examined it, reflecting that somewhere she had seen a similar piece of jewelry. She was certain the diamond was not an imitation for it sparkled brightly. However, she had no opportunity to give it more than a hasty glance for she was startled to hear footsteps coming down the hall. "Max Laponi may be coming back," she thought nervously. Leaving the diamond ring where she had discovered it she hastily rearranged the dresser cover. With her newly acquired evidence, she darted to the window and lowered herself to the outside ledge. CHAPTER XV Penny's Evidence The bedroom door opened and Max Laponi entered. Penny Nichols had lowered herself to the narrow ledge not an instant too soon. There had been no time to pull the window down after her. As she heard the man walk across the room she huddled fearfully against the wall, feeling certain that he would notice the open window immediately. Her position was a precarious one. She dared not move lest even a slight sound betray her to the man inside. On the other hand, it was doubtful how long she could remain where she was without losing her footing. She knew that if she once glanced downward her courage would fail her. Penny could hear Laponi muttering to himself. "I thought I left that window down," she heard him say. "If anyone has been in here--" He crossed to the bed and ran his hand under the pillow. Penny peeped through the window just as he removed a shiny object. "Another revolver!" she gasped. "That's one I missed." The sight of the weapon seemed to reassure Laponi for he appeared relieved. He next crossed over to the bureau and searched for the diamond ring. Penny was very glad that she had not touched it. "I guess everything is the same as I left it," the man muttered to himself. "Still, I'd have sworn I left that window down." As Penny huddled flat against the wall, he moved over toward it. She held her breath, waiting. Would he look out? If he did, then all was lost. Laponi stood for some minutes at the open window, seemingly absorbed in his thoughts. Then he abruptly slammed it down and turned away. "That was a narrow escape!" Penny congratulated herself. "If I ever get out of this mess I'll take care not to get myself into another position like it!" She cautiously crept along the ledge until at last she was able to stretch out her hand and grasp the sill of the next window. After pulling herself through she quietly closed it behind her. Then she tiptoed to the bedroom door and looked out. No one was in sight. Carefully secreting the articles which she had taken from Laponi's room, she darted past his door and safely on to the bedroom which she shared with Rosanna. The latter arose as she burst in upon her. "How you startled me, Penny." She was due for another shock as Penny dropped the revolver upon the dresser. "Penny, where did you get that thing?" she demanded nervously. "Not so loud or someone may hear you," Penny warned. "It came from Laponi's room, and that's not all I found either." She drew forth the letter and the missing key. Rosanna stared incredulously. "Surely they can't be mine, Penny." "I suspect they are. Take a look at this letter and tell me if you notice anything wrong." Rosanna studied the letter briefly, then shook her head. "It reads just like the one I received." "That's the point. Notice the name at the top." "Why, it looks as if it might have been changed!" Rosanna cried. "And I think it has been. It's my opinion that Max Laponi found your letter and the missing key. He's a rank impostor." "Then you believe he is the one who has been frightening the household by playing on the pipe organ?" "I haven't made up my mind about that yet," Penny returned thoughtfully. "But one thing I'm certain about. Laponi is a dangerous man." "Let's get away from here right away." Penny laughed shortly. "I should say not! This mystery is growing more exciting every minute. I mean to discover Max Laponi's little game!" "But he may harm us," Rosanna protested. "Especially if he suspects you've searched his room." "Laponi is armed," Penny admitted with a frown. "But for that matter so are we." "You wouldn't dare to carry that revolver!" "I most certainly would. Not that I'd care to use it, but it might serve as protection." "It seems to me we should call in the police." Penny shook her head. "Not yet. But I do intend to wire my father. I'm going to ask him to learn all he can about Laponi. It may turn out that the man has a prison record." "You suspect that because you found the revolver in his room?" "Well, honest citizens don't carry weapons without permits." "You're thinking of doing it," Rosanna challenged. Penny laughed. "This is an extra special emergency. But I have another reason for believing that Laponi is a crook. I suspect he has a stolen ring in his possession." She then told of finding the diamond ring under the dresser scarf. "All diamonds look somewhat alike," she acknowledged, "but I'm sure I've seen that ring before." "Where?" "In Bresham's Department Store. I think it's the same ring that was stolen the afternoon I met you there." "Laponi does bear a slight resemblance to the shoplifter," Rosanna admitted thoughtfully. "Only the store thief was a much older man." "Disguised perhaps. Oh, I may be wrong, but at least it will do no harm to have Father look into the matter." "When he gets your wire, Penny, he'll probably be so alarmed that he'll send word for you to start back to Mt. Ashland at once." "Not Dad. He'd rather catch a crook than eat. I'm sure he'll help me." "When will you send the wire?" "Right away. I'd like to leave the house before Laponi sees me." However, as the girls stepped out into the hall a few minutes later they heard loud voices coming up from the living room. Penny instantly recognized Laponi's sharp tones and paused at the top of the stairs to peer down. "It's Max and Caleb Eckert," she reported in a whisper. "My, what a quarrel they're having!" The girls listened for a minute but the voices of the two men died to a low murmur and they could distinguish only an occasional word. "Unless you want Laponi to see you we'd better slip down the back way," Rosanna suggested. Using the rear stairs the girls were able to leave the house without being observed. They drove directly to Andover where Penny dispatched a lengthy wire to her father. She requested him to learn all he could concerning Max Laponi and if possible to send her a complete description of the diamond ring which had been stolen from the department store. "I wonder why Caleb and Max Laponi were going at each other in such dreadful fashion?" Rosanna mused as they drove back toward the Winters' mansion. Penny had been pondering over the same question. "I suppose Caleb may be suspicious of him," Rosanna went on when Penny did not answer. "Possibly. Old Caleb hasn't acted too honestly himself, Rosanna." "I know he hasn't. He doesn't like to answer questions and his interest in Mr. Winters' safe is rather puzzling. It seems to me that everyone at Raven Ridge acts queerly." "Including me?" Penny teased. Rosanna laughed and squeezed her arm affectionately. "Of course I don't mean you. You've been wonderful and I'll never never be able to repay you for all you've done." "Nonsense, so far I've accomplished exactly nothing. But I have a feeling that before another twenty-four hours elapse things are going to start breaking for us." "I hope so," Rosanna sighed. Neither Max Laponi nor Caleb Eckert were in the living room when the girls returned to the house. Alicia was reading a book by the fireplace but at sight of Penny and Rosanna she coldly withdrew. "I'm glad she's gone," Penny smiled. "It clears the atmosphere." "Must we stay here tonight?" Rosanna asked. "Couldn't we go to a hotel and come back in the morning? Since I know that Max Laponi----" She broke off as Penny shot her a warning glance. "Even the walls seem to have ears in this house, Rosanna. Come outside and we'll do our planning there." They went out into the yard and sat down on a stone bench. "I know I'm a dreadful coward," Rosanna acknowledged. "Only I'm so afraid something terrible is about to happen." "Now don't let your nerves get the best of you," Penny advised kindly. "I shouldn't have shown you that revolver I found in Laponi's room. You haven't been the same since." "It wasn't just the revolver. It's everything." Penny was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly: "I don't blame you for feeling the way you do. Perhaps we are taking a chance to remain here tonight. I shouldn't do it only I feel that it will give me an opportunity to clear up the mystery." "But if you suspect Max----" "I do suspect him of a great many things, but I'm not certain of his game yet, Rosanna. Besides, I must have absolute proof before I dare notify the police. Tonight I intend to watch the mouth of the tunnel." "I can't permit you to do it by yourself. If you insist on taking such a chance I'll go with you!" Penny remonstrated but at length it was agreed that shortly after nightfall the two would steal down to the lake's edge and lie in wait at the mouth of the tunnel for the mysterious ghost to appear. For a long time the two girls sat staring out across the lake, each absorbed with her own thoughts. What would the night bring forth? "I believe I'll walk down to Caleb Eckert's cabin and chat with him for a few minutes," Penny remarked a little later as her companion arose from the bench. "Want to come along?" "No, I think I'll go inside. The air is growing chilly and my sweater is upstairs." "I'll be glad to wait for you." "If you don't mind, I believe I'll just rest. You go on alone." "You really don't mind?" "Of course not. But I doubt if you'll find Caleb at home. He usually goes fishing about this time of day." "Well, I may as well see anyhow. I want to ask him about that picture of Jacob Winters. I intend to keep annoying him until he gives me a satisfactory answer." As Rosanna returned to the house, Penny walked swiftly in the direction of the cabin. "I'm only wasting my time," she thought. "Caleb has no intention of ever producing that photograph." Penny rapped on the door, noticing that it was partly ajar. There was no response. She knocked a second time. Far out on the lake she could see a small rowboat with one lone fisherman. No doubt it was Caleb, she decided. She started away from the cabin, then abruptly halted as she was struck with a sudden thought. With Caleb out on the lake she would have an excellent opportunity to search his shack for the photograph of Jacob Winters. She felt convinced she would find it there. "Entering people's private quarters seems to be a bad habit of mine," she chuckled. "Still, it's all in a good cause." Penny surveyed the lake again. The rowboat was nearly out of sight. After a moment of indecision, she pushed open the cabin door and entered. Caleb had left everything in a clutter and she scarcely knew where to begin her search. She looked in the desk and in several table drawers. She searched in the magazine rack and even in the kitchen cupboard. She was growing discouraged when she finally opened a closet and peered up at the high shelves. Far above her head was a stack of old papers. Although Penny had given up hope of finding the picture, she brought a chair and climbing up on it, took down the papers. As she lifted the stack, an object which had been lying on the shelf was brushed to the floor. She bent down to pick it up. To her amazement and delight it was a photograph. She stared in disbelief at the man's face and then turned the photo over to read what had been written on the back. "_Jacob Winters._" "And Caleb told me he didn't know where he could get a photograph!" Penny thought indignantly. "All the time he had this one hidden here on the shelf. Why, I'm positive this picture came out of the album Rosanna and I found. Very likely Caleb tore it out himself!" Hastily replacing the papers on the shelf, Penny tucked the photograph into her pocket and prepared to leave the cabin. She was highly elated over her discovery. "This will prove quite a valuable addition to my collection of evidence," she chuckled. "No wonder Caleb was afraid to have me see it." CHAPTER XVI Mrs. Leeds' Strategy Penny was highly jubilant as she walked rapidly toward the house on the hill. The day had been an unusually successful one for her and with the photograph of Jacob Winters in her possession she felt that it would only be a matter of time until the mystery was solved. "But I must act quickly or it may be too late," she thought. Drawing near the house she saw Rosanna hurrying to meet her. Penny quickened her step as she observed that the girl appeared greatly agitated. "Oh, Penny," Rosanna gasped, "Mrs. Leeds has locked me out of the house!" "What?" "When I tried to get in after leaving you a few minutes ago she met me at the front door. She said I couldn't come in because the house and everything surrounding it belongs to her now." Penny laughed shortly. "She's been saying that ever since she came here." "I know, but this is different, Penny. She has the will to prove it." "The will?" "Yes, she showed it to me. And it's true. My uncle left all his property to her." "And where did she claim to have found this document?" Penny asked. "Why, somewhere in the house. I was so upset I didn't think to inquire. Now that I know Uncle Jacob left everything to her, I shall leave at once." Penny caught Rosanna by the arm. "Don't be in too much of a hurry to get away," she advised. "It may be that Mrs. Leeds' claims are false." "But I saw the will for myself." "Perhaps it was forged." "I never thought of that," Rosanna gasped. "Do you think she would resort to such a trick?" "I believe she'd do almost anything to gain a fortune." Penny had been thinking swiftly. She recalled the secretive actions of Mrs. Leeds and Max Laponi when they were closeted together in the library. They had been engrossed in writing a document of some sort. Doubtless it was the will which Mrs. Leeds now claimed to have found. Penny's face puckered into a worried frown. Mrs. Leeds' unexpected action might complicate the entire situation and ruin her own plans. She feared too that the woman actually had destroyed Jacob Winters' true will. "She was burning it in the fireplace that day when I came upon her," Penny thought. "That's why she feels so safe about forging another one in her own favor." "What were you saying?" Rosanna inquired. Penny had not realized that she was speaking aloud. "Only thinking," she responded. "We'll go in and talk with Mrs. Leeds." "But we can't get in for she has locked all the doors. Our luggage is sitting out on the porch." "Very considerate of her I must say," Penny grinned. "But we can get in all right." She produced the key which she had found in Max Laponi's room. "Weren't you smart to keep it!" Rosanna cried. "That remains to be seen. But come on, let's beard Mrs. Leeds in her den." Penny boldly walked up to the front door. It was locked as Rosanna had said, so inserting her key she opened it. As the girls entered, they heard Alicia calling shrilly to her mother and an instant later Mrs. Leeds came storming into the hall. "What is the meaning of this outrage?" she demanded furiously. "That is what we should like to know," Penny retorted. "Why did you lock us out?" "Because this is my house. Jacob Winters left everything to me and I have the will to prove it." "May I ask where you found it?" Penny inquired. The question confused Mrs. Leeds. She began to stammer. "Why, I--that is, it's none of your affair, Miss Nichols!" "I disagree with you there. I am interested in seeing Rosanna treated fairly. May I examine the will?" Mrs. Leeds hesitated and the girls thought that she would refuse the request. However, the woman said: "I will permit you to read it if you promise not to destroy it." "Destroying wills isn't in my line," Penny returned pointedly. Mrs. Leeds tossed her head angrily. An expression of bitter hatred which she made no attempt to hide, came into her eyes. She went to the living room desk and from a pigeon hole removed a document which she offered Penny. "There, read it for yourself." Penny inspected the will briefly. Since neither she nor Rosanna had ever seen Jacob Winters' handwriting it was impossible to tell if the document had been forged. To Rosanna's astonishment, she suddenly seemed to experience a change of attitude regarding Mrs. Leeds' claim to the property. "I may have made a mistake," Penny acknowledged. "This paper seems to give everything to you, Mrs. Leeds." "I am glad you are coming to your senses at last, Miss Nichols." "I suppose Rosanna and I may as well take our things and leave," she went on. "Your luggage is ready," the woman said with satisfaction. "Alicia and I packed for you." "Very thoughtful," Penny murmured ironically. "However, I think I'll just run upstairs and see if anything was missed." "Why, yes, you may do that if you like." Now that she was assured of victory, Mrs. Leeds felt that she could afford to make slight concessions. No sooner had the bedroom door closed behind the two girls than Rosanna faced Penny with a puzzled look. "Did you really think the will was genuine, Penny?" "No, of course not, but I decided that probably we could gain our ends best by appearing to give in to Mrs. Leeds." As she spoke, Penny ran her hand under the pillow of the bed and brought forth the revolver which she had taken from Max Laponi's room. "Penny, what do you intend to do with that weapon?" Rosanna demanded anxiously. "Don't worry, I'm not planning on committing any murders. But it may come in handy tonight." "You just told Mrs. Leeds that we would leave the house immediately," Rosanna reminded her in bewilderment. "I know, but that doesn't mean we'll leave the grounds. We'll appear to go away, but after dark we'll sneak back to the entrance of the tunnel." "To watch for the ghost?" "Yes, that's my plan. You'll not be afraid to go with me, will you?" "No," Rosanna returned quietly. "Only I can't see what good it will do now. Mrs. Leeds definitely has the property and anything we learn about the ghost can't alter the situation." "I'm not so sure of that," Penny smiled. She was so jubilant as they prepared to take their luggage and leave the house that Mrs. Leeds regarded her slightly with suspicion. However, the woman was reassured to see the girls drive away in their car. Rosanna and Penny dined early at Andover but the former ate little. Although she made every effort to carry on a cheerful conversation it was obvious to her companion that she was completely discouraged. "Cheer up," Penny advised optimistically. "I tell you everything will come out right yet. Even if my own plan fails, there are still lawyers to be hired. Mrs. Leeds can't take over the property legally until the court approves." "She'll have things fixed up her way," Rosanna maintained gloomily. "I'll have no money to hire a lawyer. I must try to find myself a job." "Father will help you get one if you need it." "I've accepted so many favors from you already," Rosanna protested. "You have not!" Penny cut in. "This trip to Raven Ridge has been sheer fun for me. And unless I'm mistaken tonight will prove the most exciting of all." "I'm afraid so," Rosanna shuddered. She glanced curiously at her companion. She could not understand Penny's eagerness to return to the mouth of the tunnel. In her own opinion the mysterious ghost was none other than Max Laponi and she had no desire to encounter him again. "Do you still want to go through with the plan?" she inquired doubtfully. "I certainly do. I'd never feel satisfied if I left Raven Ridge without solving the mystery. It's about time we start for the tunnel too." They left the restaurant, returning to Penny's car which had been parked outside. "Probably our friend the ghost won't put in an appearance much before midnight," Penny remarked as they drove slowly toward Raven Ridge, "but it will be wise I think to allow ourselves plenty of time to find a good hiding place." It had grown dark and the girls were pleased to note that heavy clouds would hide the moon and stars. Some distance from the Winters' house they parked in a dense thicket near the road. Before alighting, Penny removed a small package from the side pocket of the car. "What's that?" Rosanna asked curiously. "Dynamite," Penny chuckled. "Dynamite!" "In the form of evidence. Unless I'm mistaken, this little package will produce some startling results!" "You're talking in absolute riddles." "Just be patient and you'll soon know what I mean," Penny declared teasingly. "I'd tell you now only it would ruin the surprise." She locked the automobile and afoot they quietly stole down a steep winding trail which led to the entrance of the old mine. CHAPTER XVII The Man in the Boat Penny and Rosanna approached the mine entrance cautiously, fearing that someone in the vicinity might observe their movements. However, the place seemed deserted. "The rowboat is gone," Penny commented as she pulled aside a clump of bushes to survey the spot where it had been hidden. "Why, it is! Perhaps the ghost has come and left." "I certainly hope not. That would ruin everything. Anyway, we'll wait and see. It's early yet." After investigating the shore line thoroughly, they found an excellent hiding place in a dense thicket not far from the entrance to the mine. Then they settled themselves to wait. "What time is it?" Rosanna yawned. "Only a little after nine. We'll have a long siege of it." The night was cold and damp. Although both girls had worn sweaters they soon grew uncomfortable and huddled close together for warmth. Rosanna tried not to show her nervousness but even the screech of an owl startled her. She was aware of every sound and any unusual movement caused her to grow tense. "You'll be a wreck long before midnight," Penny declared. "We're armed and there's nothing to fear." Rosanna made a supreme effort to relax but it was not until several hours had elapsed that she began to grow accustomed to her surroundings. Penny, on the other hand, found it difficult to remain awake. At first she riveted her attention upon the lake but as there was no evidence of a boat, soon lost interest. For a time she watched the twinkling lights at Raven Ridge but one by one they disappeared until the old mansion on the hill was cloaked in darkness. "Now that the household has gone to bed our ghost should be starting in on his night's work," she remarked hopefully to Rosanna. Another half hour dragged by. Still no one came. Even Rosanna found it increasingly difficult to fight off drowsiness. "I don't believe the ghost is coming tonight," she declared. "It begins to look that way. But perhaps it's still too early. Surely it can't be any more than midnight." "It seems later than that," Rosanna sighed. "My back is nearly broken." A few minutes later, from far over the hills, the girls heard the faint chiming of a town clock. They counted twelve strokes. Minutes passed and still there was no sign of any visitor. At length, Penny arose to stretch her cramped limbs. "I thought I heard something just then!" Rosanna whispered tensely. Penny stood listening. "You're right. I can hear oars dipping in and out of the water. It must be a boat coming this way." Peering out through the bushes, the girls surveyed the lake. It was too dark to distinguish objects but they distinctly could hear the rhythmical splash made by the moving oars. "See anything?" Penny demanded. "Not yet--oh, yes, now I do. It is a boat, Penny." "And it's heading right for this spot! Let's creep a little closer to the opening of the tunnel." Stealthily they changed positions but remained well hidden by a screen of bushes. The boat by this time had drawn into the tiny cove. However, the night was so dark that neither of the girls was able to distinguish the features of the man who crouched in the stern. He beached the boat and carefully drew it up into the bushes. Next he lighted a lantern, but his back was toward the girls and they did not see his face. "Who can it be?" Rosanna whispered. Penny gripped her companion's hand as a warning to remain silent. The man with the lantern looked quickly about and then moved swiftly into the mouth of the tunnel. "We must follow him," Penny urged. They waited a minute, then noiselessly stole from their hiding place. As they peered into the dark mine tunnel they could see a moving light far ahead. Fearing that they might lose sight of the man, the girls hastened their steps. They did not walk as quietly as they imagined, for soon the man ahead paused. With one accord Penny and Rosanna froze against the tunnel wall. As the man turned to look back, the light from the lantern shone full upon his face. It was Caleb Eckert. Rosanna and Penny remained flat against the wall scarcely daring to breathe. Would they be seen? Apparently satisfied that no one was behind him in the tunnel, Caleb turned and walked slowly on. "That was a narrow escape," Penny whispered. "He nearly saw us." Rosanna was a trifle shaken. She had not expected to see Caleb Eckert. "I suspected it several days ago but I wasn't absolutely certain," Penny told her. "But what purpose can he have in playing such pranks?" Rosanna asked in bewilderment. "Caleb seemed rather nice even if he was gruff and outspoken. I never dreamed he'd resort to anything like this." "Don't take it so hard," Penny advised. "He may have a reason for what he is doing." The light had disappeared. The girls hurriedly moved on, fearing that they might lose sight of the old man entirely. With nothing to guide them it was difficult to find their way. "It's lucky we explored in the daytime or we'd have trouble following," Rosanna declared. "The ground is so rough." Even as she spoke she stubbed her toe on a rock and would have fallen had not Penny caught her by the arm. They came presently to the first flight of stairs and were relieved to glimpse the lantern far above them. Taking care to keep out of range of the beam, they followed through the narrower passage to the second flight of steps. By this time the girls were positive that Caleb intended to enter the house by means of the secret panel. At the risk of detection they drew a little closer. Caleb paused at the head of the stairs to listen for a moment. Then he blew out his lantern. Sensing that the old man would unlock the panel, Penny stole forward. She was just in time to see a section of the wall drop down. Caleb passed through the opening and with a click the panel closed behind him. "Now what shall we do?" Rosanna demanded. "We're locked in here the same as we were before." "I think I saw the place where he pressed the wall," Penny whispered. "I was watching closely." For several minutes she groped about in the dark. At last her fingers touched a small knob. "I believe I've found it," she proclaimed triumphantly. As she was on the verge of turning the knob, she stayed her hand. With Caleb in the organ room he would be certain to see the panel open. There was danger too that he might return at any instant to find them crouching at the head of the stairs. "Shouldn't we turn back?" Rosanna whispered nervously. "Let's wait until he begins to play the organ." They listened expectantly. Minutes passed but not a strain of music did they hear. "That's queer," Penny murmured. "I'm sure Caleb is the one who has been disturbing the household with his ghost music. Why doesn't he play as he's always done before?" They both knew that the wall was not soundproof. For that matter they could hear old Caleb walking about in the room. "He must be up to new tricks tonight," Penny whispered. "He'll be coming back here any minute. Let's get away before he catches us." Penny was reluctant to leave, for it struck her that Caleb Eckert had come to the Winters' house for a different purpose than that of his usual nightly visit. She was curious to learn what it was. "Listen!" she warned, as they heard a strange noise from within. "It sounded like a door closing," Rosanna declared. "That's exactly what I think it was. Caleb must have gone out of the room. We'll be safe in entering now." To make certain she listened for a few minutes but there was no sound of movement from within. Convinced that the coast was clear, she groped about for the knob which opened the panel. It turned in her hand. She heard a sharp metallic click, and almost before she was prepared for it, the panel swung open. It closed again before either of the girls could recover from their surprise. However, Penny turned the knob a second time and as the section of wall swung back, both girls stepped through into the room. As they had expected, it was deserted. "Where do you suppose he went?" Rosanna murmured. They tiptoed to the outside door and softly opened it. The hall was dark. At first they could distinguish nothing. Then Penny noticed that the door opening upon the second floor corridor was ajar. "He went downstairs," she whispered. "Let's find out what he's up to." The stairs creaked alarmingly as they crept down to the second floor. On the landing they hesitated an instant and were relieved to hear no unusual sound. They peered into the long corridor and saw that it was empty. Caleb was nowhere to be seen. "Perhaps he brought another bat for Mrs. Leeds' room," Rosanna suggested, glancing toward the chamber which the woman shared with her daughter. The door, however, was tightly closed. The one at the other end of the hall which opened into Max Laponi's room was slightly ajar. Rosanna and Penny failed to notice. Somewhere on the lower floor a board creaked. The two girls moved noiselessly to the stairway and looked down over the banister. Even Penny was unprepared for the sight which greeted her eyes. Caleb Eckert was working at the dials of the living room safe! CHAPTER XVIII A Daring Theft Old Caleb had relighted his lantern and in its dim yellow glow the girls could make out every detail of the center hall and living room. In astonishment they watched the man spin the tiny dials of the safe. He manipulated them with a speed and skill which was amazing. "Why, I do believe the scoundrel intends to steal Mr. Winters' valuables," Rosanna whispered with growing anger. "We can't let him do that." With one accord they tiptoed down the long spiral stairway to the center hall. For a minute they were exposed to view but Caleb was so absorbed in what he was doing that he did not even glance up. Hiding behind a heavy velvet curtain which partially screened the arched door of the living room, the girls watched. Twice Caleb tried without success to open the safe. Although his movements were deft and sure it was obvious that he had made some slight mistake in the combination. Each time he failed he grew more impatient. They could see his hand shake. "Drat it all!" they heard him mutter to himself. "That's the right combination. It ought to open." At length the old man's efforts were rewarded. As he manipulated the dials for the third time there was a significant click from within the safe. Chuckling to himself, Caleb turned the handle and swung open the steel door. Save for a long metal box, the safe was empty. In the act of reaching for the container, Caleb suddenly wheeled. The girls were startled at the action for they had heard nothing. After looking searchingly about the room the old man apparently was satisfied that he was alone. With an uneasy laugh he again turned his attention to the safe. "Guess I'm getting a mite jittery," he muttered. "I was positive I heard someone behind me just then." He thrust his hand into the safe and drew out the box. With fumbling fingers he unfastened the lid. A smile illuminated his wrinkled face as he regarded the contents. "Still here, safe and sound. I was a little afraid----" Without finishing, he lifted an object from the box and held it in the light. It was a tiny figure made of purest ivory. Penny and Rosanna exchanged a swift glance. They knew now that the box contained Jacob Winters' priceless collection of ivory pieces! After staring at the little figure for a minute Caleb carefully replaced it and closed the box. He then locked the safe and returned the oil painting to its former position on the wall. "Stop him now or it will be too late," Rosanna whispered tensely. Before Penny could act, there was a slight movement at the opposite end of the living room. The girls were horrified to see a closet door slowly open. Caleb's back was turned. Oblivious of danger he bent down to pick up his lantern. From within the closet a man was regarding Caleb with cold intensity. He held a revolver in his hand. Rosanna, terrified at the sight, would have cried out a warning, had not Penny suddenly placed her hand over the girl's mouth. Max Laponi, a cynical, cruel smile upon his angular face, stepped out into the living room, his revolver trained upon Caleb. "Much obliged to you for opening the safe, Mr. Eckert," he said coolly. "You saved me the trouble." Caleb wheeled and instinctively thrust the metal box behind his back. The gesture amused Laponi. He laughed harshly. "I guess you weren't quite as clever as you thought you were, Caleb! Hand over the ivories and be quick about it." "You're nothing but a crook!" the old man cried furiously. "Hand over the ivories if you value your life." Instead of obeying the order, Caleb slowly retreated toward the door. Max Laponi's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I don't want to shoot an old man but if you force me----" "Don't shoot," Caleb quavered. "I'll give up the ivory." "Good. Now you're acting sensibly. Drop the box on the table and raise your hands above your head." Slowly, Caleb complied with the order. Laponi moved with cat-like tread across the floor and snatched up the box. With his revolver still trained on the old man, he backed toward the door. "Thank you for a very profitable evening," he smirked. "And when you locate your friend Mr. Winters----" His words ended in a surprised gasp. Something had struck his right hand a stunning blow. The weapon fell from his bruised fingers, clattering to the floor. He felt a cold, hard object in the small of his back. "It's your turn now," said Penny Nichols. "I'll trouble you to hand over the little box!" CHAPTER XIX The Tables Turn Max Laponi whirled about and looked directly into the muzzle of Penny's revolver. "Drop that box and put up your hands," she ordered crisply. Laponi gazed at her jeeringly. "The gun isn't loaded," he sneered. "You should know," Penny retorted. "It's your own revolver. I took it from your room." The expression of the crook's face altered for he well remembered that the weapon had been left in readiness for instant use. While keeping Laponi covered, Penny kicked the other revolver across the floor in Caleb Eckert's direction. The old man hastily snatched it up. Laponi knew then that he did not have a chance. With a shrug of his shoulders he admitted defeat. He dropped the metal box on the table. Rosanna darted forward and snatched it up. "I might have known you'd be the one to ruin things," Laponi said bitterly to Penny. "I was afraid of you from the first." "Thank you for the compliment," Penny smiled. "Kindly keep your hands up, Mr. Laponi--if that's your true name." "He's nothing but an impostor," Caleb Eckert broke in angrily. "I knew from the moment I set eyes on him that he was no relative of Jacob Winters." "I can imagine that," Penny returned quietly. "But when explanations are in order, I think you'll need to clear up a few points yourself." The old man looked confused. However, before he could answer, footsteps were heard on the stairs. Mrs. Leeds, wrapped in her bath-robe, came hurrying into the room. She had been disturbed by the sound of voices. "Penny Nichols!" she cried furiously. "What are you doing in my house?" Then she noticed the revolver and recoiled a step. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "Mr. Laponi, has this girl lost her senses?" "Apparently, she has," the man sneered. "She claims I came here to steal that box while I was only trying to keep Caleb from making off with it." "Release Mr. Laponi at once," Mrs. Leeds ordered haughtily. She glared at Caleb. "I always did distrust that man." "Our dislike was mutual," Caleb retorted. "You are a grasping, selfish woman and your daughter is a chip of the old block!" "How dare you!" Mrs. Leeds choked in fury. "Get out of this house, you meddlesome old man, or I'll have you arrested!" Penny was actually enjoying the scene but now she decided to put an end to it. "This little farce has gone far enough," she announced, turning to Caleb. "Tell them who you are, Mr. Eckert." The old man nodded. Eyeing Mrs. Leeds with keen satisfaction, he exploded his bomb shell. "I am Jacob Winters!" Mrs. Leeds gasped in astonishment and even Max Laponi looked dazed. Of the entire group only Rosanna appeared pleased. Yet she too recalled that at times she had spoken with embarrassing frankness to the old man. "I don't believe it!" Mrs. Leeds snapped when she had recovered from the first shock. "It's another one of your trumped up stories." "He has no proof," Max Laponi added. "If he hasn't, I have," Penny interposed. She took the small package from her dress pocket, giving it to Rosanna to unwrap for her. "Why, it's a photograph!" the girl exclaimed. "It's of you, Mr. Eckert, taken many years ago." "Look on the back," Penny directed. Rosanna turned the picture over and read the bold scrawl: "Jacob Winters--on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday." "That's all the proof I need," Rosanna cried, her eyes shining. "You are my uncle, aren't you, Mr. Eckert? This isn't another of your jokes?" "No, it isn't a joke this time, Rosanna, although for a time it looked as if the joke would be on me. And if it hadn't been for Penny Nichols this scoundrel certainly would have made off with my ivory collection." "I didn't mean to pry into your private affairs," Penny apologized. "I shouldn't have taken the photograph only I suspected the truth and needed proof of it." "It's just as well that you did take matters into your own hands. I guess I botched things up." The little package of evidence which Penny had produced contained not only the photograph but the letter and key which she had found in Max Laponi's room. Penny now directed attention to the signature appearing at the bottom of the letter. "Compare it with the writing on the back of the photograph." "They're identical," Rosanna declared. "Then Caleb Eckert wrote those letters himself!" Mrs. Leeds cried furiously. "Guilty," Caleb acknowledged with a grin. "You ought to be arrested!" Mrs. Leeds fairly screamed. "It was a cruel joke to play. You led us all to believe that we had inherited a fortune." "Tell me, why did you write the letters?" Penny inquired. "That's one thing I've not been able to figure out although I think I might make an excellent guess." Caleb sank down in the nearest chair. "I may as well tell the entire story," he said. "Since my wife died some years ago I have been a very lonely man. I longed for an agreeable companion in my old age, someone who would enjoy traveling with me. My friends were few for I had spent most of my time abroad. My only living relatives were unknown to me. I felt ashamed because I had never looked them up." "So you decided to become better acquainted," Penny prompted as Caleb hesitated. "Yes, but I wanted to be liked for myself and not my fortune. I conceived the plan of sending out letters inviting my relatives here. I thought I would subject them to a series of tests and all the while I could be studying their characters." "An insane plan!" Mrs. Leeds interposed. "The idea didn't work the way I expected," Caleb continued ruefully. "I sent out four letters but two of them were returned unopened as the individuals to whom they were addressed were no longer living. However, as you know, three persons came to Raven Ridge claiming to have received one of the communications." "Max Laponi must have found the letter and key which Rosanna lost," Penny declared. "He was the impostor." "You have it all figured out very nicely," the crook sneered. "I suspected right off that he was the one," Caleb went on with his story. "I knew I had no relative answering to his name." "Why didn't you send him away at once?" Rosanna questioned. "I couldn't very well do that without exposing my hand. If I admitted my identity then my little plan would be ruined." "You were caught in an awkward position," Penny smiled. "It kept getting worse all the time. I soon suspected that Laponi was nothing less than a crook. When I discovered that he knew the ivory collection was in the house I decided to remove it from the safe." "That was the day I came upon you when you were trying to open it," Penny recalled. "Yes, but Laponi was prowling about the house and it was my bad luck that he happened in upon me at exactly the wrong time. Of course he guessed instantly that the ivories were locked in the safe. "After that, I decided to get rid of him at any cost. I had a talk with him but even threats did no good." "Why didn't you call in the police?" Penny asked. "Surely they would have provided you with protection." "I thought I would make one more effort to get the ivories from the safe. Then if I failed I intended to admit my identity and send for help. I might have done it sooner only the police commissioner and I once had a little trouble--nothing serious. It was an argument over a tract of land. Still, I knew he'd enjoy making me look ridiculous if ever he learned what I had done." "Your pride very nearly cost you a fortune," Penny commented. She directed her gaze upon Max Laponi as she questioned: "How did you learn that Mr. Winters kept the ivory collection in this house?" "That's for you to find out," the man jeered. "You'll have a hard time proving anything against me." "This letter will be evidence enough," Penny retorted. "It's a plain case of forgery with intent to defraud. And then there's the matter of the will." "The will wasn't forged," Mrs. Leeds cut in although Penny had not made such a claim. "There never was a will," Caleb informed. Mrs. Leeds stared at him. "What of the document I found in the drawer of the desk?" she demanded. "You mean the one you discovered in the _locked_ drawer," Caleb corrected with a chuckle. "The one that was made out in Rosanna's favor. That was just another of my little jokes. If you had examined the will closely you would have noticed that the signature was never witnessed. It was a fake." "That was the document which I saw you burn in the fireplace," Penny accused. Mrs. Leeds flushed angrily. She realized that she had trapped herself. "By the way, how do you explain the will made out in your favor?" Penny probed maliciously. Mrs. Leeds turned her gaze upon Laponi for an instant. Then she said glibly: "I found the will just as I said." "You didn't find one made out in your favor," Caleb contradicted. "Because I never wrote such a document." "Let's take a look at it," Penny suggested. "Where is the will, Mrs. Leeds?" "I don't know what became of it. I misplaced it." "You're afraid to produce it," Penny challenged. Rosanna had been looking through the desk. She now triumphantly brought to light the paper which Mrs. Leeds had claimed to be Jacob Winters' last will and testament. "I never wrote a line of it," Caleb declared as he examined the document. "It's a forgery." "Forgery is a serious offense, Mrs. Leeds," Penny remarked significantly. "I didn't do it!" the woman cried nervously. "I expect we'll have to send you to jail along with Laponi here," Caleb cackled. Mrs. Leeds did not realize that he was only baiting her. She began to tremble with fright. "Don't send me to jail," she pleaded. "I'll tell everything." "Hold your tongue," Laponi cut in sharply. Mrs. Leeds whirled upon him. "You say that because you want me to take all the blame! Well, I won't do it. You forged that will yourself." "At your suggestion, Mrs. Leeds." "It wasn't my suggestion. I'd never have considered such a thing if you hadn't put the idea into my head." "You burned the first will which you believed to be genuine." "Perhaps I did. But I never forged anything in my life." "That was because you were afraid you'd be caught," Laponi sneered. "You wanted someone else to take the rap for you." "You tricked me," Mrs. Leeds accused. "If I had known you intended to rob Mr. Winters of his ivories I should have had nothing to do with you." "I suppose you thought it wasn't robbery when you decided to cheat Rosanna Winters out of her inheritance?" "She had no inheritance." "But you thought she did. No, Mrs. Leeds you paid me well to forge the will in your favor. You're involved every bit as deeply as I." Mrs. Leeds collapsed into a chair and burying her face in her hands began to sob. Penny felt a little sorry for her, realizing that at heart the woman was not a criminal. She had been goaded on by an overpowering ambition to improve her social position by gaining Jacob Winters' fortune. "We may as well call the police," Penny said after a slight hesitation. She had noticed that Laponi was casting cunning glances about the room and guessed that he was hoping for an opportunity to escape. Mrs. Leeds sprang to her feet. She darted over to Jacob Winters, grasping him by the arm. "Oh, please, please don't have me arrested. I didn't mean to do wrong. For the sake of my daughter let me go free. After all, we are relatives." "Unfortunately, we are," he agreed. Turning to Rosanna, he said quietly: "It is for you to decide, my dear." "Let her go free," Rosanna urged instantly. "I think that is best," he nodded. "But as far as Max Laponi is concerned we can't get him to the lock-up soon enough to please me." "If you'll guard him I'll telephone for the police," Penny offered. Leaving the old man with both revolvers she went into an adjoining room to place the call. No sooner had she disappeared than Max Laponi saw his opportunity to escape. For an instant Jacob Winters' attention wavered. That instant was enough for Laponi. Seizing the metal box which Rosanna had replaced upon the table, he darted out through the doorway. CHAPTER XX A Break for Freedom Max Laponi bolted across the center hall, flinging open the outside door. He looked directly into the face of Christopher Nichols. "Hello, what's the big hurry?" the detective demanded, grasping him firmly by the arm. Laponi tried to jerk free but he was no match for the detective. By this time Penny and the others had come streaming into the hall. "Don't let him get away!" Penny cried. As the crook struggled to escape, Mr. Nichols slipped a pair of handcuffs over the man's wrists. Recovering the metal box he handed it to his daughter. "Dad, how did you get here?" she asked eagerly. The detective did not hear for he was regarding Laponi with keen interest. "Well, well, if it isn't my old friend Leo Corley. Or possibly you have a new alias by this time." "He calls himself Max Laponi," Penny informed. "Is he a known criminal?" "Very well known, Penny. He's wanted in three states for forgery, blackmail and robbery. His latest escapade was to steal a diamond ring from the Bresham Department Store." "Then you did get my wire?" Penny cried. "Yes, that's what brought me here. After I received it I got busy right off and with the information you furnished it was easy to look up this man's record. The police have been after him for months." "You didn't waste any time coming here," Penny smiled. "I was afraid you girls might be in more danger than you realized. Max here isn't such a nice companion. By the way what's in the box?" Penny opened it to reveal Mr. Winters' fine collection of ivory. The detective whistled in awe. "That would have been a nice haul, Max," he said. "Too bad we had to spoil your little game." "If it hadn't been for that kid of yours I'd have gotten away with it," the crook growled. "I was dumb not to suspect she was the daughter of a detective." "You may as well cough up the diamond ring," Mr. Nichols advised. "It will save an unpleasant search." With a shrug of his shoulders, Laponi took the gem from an inner pocket and gave it to the detective. "When do we start for the station?" he asked. "We may as well get going." "I've already called the police," Penny told her father. "Then we won't have long to wait." He shoved Laponi toward a chair. "May as well make yourself comfortable until the wagon gets here." "Your kindness overwhelms me," the crook returned with exaggerated politeness. "How did you get wind that Mr. Winters' ivories were kept in the house?" the detective inquired curiously. Although the crook had refused to answer the same questions a few minutes before, he was now willing to talk, knowing that his last chance for escape had been cut off. "I read an item in the paper some months ago," he confessed. "It was a little news story to the effect that Jacob Winters had recently purchased several new pieces for his collection and that he intended to build special exhibit cases in his house as a means of displaying them. I clipped the item and forgot about it. "Then one day I chanced to pick up a letter which someone had dropped. It contained a key to this house. I decided it was too good an opportunity to miss. Posing as Jacob Winters' nephew I came here to look over the situation." "I never had a nephew," Mr. Winters declared. "That was the first mistake I made. The second was in underestimating the ability of Penny Nichols. I thought she was only a school girl." Penny smiled broadly as she inquired: "Didn't you enter into an agreement with Mrs. Leeds to defraud Rosanna?" "I forged the will for her if that's what you mean. I wasn't interested in getting any of the money myself." "That was because you knew it couldn't be done," the detective interposed. "You considered the ivory collection more profitable." "Of course you forged the letter stating that Jacob Winters had been buried at sea," Penny mentioned. With a nod of his head, the man acknowledged the charge. It was Christopher Nichols' turn to ask a question. Penny's letters had mentioned the mysterious mansion ghost and he was deeply interested in the subject. "I suppose you were the ghost, Max?" Jacob Winters answered for him. "I was the ghost. It was part of my joke to frighten the occupants of this house. Not a very good joke, I'll admit." "And you were the one who put bats in my room," Mrs. Leeds accused. "Yes, and a garter snake in your bed which you never found." "Oh!" "Of course, Mr. Eckert, your ghostly pranks included playing the organ," Penny smiled. "I suspected it when I learned Jacob Winters had been a talented musician." "I built the pipe organ into the house before my wife died," Mr. Winters explained. "I haven't used it a great deal in recent years." "You haven't told us about the tunnel," Rosanna reminded him. "How did you happen to construct it?" "I didn't. The lower branch of the passage was an old mine tunnel. The mine closed down forty years or so ago. The upper passage which connects with the house was built by my grandfather. This house, you know, has been in the Winters' family for generations. And I hope, upon my death, that it will pass on to another by the same name." He looked significantly at Rosanna as he spoke. Before the conversation could be continued, the police car drove up to the door. Max Laponi was loaded in and taken away. Mr. Nichols went with the police, promising to return to the Winters' house as soon as he could. After the commotion had subsided, Jacob Winters turned severely to Mrs. Leeds. "As for you, madam, kindly pack your things and leave this house at once. I never want to see you again." "But it isn't even daylight yet. Alicia, poor child, is sleeping----" "Wake her up. I'll give you just an hour to get out of the house." "You're a hard, cruel, old man!" Mrs. Leeds cried bitterly, but she hurried up the stairs to obey his command. After the woman had disappeared, Rosanna picked up her sweater which she had dropped on a chair. She turned toward the door. "Hold on there," Jacob called. "Where are you going?" "I was just leaving. You told Mrs. Leeds----" "Well, you're not Mrs. Leeds, are you?" the old man snapped. "If you're willing, I want you to stay here." "You mean--indefinitely?" "Yes, if you think you could stand to live with me. I'm cross and I like things done my own way, but if you could put up with me----" "If I could put up with you!" Rosanna ran to him and flung her arms about him. "Why, I think you're a darling! I was afraid to tell you so for fear you'd believe I was after your money." "Money! Fiddlesticks!" Jacob sniffed. He wiped a tear from his eye. "I'm going to try to make up to you for all that you've missed." The two had a great deal to say to each other, but presently they remembered Penny. She had been watching the little scene with eager delight. "I'll never be able to thank you," Rosanna declared happily. "You're responsible for everything, Penny." "I wish you'd permit me to reward you in a substantial way," Mr. Winters added. Penny smilingly shook her head. "It was fun coming here to Raven Ridge. But it would ruin everything if I accepted pay for it." "At least you'll stay a few days longer," Mr. Winters urged. "If Father will agree to it." When Mr. Nichols returned from police headquarters another pleasant surprise was in store for Penny. "It looks as if you've won the reward which the Bresham Store offered for the capture of Laponi," he told her. "Five hundred dollars." "Don't turn it down," Rosanna urged. "I won't," Penny laughed. "In fact, I know just how I'll use that money when I get it." "How?" her father inquired. "I'll buy myself a new car." "I thought perhaps you'd use it to go into business in competition with me," he teased. "Some day I'll solve a mystery which will be so big and important that you'll not be able to twit me about it," Penny announced. "I wasn't really teasing, my dear. I think you did a fine bit of work this time and I'm proud of you." "Honestly?" "Honestly," Mr. Nichols repeated, smiling broadly. "And I predict that you're only starting on this career of crime detection which you find so very thrilling." "I wish I could be sure of that," Penny sighed. With all her heart she longed for another adventure as exciting as the one she had experienced. Although she had no way of knowing what the future held, she was destined soon to have her wish gratified. In the third volume of the Penny Nichols' series, entitled, "The Secret of the Black Imp," she encounters a mystery more baffling than any she has previously solved. After Mrs. Leeds and her daughter left the house, the others took Mr. Nichols for a tour of the secret passageway. Jacob Winters explained in detail how the panel operated and entertained them by playing several selections on the pipe organ. "I love music," Rosanna remarked wistfully. "I've never even had an opportunity to learn to play the piano." "You'll have it now," he assured her. Mr. Nichols remained during the day but late in the afternoon he was forced to start for home as his work had been neglected. He was very willing, however, that Penny should remain as long as she wished at the old mansion. The days were all too short for the two girls who enjoyed rambling through the woods, rowing and swimming in the lake, and exploring every nook and cranny of the interesting old house. But at length the time came when Penny too was obliged to depart. "Come back and see us often, won't you?" Rosanna urged as they parted. "Whenever I can," Penny promised. "I've had a glorious time." She drove away, but at the bend in the road halted the car to glance back. The house, cloaked in the shadows of evening, looked nearly as mysterious as upon the occasion of her first visit. However, to her it would never again have a fearful aspect. Jacob Winters and his niece stood framed in the doorway. They waved. Penny returned the salute. Then regretfully she turned her back upon Raven Ridge and drove slowly down the mountain road which led home. M. W. THE END 
43199	----	Google Books (The University of Michigan). Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scans provided by Google Books: http://books.google.com/books?id=4dU0AAAAMAAJ (The University of Michigan) [Frontispiece.] THE LAST TENANT. BY B. L. FARJEON, _Author of "A Fair Jewess," Etc_. * * * * NEW YORK: THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY Copyright, 1893, by CASSEL PUBLISHING COMPANY. _All rights reserved_. CONTENTS. * * * * CHAPTER I. My Wife Makes Up her Mind to Move, II. House-Hunting à la Mode, III. An Old Friend Unexpectedly Presents Himself IV. Bob Millet Gives us Some Curious Information about the House in Lamb's Terrace, V. We Look Over the House in Lamb's Terrace and Receive a Shock, VI. The Answer to the Bell, VII. I Make Some Singular Experiments, VIII. I Take Bob into my Confidence, IX. I Pay Bob Millet a Visit, X. Ronald Elsdale Gives Opinions, XI. Bob Relates to me Some Particulars of Ronald Elsdale's Delusions, XII. A House on Fire, XIII. I Take the Haunted House, XIV. A Meager Report from the Inquiry Agent, XV. What the Inquest Revealed, XVI. In 79 Lamb's Terrace, XVII. Barbara, XVIII. Molly, XIX. Important Information, XX. Dr. Cooper, XXI. Barbara Gives us Some Valuable Information, XXII. Mr. Nisbet Visits Lamb's Terrace, XXIII. On the Track, XXIV. We Arrive in Paris, XXV. We Come to a Halt, XXVI. A Good Night's Work, XXVII. A Word with Mme. Bernstein, XXVIII. Mme. Bernstein Reveals, XXIX. Dr. Cooper is Impressed, XXX. Mr. Nisbet Takes a Decided Step, THE LAST TENANT * * * * CHAPTER I. MY WIFE MAKES UP HER MIND TO MOVE. From a peculiar restlessness in my wife's movements, I gathered that she was considering some scheme which threatened to disturb the peaceful surroundings of my life. Upon two or three occasions lately she had reproached me for not being sufficiently lofty in my social views, and although the tone in which she addressed me was free from acerbity, her words conveyed the impression that in some dark way I was inflicting an injury upon her. Familiar with her moods, and understanding the best way in which to treat them, I made no inquiries as to the precise nature of this injury, but waited for her to disclose it--which I was aware she would not do until she was quite prepared. I am not, in any sense of the term, an ambitious man, being happily blessed with a peaceful and contented mind which renders me unwilling to make any departure from my usual habits. As regards old-fashioned ways I am somewhat of a conservative; I do not care for new things and new sensations, and I am not forever looking up at persons above me, and sighing for their possessions and enjoyments. Indeed, I am convinced that the happiest lot is that of the mortal who is neither too high nor too low, and who is in possession of a competence which will serve for modest pleasures, without exciting the envy of friends and acquaintances. Such a competence was mine; such pleasures were mine. Secure from storms and unnecessary worries--by which I mean worries self-inflicted by fidgety persons, or persons discontented with their lot--I should have been quite satisfied to remain all my life in our cozy ten-roomed house, which we had inhabited for twenty years, and in which we had been as comfortable as reasonable beings can expect to be in life. Not so my wife, the best of creatures in her way, but lately (as I subsequently discovered) tormented with jealousy of certain old friends who, favored by fortune, had moved a step or two up the social ladder. It was natural, when these friends visited us, that they should dilate with pride upon their social rise, and should rather loftily, and with an air of superiority, seize the opportunity of describing the elegances of their new houses and furniture. Their fine talk amused me, and I listened to it undisturbed; but it rendered my wife restless and uneasy, and the upshot of it was that one morning, during breakfast, she said: "You have nothing particular to do to-day, my dear?" "No, nothing particular," I replied. "Then you won't mind coming with me to see some new houses." I gasped. The murder was out. "Some new houses!" I cried. "You can't expect me to go alone," she said calmly. "It would hardly be safe--to say nothing of its impropriety--for a lady, unaccompanied, to wander through a number of empty houses with the street door shut. We read of such dreadful things in the papers." "Quite true; they are enough to make one's hair stand on end. It would not be prudent. But what necessity is there for you to go into a number of empty houses?" "How stupid you are!" she exclaimed. "You know we must move; you know that it is impossible for us to remain in this house any longer." "Why not?" "Such a question! And the house in the state it is!" "A very comfortable state, Maria. There is nothing whatever the matter with it." "There is everything the matter with it." "Oh, if you say so----" "I do say so." A man who has been long married learns from experience, and profits by what he learns, if he has any sense in him. I am a fairly sensible man, and experience has taught me some useful lessons. Therefore I went on with my breakfast in silence, knowing that my wife would soon speak again. "The house is full of inconveniences," she said. "You have been a long time finding them out, Maria." "I found them out years ago, but I have borne with them for your sake." I laughed slyly, took the top off an egg, and requested her to name the inconveniences of which she complained. She commenced. "We want a spare room." "We have one," I said, "and it is never used." "It isn't fit to use." "Oh! I had an idea that there was no demand for it." "If it was a comfortable room there would be, Edward, I wish you would recognize that things cannot always remain as they are." "More's the pity." "Nonsense. You talk as if we were shellfish." "It did not occur to me. Proceed with your wants, Maria." "_Our_ wants, my dear." "Well, _our_ wants." "You want a nice, cozy study, where you can sit and smoke." "I want nothing of the kind. I can sit and smoke anywhere. Don't forget that I am fifty years of age, and that my habits are fixed." "My dear, it is never too late to learn." "Keep to the point," I said. "As if I am not keeping to it! I have no morning room." "So you are to sit in your morning room, and I am to sit in my study, instead of sitting and chatting together, as we have always done. A cheerful prospect! What next?" "We have very good servants," she said pensively. "Has that anything to do with the inconveniences you speak of?" "I shouldn't like to lose the girls, especially cook. They sleep in the attic, you know, and the roof is shockingly out of repair." "It is the chronic condition of roofs. Go where you will, you hear the same story. Have the girls complained?" "No, but I can see what is coming." "Ah!" "The kitchen is not what it should be; the range causes us the greatest anxiety. The next dinner party we give we must have the dinner cooked out. Think what a trouble it will be, and how awkward it will look. Everything brought to the table lukewarm, if not quite cold." "The thought is heartrending." "And you so particular as you are. I am not blaming you for these things, my dear." "You are very considerate. Is your catalogue of ills finished?" "By no means. Look at the wine cellar--it positively reeks. As for the store cupboard, not a thing can I keep in it for the damp. Then there's the bath. Every time I turn the hot water tap I am frightened out of my life. It splutters, and chokes, and gurgles--we shall have an explosion one day. Then there's----" "No more!" I cried, in a tragic tone. "Give me two minutes to compose myself. My nerves are shattered." I finished my eggs and toast, I emptied my breakfast cup, I shifted my chair. "You wish to move," I then said. "Do you not see the impossibility of our remaining where we are?" was her reply. "Frankly, I do not, but we will not argue; I bend my head to the storm." "Edward, Edward!" she expostulated. "Must not a woman have a mind? Must it always be the man?" "I meant nothing ill-natured, Maria. Have you any particular house in view?" "Several, and I have made out a list of them. I have been to the house agents and have got the keys. I did not wish you to have the bother of it, so I took it all on myself. And here are the orders to view the houses where there are care-takers. Of course we don't want the keys of those houses; all we have to do is to ring." "How many empty houses are there on your list?" "Twenty-three." I repressed a shudder. "And you have the keys of----" "Eleven. I can get plenty more. We must be careful they don't get mixed up. Perhaps you had better keep them." "Not for worlds. Do you propose to go over the whole twenty-three to-day?" "Oh, no, my dear, but we will continue till we are tired. With what I have and what I am promised I dare say it will be a long job before we are suited. Days and days." "Perhaps weeks and weeks," I suggested faintly. "Perhaps. Do you remember how we hunted and hunted till we found this house?" "Can I ever forget it? I grew so sick of tramping about that I thought seriously of buying a traveling caravan, and living in it. Well, Maria, I confess I don't like the prospect, but as your mind is made up I will put a good face on it." "I was sure you would, my dear. You are the best man in the world." And she gave me a hearty kiss. "All right, my dear. When do we start?" "I shall be ready in half an hour." In less than that time we were off, I resigned to my fate, and my wife as brisk as a young maid about to enter into housekeeping for the first time. I could not but admire her courage. Her bag was stuffed with keys, and in her hand she carried a book in which were set down the particulars of the houses we were to look over. CHAPTER II. HOUSE-HUNTING À LA MODE. It was a satisfaction to me that my wife did not entertain the idea of deserting the northwestern part of London, in which I have lived from my boyhood, and which I regard as the pleasantest district in our modern Babylon. In no other part of London can you see in such perfection the tender green of spring, and enjoy air so pure and bracing, and there are summers when my wife agrees with me that it is a mistake to give up these advantages for the doubtful enjoyment and the distinct discomforts of a few weeks in the country. So, with my mind somewhat relieved, I started upon the expedition which was to lead me to the deserted house in Lamb's Terrace, and thence to the strange and thrilling incidents I am about to narrate. And I may premise here that I do not intend to attempt any explanation of them; I shall simply describe them as they occurred, and I shall leave the solution to students more deeply versed than myself in the mysteries of the visible and invisible life by which we are surrounded. I must, however, make one observation. There is in my mind no doubt that I was the chosen instrument in bringing to light the particulars of a foul and monstrous crime, which might otherwise have remained unrevealed till the Day of Judgment, when all things shall be made clear. Why I was thus inscrutably chosen, and was haunted by the Skeleton Cat until the moment arrived when I was to lay my hand upon the shoulder of the criminal and say, "Thou art the man!" is to me the most awful and inexplicable mystery in my life. In our search for a new house the story of one day is (with the single exception to which I have incidentally referred) the story of all the days so employed. We set out every morning, my wife fresh and cheerful, and I trotting patiently by her side; we returned home every evening worn out, disheartened, bedraggled, and generally demoralized. My condition was, of course, worse than that of my wife, whom a night's rest happily restored to strength and hope. I used to look at her across the breakfast table in wonder and admiration, for truly her vigor and powers of recuperation were surprising. "Are you quite well this morning?" I would ask. "Quite well," she would reply, smiling amiably at me. "I had a lovely night." Wonderful woman! A lovely night! While I was tossing about feverishly, going up and down innumerable flights of stairs with thousands upon thousands of steps, opening thousands upon thousands of doors, and pacing thousands upon thousands of rooms, measuring their length, breadth, and height with a demon three-foot rule which mocked my most earnest and conscientious efforts to take correct measurements! The impression these expeditions produced upon me was that, of all the trials to which human beings are subject, house-hunting is incomparably the most exasperating and afflicting. Were I a judge with the power to legislate, I would make it a punishment for criminal offenses: "Prisoner at the bar, a jury of your countrymen have very properly found you guilty of the crime for which you have been tried, and it is my duty now to pass sentence upon you. I have no wish to aggravate your sufferings in the painful position in which you have placed yourself, but for the protection of society the sentence must be one of extreme severity. You will be condemned to go house-hunting, and never getting suited, from eight o'clock in the morning until eight o'clock at night, for a term of three years, and I trust that the punishment inflicted upon you will deter you from crime for the rest of your natural life." I should almost be tempted to add, "And the Lord have mercy upon your soul!" I could not have wished for a better leader than my wife, who continued to take charge of the keys and to keep a record of the premises we had looked over and were still to look over; and in the little book in which this record is made were set down in admirable English--occasionally, perhaps, somewhat too forcible--the reasons why there was not a single house to let which answered her requirements. Many of the houses had been tenantless for years, and reminded me in a depressingly odd way of unfortunate men who had fallen too soon into "the sere and yellow," and were sinking slowly and surely into damp and weedy graves. The discolored ceilings, the moldy walls, the moist basements, the woe-begone back yards, and the equally dismal gardens, the twisted taps, the rusty locks and keys, the dark closets which the agents had the effrontery to call bedrooms, supplied ample evidence that their fate was deserved. There were some in a better condition, having been newly patched and painted; but even to these more likely tenements there was always, I was ever thankful to hear, an objection, from one cause or another, raised by my wife. In one the dining room was too small; in another it was too large; in another the bath was on an unsuitable floor--down in the basement or up on the roof; in another the range was old-fashioned; in another there was no getting into the garden unless you passed through the kitchen or flung yourself out of the drawing-room window; in another there were no cupboards, and so on, and so on, without end. Again and again did I indulge in the hope that she was thoroughly exhausted and would give up the hunt, and again and again did the wonderful woman, a few hours afterward, impart to me the disheartening news--smiling cheerfully as she spoke--that she had been to a fresh house agent and was provided with another batch of keys and "orders to view." After every knock-down blow she "came up smiling," as the sporting reporters say. Meekly I continued to accompany her, knowing that the least resistance on my part would only strengthen her determination to prolong the battle. At the end of a more than usually weary day she observed: "My dear, if we were rich we would build." "We would," I said, and, with a cunning of which I felt secretly proud, I encouraged her to describe the house she would like to possess. I am a bit of a draughtsman, and from the descriptions she gave me of the house that would complete her happiness I drew out the plans of an Ideal Residence which I was convinced could not be found anywhere on the face of the earth. This, however, was not my wife's opinion. "It is the exact thing, Edward," she said, and she took my plans to the agents, who said they were very nice, and that they had on their books just the place she was looking for--with one trifling exception scarcely worth mentioning. But this trifling exception proved ever to be of alarming proportions, was often hydra-headed, and was always insurmountable. Then would she glow with indignation at the duplicity of the agents, and would call them names which, had they been publicly uttered, would have laid us open to a great number of actions for libel and slander. Thus a month passed by, and, except for prostration of spirits, we were precisely where we had been when we commenced. The Ideal Residence was still a castle in Spain. One evening, when we were so tired out that we could hardly crawl along, my indomitable wife, after slamming the last street door behind her, informed me that she intended to call upon another house agent whom she had not yet patronized. "That will be the ninth, I think," I said, in a mild tone. "Yes, the ninth," she said. "They are a dreadful lot. You can't place the slightest dependence upon them." Gascoigne was the name of the agent we now visited, and he entertained us in the old familiar way. As a matter of course, he had the very house to suit us; in fact, he had a dozen, and he went through them _seriatim_. But my wife, who during the past month had learned something, managed, by dint of skillful questioning, to lay her hand on the one weak spot which presented itself in all. "I am afraid they will not do," she said, "but we will look at them all the same." I sighed; I was in for it once more. A dozen fresh keys, a dozen fresh orders to view--in a word, a wasted, weary week. Mr. Gascoigne drummed with his fingers on his office table, and, after a pause, said: "I have left the best one to the last." "Indeed!" said my wife, brightening up. "The house that cannot fail," said he; "a chance seldom met with--perhaps once in a lifetime. I shall not have it long on my books; it will be snapped up in no time. It possesses singular advantages." "Where is it?" asked my wife eagerly. "In Lamb's Terrace, No. 79. Detached and charmingly situated. Ten bedrooms, three reception rooms, two bath rooms, hot and cold water to top floor, commodious kitchen and domestic offices, conservatory, stabling, coach house, coachman's rooms over, two stalls and loose box, large garden well stocked with fruit trees, and two greenhouses." My wife's eyes sparkled. I also was somewhat carried away, but I soon cooled down. Such an establishment would be far beyond my means. "To be let on lease?" I inquired. "To be let on lease," Mr. Gascoigne replied. "The rent would be too high," I observed. "I don't think so. Ninety pounds a year." "What?" I cried. "Ninety pounds a year," he repeated. I looked at my wife; her face fairly beamed. She whispered to me, "A prize! Why did we not come here before? It would have saved us a world of trouble." For my part, I could not understand it. Ninety pounds a year! It was a ridiculous rent for such a mansion. I turned to the agent. "Is there a care-taker in the house?" "No," he replied, "it is quite empty." "Has it been long unlet?" "Scarcely any time." "The tenant has only just left it, I suppose?" "The tenant has not been living in it." "He has been abroad?" "I really cannot say. I know nothing of his movements. You see, we are not generally acquainted with personal particulars. A gentleman has a house which he wishes to let, and he places it in our hands. All that we have to do is to ascertain that the particulars with which he furnishes us are correct. We let the house, and there is an end of the matter so far as we are concerned." I recognized the common sense of this explanation, and yet there appeared to me something exceedingly strange in such a house being to let at so low a rent, and which had just lost a tenant who had not occupied it. "Is it in good repair?" I asked. "Frankly, it is not; but that is to your advantage." "How do you make that out?" "Because the landlord is inclined to be unusually liberal in the matter. He will allow the incoming tenant a handsome sum in order that he may effect the repairs in the manner that suits him best. There is a little dilapidation, I believe, in one or two of the rooms, a bit of the flooring loose here and there, some plaster has dropped from the ceilings, and a few other such trifling details to be seen to; and the garden, I think, will want attention." "The house seems to be completely out of repair?" "Oh, no, not at all; I am making the worst of it, so that you shall not be disappointed. But there is the money provided to set things in order." "Roughly speaking, what sum does the landlord propose to allow?" "Roughly speaking, a hundred pounds or so." "About one-third," I remarked, "of what I should judge to be necessary." "Not at all; a great deal can be done with a hundred pounds; and my client might feel disposed to increase the amount. You can examine the house and see if it suits you, which I feel certain it will." Here my wife broke in. She had listened impatiently to my questions, and had nodded her head in approval of every answer given by the agent to the objections I had raised. "I am sure it will suit us," she said. "The next best thing to building a house for one's self is to have a sufficient sum of money allowed to spend on one already built; to repair it, and paint and paper it after our own taste." "I agree with you, madam," said the agent, "and you will find the landlord not at all a hard man to deal with. He makes only one stipulation--that whoever takes the house shall live in it." "Why, of course we should live in it," said my wife. "What on earth should we take it for if we didn't?" "Quite so," said the agent. "I should like to ask two more questions," I said. "Are the drains in good order?" "The drains," replied the agent, "are perfection." "And is it damp?" "It is as dry," replied the agent, "as a bone." Some further conversation ensued, in which, however, I took no part, leaving the management to my wife, who had evidently set her heart upon moving to No. 79 Lamb's Terrace. The agent handed her the keys with a bow and a smile, and we left his office. CHAPTER III. AN OLD FRIEND UNEXPECTEDLY PRESENTS HIMSELF. During the interview my attention had been attracted several times to a peculiar incident. At the extreme end of Mr. Gascoigne's office, close against the wall, was a high desk, with an old-fashioned railing around it, the back of the desk being toward me. When we entered the office no person was visible behind the desk, and no sounds of it being occupied reached my ears; but, happening once to look undesignedly in that direction, I saw a gray head raised above the railings, the owner of which was regarding me, I thought, with a certain eagerness and curiosity. The moment I looked at the head, which I inferred was attached to the body of a clerk in the service of Mr. Gascoigne, it disappeared, and I paid no attention to it. But presently, turning again, I saw it bob up and as quickly bob down; and as this was repeated five or six times during the interview, it made me, in turn, curious to learn the reason of the proceedings. Finally, upon my leaving the office, the head bobbed up and remained above the desk, seemingly following my departure with increasing eagerness. "My dear," said my wife, as we walked along the street--very slowly, because of the weary day we had had--"at last we have found what we have been searching for so long." It did not strike me so, but I did not express my opinion. All I said was, "I am tired out, and I am sure you must be." "I do feel tired, but I'm repaid for it. Yes, this is the very house we have been hunting for; just the number of rooms we want, just the kind of garden we want, and so many things we thought we couldn't afford. Then the stable and coach-house--not that we have much use for them, but it looks well to have them, and to speak of them to our friends in an off-hand way. Then the fruit trees--what money it will save us, gathering the fruit quite fresh as we want it! I have in my eye the paper for the drawing and dining rooms; and your study, my dear, shall be as cozy as money can make it. I have something to tell you--a secret. I have put away--never mind where--a long stocking, and in it there is a nice little sum saved up out of housekeeping pennies. That money shall be spent in decorating No. 79 Lamb's Terrace." Thus rattled on this wonderful wife of mine, working herself into such a state of rapture at the prospect of obtaining the Ideal Residence I had drawn out for her, and which she believed she had obtained, that I could not help admiring more and more her sanguine temperament and her indomitable resolution. Her pluck, her endurance, her persistence, were beyond praise; such women are cut out for pioneers in difficult undertakings; they never give in, they never know when they are beaten. In the midst of her glowing utterances I heard the sound of rapid steps behind us, and, turning, saw the elderly man, whose head, bobbing up and down in Mr. Gascoigne's office, had so engaged my attention. He had been running after us very quickly, and his breath was almost gone. "I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon," he said, speaking with difficulty, "but--excuse me, I must get my breath." We waited till he had recovered, my wife with the expectation that he was charged with a message from Mr. Gascoigne, I with no such expectation. I felt that he had come after us on a purely personal matter, and as I gazed at him I had an odd impression that, at some period of my life, I had been familiar with a face like his. I could not, however, bring to my mind any person resembling him. "The agent has given us the keys of the wrong house," whispered my wife. "I hope it is no worse than that; I hope he hasn't made a mistake in the rent." She was in great fear lest the splendid chance was gone and the house in Lamb's Terrace was lost to us. "I am all right now," said the stranger, "and I must beg you to excuse me if I am mistaken. I think not, for I seem to recognize your features; and yet it is so long ago--so long ago!" The impression that I had known him in earlier years grew stronger. "I heard your name," he continued, "while I was working at my desk. When you handed your card to Mr. Gascoigne he spoke it aloud, and I recognized it as that of an old school friend. It so stirred me that I fear you must have thought me rude for staring at you as I did. My name is Millet, Bob Millet--don't you remember?" Good Heavens! My old schoolmate, Bob Millet, dear old Bob, almost my brother, whom I had not seen for nearly forty years, stood before me. What reminiscences did the sight of him inspire! He and I were chums in those early days, stood up for each other, defended each other, played truant together, took long walks, went into the country together during holiday time--did everything, in short, that could bind schoolboys in firm links of comradeship. Once, when my parents took me to the seaside, they invited Bob at my urgent request to spend a week with us, and he spent two, three--all the time, indeed, that we were away from home. There at the seaside he taught me to swim, and we had days of enjoyment so vivid that the memory of them came back to me fresh and bright even after this lapse of years. How changed he was! He was a plump, rosy-cheeked boy, and he had grown into a thin, spare, elderly man, with all the plumpness and all the rosiness squeezed clean out of him. It was a bit of a shock. He was younger than I, and he looked twenty years older; his clothes were shabby, his face worn and lined with care, as though life's battle had been too much for him; while here was I, a fairly prosperous man, full of vigor and capacity for enjoyment, and blessed with means for the indulgence of pleasures which it was evident he could not afford. There was on my part more of sadness than of joy in this meeting. I held out my hand to him, and we greeted each other cordially. "My dear," I said to my wife, "this is my old school chum, Mr. Millet." "Bob Millet, please," he said reproachfully; "don't drop me because I am shabby." "I am not the sort of man to do that, Bob," I rejoined. "You have had a tussle with fortune, old friend, and got the worst of it?" "Considerably," he replied, with a little laugh in which there was no bitterness; it reminded me that when he was at school he always took a cheerful view of any misfortune that happened to him; "but a meeting like this makes up for a lot. What does the old song say? 'Bad luck can't be prevented.' Well, I _am_ glad to see you! I ran after you with a double purpose--first to shake hands with you, then to talk to you about that house you are looking after." "All in good time. Have you done work for the day?" "Yes." "Come home with us and have a tea-dinner, unless," I added, "there is someone else expecting you." "No one is expecting me," he said rather mournfully. "I am all alone." "Not married?" "I was, but I lost her." I pressed his hand sympathetically. "You can come along with us, then," said my good wife; "it will be better than passing the evening with yourself for company; and I am burning to hear what you have to tell us about the house in Lamb's Terrace. I am fairly enchanted with it, even before I see it. There is our 'bus; I hope there is room for us." There was room, and we got in, and alighted within thirty yards of our house--our dear old house, which my wife was bent upon giving up. I took Bob to my dressing room, and we had a wash and a brush up. "Any children?" he asked. "No," I replied; "it caused us sorrow at first, but we get resigned to things." "Yes, indeed." Downstairs my wife was waiting for us, and there was our tea-dinner already prepared, with one or two additional small luxuries in honor of our visitor. "Sit down, Bob," I said, "and make yourself at home. To you this is Liberty Hall; we haven't a bit of pride in us, although my dear wife here has an ambition for a larger house; that is why we are going to move." "We can afford to move, Mr. Millet," said my wife with dignity. "I am very glad to hear it," said Bob; "it is always pleasant to hear of a friend's good fortune." My wife smiled kindly, and we all made a good meal; and then she bustled away to see to some domestic matters, while the maid cleared the table. Before she left the room she said to Bob: "Mr. Millet, not a word about that delightful house until I join you." CHAPTER IV. BOB MILLET GIVES US SOME CURIOUS INFORMATION ABOUT THE HOUSE IN LAMB'S TERRACE. "Now, Bob," said I, "here's a clean pipe and some bird's eye. Do you remember our first cigar in your little bedroom in your father's house? How we suffered, and vowed never to smoke again! We have time for a pipe and a chat before my wife comes in. She has many virtues, Bob, and a special one for which she deserves a medal--she does not object to my smoking in any room in the house. Heaven knows what rules she will lay down, and what changes for the worse there will be when we move! I am not going to anticipate evils, however. Without pretending that I am a philosopher, I take things as they come, and try to make the best of them; it is the pleasantest way. Tell me what you have been doing all these years." He told me all about himself--of his leaving school with fair expectations; of his entering into his father's business; of his marrying for love, and, after three years of happy married life, of the death of his wife, and the ruin of his prospects; of his subsequent struggles and disappointments; and of his sinking lower and lower until he found himself fixed upon that depressing platform which is crowded with poor clerks struggling with all their might and main for bread and butter. Except when he spoke of his wife there was no sadness in his voice; and I saw that the cheerful temperament which had distinguished him when we were at school together had not deserted him. "It has been a tussle," he said, "but I have managed to rub along, and it might have been worse than it is. You don't mind my calling you Ned, do you?" "If I did," I replied, "I should have good reason to be ashamed of myself. It was Ned and Bob when we were boys; it is Ned and Bob now that we are elderly men. A few pounds more in my purse than in yours can make no difference; and as far as that goes, I can spare a little check if you need it." "No, Ned," he responded quickly, "that is the last thing in the world I hope I shall have to do. Though I don't sit down to a banquet every day for dinner, I have never borrowed, and I never will if I can possibly help it. Don't judge me by my sad looks--I have a disagreeable impression that I am not a cheerful fellow to contemplate; but if the truth were known there are much harder lots than mine. I have a comical trick of twisting things to my own advantage, and of rather pitying men who could sell me up over and over again. Ned, as there is no station in life, however high, without its miseries, so there is no station in life, however low, without its compensations." "You're the philosopher, Bob," quoth I. "I don't know about that. I have grown into the belief that the poor have as much enjoyment as the rich, and when I take a shilling's worth in the gallery of a theater, I am positive that I don't get less pleasure out of it than the people who sit in the stalls do out of their half-guineas. If I am a philosopher that is the use I make of my philosophy. Then, Ned, I have the past to think of; for three years there was no happier man than I, and my sad memories are sweetened with gratitude. And life is short after all; time flies; tomorrow we shall all be on a level, rich and poor alike." Thus spoke my old schoolfellow, Bob Millet, in his shabby coat, and the regard I used to have for him grew stronger every minute that passed. When my wife came in, bustling and cheerful as usual, she nodded brightly at us, sat down with a piece of needlework in her hand--she is never idle, this wife of mine--and said: "Now, Mr. Millet, let us hear about the house in Lamb's Terrace." "I will tell you all I know. Have you the keys, Ned?" "My wife has," I replied. She opened her bag and took them out, remarking, as she wiped her fingers, that they were very dusty. "As you see," observed Bob, "they are covered with rust." "They could have been used very little lately," I said. "Hardly at all," said Bob; "and this is one of the singular features in connection with the house with which you should be made acquainted. Did not the information Mr. Gascoigne gave you of the last tenant strike you as rather extraordinary?" He turned to my wife for an answer, but she did not reply. "It struck me as very extraordinary," I said. "I could not understand it at all, nor can I now understand why a house, with so many rooms, with stabling, a large garden, and so many other advantages, should be offered at so low a rent." Bob looked at me, looked at my wife, hesitated, coughed, cleared his throat, and spoke. "As a matter of fact, the house has been empty for four or five years." "Really a matter of fact?" inquired my wife. "Within your own knowledge?" "Not exactly that; I can speak only of what I have gathered." "So that your matter of fact," observed my wife shrewdly, "is merely hearsay." "I must admit as much, I am afraid," he said a little awkwardly. "Why should you be afraid to admit it?" I detected in these questions one of my wife's favorite maneuvers. When she met with opposition to a project which she had resolved to carry out, she was in the habit of seizing upon any chance words which she could construe in such a way as to confuse and confound the enemy. Often had she driven me so hard that I have been compelled to beat a retreat in despair, and to give up arguing with her. "Upon my word I don't know why," said Bob. "It was only a form of speech. I seem to be getting into a tangle." "I will assist you to get out of it," said my wife, with playful severity. "Go on, Mr. Millet." "It was originally taken on lease," continued Bob, "and the term having expired, the tenant--I suppose we must call him so--wished to renew. The landlord says, 'I will renew on one condition, that you live in the house.' The tenant objects. 'What does it matter,' he says, 'whether I live in the house or not, so long as the rent is paid?' The landlord replies that it matters a great deal, that a house cannot be kept in a satisfactory condition unless it is occupied, and that he does not like to see his property fall into decay, as this house has been allowed to do." "Did you hear these words pass, Mr. Millet?" asked my wife. "No; I am only throwing into shape what I have gathered." Here we were interrupted by a knock at the door, and my wife was called from the room to see a tradesman whom she had sent for to put some locks in order. As she left us she gave Bob rather a queer look. I took advantage of her absence by asking Bob why he hesitated when he began to speak about the house. "Well," he answered, "this is the first time I have had the pleasure of seeing your wife, and I don't know if she is a nervous woman." "She is not easily frightened," I said, "but what has that to do with it?" "Everything. I have heard that the house is haunted." I clapped my hand on the table. "And that is the reason of the low rent?" "It looks like it, doesn't it?" "And that is why the last tenant did not live in it?" "Ah," said Bob, "now you strike another key. There is a mystery here which I cannot fathom. Having a house on lease and being responsible for the rent, he is bound to pay till his term has expired. Very well--but here's the point, Ned: The lease having run out, and he having all these years presumably paid a large sum of money every quarter-day for value not received, why should he wish to renew? The house is haunted, he will not live in it, he never even opens the door to say how do you do to the property which is costing him so dear, and now that his responsibility is at an end he wants to take it upon his shoulders again, and to be allowed the privilege of continuing to pay his rent without receiving any return for it. Men don't usually throw their money away without some special reason, and this eccentric proceeding on the part of the last tenant makes one rather curious." "It is certainly very mysterious," I observed. "What was the rent he paid for it?" "I heard Mr. Gascoigne say a hundred and fifty pounds." "And it is offered to us for ninety. Have you seen the house, Bob?" "No." "Mr. Gascoigne has, I suppose." "I don't believe he has." "Then how have you learnt all you have told me?" "In this way. I was at my desk when the landlord--who is himself only a leaseholder, having to pay ground rent to a wealthy institution--called upon Mr. Gascoigne, and put the house into his hands. Mr. Gascoigne, when he wrote down the particulars, expressed, as you did, surprise at the low rent, and little by little all the particulars came out. There appeared to me to be some feeling between the landlord and the last tenant, but nothing transpired as to its nature while I was present, and it is my belief that Mr. Gascoigne is as much in the dark as I am. There had been trouble in obtaining the keys, I understood. A house agent, you know, never refuses business, and Mr. Gascoigne put the place on his books, but has not pushed it in any way. He did not mention it to you till he had exhausted the list of other available houses. It was only this morning that the rent was reduced in the books to ninety pounds, in accordance with instructions received from the landlord, and it was probably in accordance with those instructions that Mr. Gascoigne made a strong effort to prepossess you in favor of it. Your wife may be in any moment. Is she to know that the house is haunted?" I rubbed my forehead; I pondered; I laughed aloud. "Tell her, Bob," I said; and then, at the idea of all her fond hopes being once more dashed to the ground, I fairly held my sides, while Bob gazed at me in wonder. I did not explain to him the cause of my hilarity; I had no time, indeed, for my wife re-entered the room, and resumed her seat and her needlework. I composed my features the moment I heard her footstep; she would certainly have asked why I was so merry, and any explanation I might have ventured to offer would have been twisted by her to my shame and confusion, and would, moreover, have made her more determined than ever to take the house. "Where did we leave off, Mr. Millet?" she said, in a suspicious tone. "Let me see--I think it was about the house falling into decay." "Never mind that just now, Maria," I said. "Bob has something of the utmost importance to impart to you. Brace your nerves--prepare for a shock." There was a note of triumph in my voice, and she turned her eyes upon me, with an idea, I think, that I was going out of my mind. "Well, Mr. Millet," she said, with a shrewd glance at him, "what is this something of the highest importance that you have to impart to me?" "I was reluctant to mention it," said Bob, "before I spoke of it to Ned, because I was doubtful how it would affect you. If you should happen to hear of it when it was too late to retract you might say with very good reason, 'But why did not Mr. Millet tell us before we went over the house? Why did he leave us to find it out for ourselves after we signed the lease?'" "Find what out, Mr. Millet?" "As a matter of fact," said Bob, and quickly withdrew the unfortunate phrase, "I mean that I have heard the house has a bad name." She frowned. "A bad name!" "Bad, in a certain way, They say it is haunted." "Oh," said my wife, smiling, "is that all? They say? Who say?" "I can't give you names," replied Bob, conspicuously nonplused, "because I don't know them. I can only tell you what I have heard." "I thought as much," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Merely hearsay. You might be more explicit, Mr. Millet. Haunted? By what?" "I don't know." "When does _It_ appear?" "I can't say." "How tantalizing! Don't you think, Edward, that the news Mr. Millet has given us makes the house all the more interesting?" Thus effectually did she sweep away all my fond expectations. She made no more of a haunted house than she would have done of a loose handle to a door. "If that is the view you take of it," I said, "perhaps it does. I am always ready to please you, Maria, but till this moment I had no idea that your taste lay in the direction of haunted houses. At all events, you will not be able to say that you were not warned." "You will not hear me say it. There is a proverb about giving a dog a bad name and hanging him at once, and it seems to me to apply to the house in Lamb's Terrace. If Mr. Millet could give us something to lay hold of I might express myself differently." "You can't lay hold of a ghost, Maria, unless those gentry have undergone a radical change. For my part, I am much obliged to Bob. It was out of consideration for you that he did not mention it at first." "Mr. Millet was very kind, I am sure," she said stiffly; and then, addressing him as though she would give him another chance, "Are you acquainted with the last tenant?" "No, I have never seen him." "What is his name?" "I do not know." "Where does he live?" "I do not know." "Now, _do_ you think," she said, quizzing him, "that it is quite fair to take away the character of an empty house upon such slender grounds? It is like hitting a man when he's down, which I have heard is not considered manly." "I assure you," replied Bob gravely, "that what I have said has been said with the best intentions." "No doubt," said my wife composedly, meaning quite the other thing. "Edward, our best plan will be to go and look over the house the first thing in the morning." "That settles it, Bob," I said, "for the present, at all events. What do you say to coming here tomorrow evening and hearing our report of the house?" He looked at my wife, as if doubtful whether a second visit would be agreeable to her; but she nodded pleasantly, and said: "Yes, come, Mr. Millet; perhaps we shall be able to surprise you." "Thank you," said Bob, and we talked of old times with rather eager readiness, and for the rest of the evening carefully avoided the subject which had so nearly brought him to grief. At ten o'clock he took his departure, and a few minutes afterward Maria and I retired to our bedroom. "Good-night, dear," she said, in her most amiable tone, as I put out the light. "Good-night, dear," I replied, and disposed myself for sleep. We are both healthy sleepers, and generally go off like a top, as the saying is, a very short time after our heads touch the pillows. But this night proved to be an exception, for we must have lain quite a quarter of an hour in darkness when my wife began to speak. "Are you asleep, Edward?" "No, Maria." "Do you know," she said drowsily, "I have a funny idea in my head." "Have you?" "Yes. It is that you and Mr. Millet laid a little plot for me." "It isn't a funny idea, Maria; it is a perfectly absurd idea." "That is what _you_ say, dear; it is never agreeable to be found out. I dare say you thought yourselves very clever. It hasn't raised my opinion of Mr. Millet. I should have liked to believe him a different kind of person." "Whatever are you driving at, Maria?" I said. "Bob Millet is the simplest fellow in the world, and is incapable of laying a plot." "Oh, there's no telling. You were old playmates, and he is anxious to please you; he will find out by and by, perhaps, that I am not quite the simpleton he takes me for." "Poor old Bob!" I thought. "His ill-luck sticks to him." Aloud I said, "You are a conundrum, Maria; I shall give you up." "Better give up the plot," she said pleasantly. "I will, when I know what it is." "It was this--that you would invent a ridiculous story about the house I have set my heart upon taking being haunted, so that I should be frightened to go near it. You ought to have known me better, Edward, and I must say you did it very clumsily; my consolation is that you did not succeed. I am so sorry for you! Good-night, dear; I hope you will sleep well." I did sleep fairly well, though I was kept awake longer than usual by my annoyance at the prejudice Maria entertained against my old friend Bob. CHAPTER V. WE LOOK OVER THE HOUSE IN LAMB'S TERRACE, AND RECEIVE A SHOCK. We rose earlier than usual the next morning, and my wife bustled about in lively expectation of a successful and pleasant day. She made no allusion to Bob Millet, and I, well acquainted with her moods, was aware that her silence was no indication that she was not thinking of him. My meeting with him had recalled agreeable memories, and I was sincerely sorry that he had not been successful in life's battle. I resolved to assist him if I could, though I could not exactly see a way to it, because of his aversion to borrowing money, and because, living retired as I was, with no business to attend to, it was out of my power to offer him a better situation than the one he occupied in Mr. Gascoigne's office. Anxious that my wife should have as high an opinion of him as I had myself, I made an effort to reinstate him in her good graces. "I think, Maria," I said, during breakfast, "that you were inclined to do Bob an injustice last night. He had no desire whatever to set you against the house in Lamb's Terrace, but only to give us some information which he considered it his duty not to withhold from us. He was perfectly sincere in all he said, and perfectly truthful, and you must admit that he did give us some strange news." "Yes, he did," she replied, "and it remains to be proved whether it is true; we should not be too ready to believe all the idle gossip we hear." "Undoubtedly we should not; but if there is anything against the place, it is better that we should hear it before we decide upon living in it. When I was a boy an aunt of mine took a house, and afterward discovered that a murder had been committed in her bedroom. She didn't have a moment's peace in her life; she used to wake up in the middle of the night, and fancy all sorts of things. I remember her spending an evening with us at home, and starting at the least sound; her nerves were shattered, and my poor dear mother said she couldn't live long. She told us stories of horrid sights she saw in the house, and horrid sounds she heard, and my hair rose on my head. I didn't sleep a wink myself that night. Now, if she had known all this before she took the house, she would have been spared a great deal of suffering." "Did she die soon after?" asked my practical wife. "No," I replied; and I could not help laughing at my defeat, the moral of the story being absolutely destructive of the theory I wished to establish; "as a matter of fact, she lived to a good old age." "I don't quite see the application, Edward," said my wife dryly; and I deemed it prudent to change the subject. Maria is not an unreasonable or an unjust woman, and I gathered from her manner that she intended to hold over her final verdict upon Bob's character until she had ascertained what dependence could be placed upon the information he had given us. Upon looking through the local directory, the only reference I could find to Lamb's Terrace was the name under the initial L, "Lamb's Terrace." "It is singular," I said. "The number of the house we are going to is 79, and the presumption is that there are other houses in the terrace, with people living in them, yet there is no list of them in this directory." My wife turned over the pages, but could find no further reference to the place. "It _is_ rather singular," she said, and handed me back the book. A few minutes afterward we were on our way, having been informed by Mr. Gascoigne on the previous day that a North Star 'bus would take us to the neighborhood in which it was situated. "How many houses are we going to look over?" I inquired. "Only one," replied my wife, "and if that doesn't suit us I really don't know what we shall do." With all my heart I wished that it would not suit us. Reluctant as I had been, when we first commenced these wearisome journeys, to remove from our old home, I felt now, after the experiences I had gone through, that it would be a positive misfortune. Lamb's Terrace was not easy to find. The conductor of the North Star 'bus knew nothing of it, and said he had best take us as far as his conveyance went, and set us down. This was done, no other course suggesting itself to us; he took us as far as he went, and then cast us adrift upon the world. We made inquiries of many persons, and the replies we received added to our confusion. Women especially set their tongues wagging with astonishing recklessness, for they were totally ignorant of the subject upon which they were offering an opinion. But they gave instructions and advice, which we followed, for the reason that we did not know what else we could do. Some said they thought Lamb's Terrace must lie in this direction; we went in this direction, and did not find it. Others said it must lie in that direction; and we went in that direction, with the same result. We requested sundry cabmen to drive us to 79 Lamb's Terrace, and they nodded their heads cheerfully and asked where Lamb's Terrace was. We could not inform them. "Do _you_ know Lamb's Terrace?" they asked their comrades, who scratched their heads and passed the question along the rank, and eventually said they were blarmed (or something worse) if they did. The consequence was that they lost a fare, and that we were cast adrift again. At length, after tramping about for nearly two hours, we found ourselves in what I can only describe as a locality which had lost its place in civilized society. It was deplorably desolate and forlorn, and its dismal aspect suggested the thought that it had been abandoned in despair. Fields had been dug up, but not leveled; roads had been marked out, but not formed; buildings had been commenced, but not proceeded with. Rubbish had been shot there freely. Empty cans, battered out of shape, broken bottles, dead branches, musty rags, useless pieces of iron and wood, and the worst refuse of the dustbin, lay all around. If there had ever been a time in its history--and it seemed as if there had been, and not so very long ago--when it deserved to be regarded as a region of good intentions, its character was gone entirely, and it could now only be regarded as a region of desolation. Wandering about this mournful region, my wife suddenly exclaimed: "Why, here it is!" And there it was. A narrow thoroughfare, not wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other, with the words "Lamb's Terrace" faintly discernible on the crumbling stones. "Shall we go on?" I asked. "Of course we will go on," replied my wife. "What did we come out for? And after the trouble we have had to get here!" We turned at once into the narrow lane. On the right-hand side was a gloomy house, untenanted. Beyond this was a long wall, very much out of repair. On the opposite side there were no houses at all, but another long wall, also very much out of repair. I searched for the number of the gloomy untenanted house, but could not see one, and my wife suggested that the house we wanted was lower down. We went lower down, and passed the gloomy house a distance of fifty or sixty yards, between the said walls. So still and deathlike was everything around, and so secluded did Lamb's Terrace appear to be that I regarded it as being not only lost to society, but almost out of the world. I glanced at my wife, and saw on her face no traces of disappointment. Her spirits were not so easily dashed as mine. Having traversed these fifty or sixty yards we came to the end of the right-hand wall. Adjoining it was a large building, in rueful harmony with all the depressing characteristics of the neighborhood. The house was approached by a front garden choked up with weeds and rank grass, and inclosed by rusty and broken railings; at the end of this garden was a flight of stone steps. The gate creaked on its hinges as I pushed it open, and a prolonged wheeze issued from the joints; the sound was ludicrously and painfully human, and resembled that which might have been uttered by a rheumatic old woman in pain. My wife pushed past me, and I followed her up the flight of stone steps. "There is a number on the door," she said, tiptoeing. "Yes, here it is, 79, almost rubbed out." "Numbers 1 to 78," I grimly remarked, "must be somewhere round the corner, if there is any round the corner in the neighborhood; they are perhaps two or three miles off." "My dear," said my wife bravely, "don't be prejudiced. Here is the house; what we have to do is to see whether it will suit us." "You would not care to go into it alone," I said. "I should not," she admitted, with praiseworthy candor; "but that is not to the point." I thought it was; but I did not argue the matter. She had removed from the keys as much rust as she could, and had had the foresight to bring with her a small bottle of oil, without the aid of which I doubt if we should have been able to turn the key in the lock. After a deal of trouble this was accomplished, and the mysterious tenement was open to us; as the door creaked upon its hinges, the sound that tortured my ears was infinitely more lugubrious than that which had issued from the gate, and it produced upon me the same impression of human resemblance. When we entered the hall I asked my wife whether I should close the street door. "Certainly," she said. "Why not?" I did not answer her. Have her way she would, and it was useless to argue with her. I closed the door, and felt as if I had entered a tomb. The entrance hall was spacious, and shaped like an alcove; there was a door on the right, and another on the left; in the center was a wide staircase, leading to the rooms above; farther along the passage was a masked door, leading to the rooms below. "Upstairs or downstairs first?" I inquired. "Downstairs," my wife replied. The stairs to the basement were very dark, and my wife, prepared for all such emergencies, produced a candle and matches. Lighting the candle we descended to the stone passage. There was a dreary and gloomy kitchen; there was a large scullery, a larder and all necessary offices, cobwebbed and musty; also two rooms which could be used as living rooms. The glass-paneled doors of both these rooms opened out into the back garden, which was in worse condition and more choked up with weeds, and rank grass, and monstrous creepers than the ground in front of the house; two greenhouses were at the extreme end, and there were some trees dotted about, but whether they were fruit trees it was impossible to say without a closer examination. "I don't think," said my wife, "we will go over the garden just now. It looks as if it was full of creeping things." "The rooms we have seen are not much better, Maria." "They are not, indeed; I never saw a place in such a dreadful state." I was more than ordinarily depressed. As a rule these expeditions invariably had a dispiriting effect upon me, but I had never felt so melancholy as I did on this occasion. I made no inquiry into my wife's feelings; I considered it best that she should work out the matter for herself; the chances of my emerging a victor from the contest in which we were engaged would be all the more promising. We ascended to the hall, and then I observed to my wife that we had forgotten to examine the stabling and the wine cellar; we had even neglected the coal cellars. "We won't bother about them to-day," she said, and despite my despondency I inwardly rejoiced. I had also learned to prepare myself for the trials of this house-hunting. In my side pocket were two flasks, one containing water, the other brandy. I had often grown faint during our wanderings, and a sup of brandy now and then had kept up my strength. I saw that my wife was lower spirited than usual, and I mixed some spirits and water in the tin cup attached to one of the flasks. She accepted the refreshment eagerly, and I took a larger draught myself, and was much cheered by it. "It always," said my wife, in a brighter tone, "makes one feel rather faint to look over a house which has been empty a long time, especially a house which is so far away from--from any others." "It is almost as if we were in a grave," I observed. "How _can_ you say such dreadful things!" she retorted. "If I were a man I should have more courage." There were three rooms on the ground floor, each of considerable dimensions, and all in shocking dilapidation. The paper had peeled off the walls, and was hanging in tattered strips to the ground; quantities of plaster had dropped from the ceilings, and here and there the bare rafters were exposed; there were holes in the flooring; the grates were cracked, the hearths broken up. "A hundred pounds," I observed, "would not go far toward making this house habitable." "It wouldn't be half enough," said my wife. Upon quitting the dining room I inquired whether she wished to go any further. "I am going," she said stoutly, "all over the house." Upstairs we went to the first floor, where we found the rooms in a similar condition to those below. "Disgraceful!" exclaimed my wife. "No wonder the landlord was indignant with the last tenant." In due course we found ourselves on the second floor, and we stood in a large room, the windows of which faced the garden in the rear. I had opened the door of this room with difficulty, and the moment we entered it slammed to, which I ascribed to the wind blowing through some broken panes. By this time I perceived plainly that my wife's spirits were down to zero, and I was comforted by the reflection that looking over a house so wretched, so forlorn, so woe-begone, would, after all we had gone through, be the last straw that would break the back of her determination to move. We had been in the house about half an hour, and nothing but her indomitable spirit had sustained her in the trying ordeal. In the room in which we were now standing there were two bell-pulls; one was broken, the other appeared to be in workable condition. It was not to prove this, but out of an idle humor as I thought at the time--though I was afterward inclined to change my opinion, and to ascribe the action to a spiritual impulse--that I stepped to the unbroken bell-pull, and gave it a jerk. It is not easy to describe what followed. Bells jangled and tolled and clanged as though I had set in motion a host in of infernal and discordant tongues of metal, and had raised the dead from their graves to take part in the harsh concert, for indeed there seemed to be something horribly fiendish, in the discord, which was at once hoarse, strident, shrill, and sepulchral, and finally resolved itself into a low, muffled wail which ran through the house like a funereal peal. With the exception of our own voices and footsteps and the slamming of the doors we had opened and shut, these were the only sounds we had heard, and they brought a chill to our hearts. "How awful!" whispered my wife. I nodded, and held up my hand. The last echo of the bells had died away, and now there came another sound, so startling and appalling that my wife clutched me in terror. "My God!" she cried; "someone is coming upstairs!" CHAPTER VI. THE ANSWER TO THE BELL. We stood transfixed with fear. As I have said, we were on the second floor, and the sound which now filled us with apprehension proceeded from the lower part of the house. It was very faint, and I judged--though in such circumstances but small reliance could be placed upon any judgment I may have formed--that if human feet produced it they must have been encased in soft shoes or slippers. It has ever since been to me a matter for wonder how a sound so fine could have reached our ears from that distance. It must have been that our senses, refined instead of dulled by the despair which held us spellbound, were preternaturally sharpened to catch the note of warning which at any other time would have been inaudible. At the moment, therefore, of my wife's frenzied exclamation I inferred that the feet had left the kitchen and were on the stairs leading from the basement to the hall. If my surmise was correct there were still two flights of stairs to ascend before the full horror of the incident would be revealed to us. I have described the impression produced upon me when we first turned into Lamb's Terrace, of being, as it were, cut off from the world. There was not an inhabited house near us. We had not seen a human being in the thoroughfare, and, as the prospect, from the windows of the room in which we now stood, stretched across a bare and desolate waste of ground, there was absolutely no hope of any helpful response being made to our appeals for assistance. The possibilities of the peril in which we had placed ourselves presented themselves vividly to my agitated mind. The house, having been for so many years deserted by its proper tenant, might have become the haunt of desperate characters who would shrink from no deed, however ruthless, to secure their safety; who might even hail with satisfaction the intrusion of respectable persons who had unconsciously put themselves in their power. Supposing that these evil-doers were concealed in the lower rooms when we entered, they could rob and murder us with little fear of discovery. But there was also the consoling reflection that they might be in the house with no sinister designs, and that their only anxiety now was to escape from a building into which they had made an unlawful entrance. This would soon be put to the proof. If, when they were on the landing of the ground floor, we heard the street door open and shut, the fears which oppressed us would be dispelled, and we should be able to breathe freely. I perceived that my wife was animated by a similar hope, and we both strained our ears in the endeavor to follow with our terrified senses the progress of the sound. It ceased awhile on the ground floor, and we listened in agonized suspense for the click of a latch and the harsh creak of rusty hinges, but no such comforting sounds reached our ears, and presently the dead silence was broken by the soft pit-pat of footsteps on the stairs leading to the first floor. My wife's hold upon me tightened. "We are lost!" she moaned. "What shall we do--oh, what shall we do?" I had no weapon about me with the exception of a small penknife, which was practically useless in such an encounter as that in which I expected soon to be engaged. A peaceful citizen like myself had no need to carry weapons. I looked around the room for one. There was not an article of furniture in it--not a stick. I would have given the world for an ax or a piece of iron with which I could have made some kind of defense. We were absolutely helpless and powerless, and it was my terror that made me certain that we were threatened by more than one enemy. To go from the room and meet the persons who were advancing toward us would be an act of madness, and would in all probability but hasten our fate. We must remain where we were, and wait for events; no reasonable alternative was open to us. Pat, pat, pat, came the sound to our ears; nearer, nearer, nearer; not boldly, as if those from whom it proceeded were engaged upon an open and honest mission, but stealthily and covertly, as though they desired all knowledge of their movements to be concealed from their victims. The footsteps had now reached the landing of the first floor and, after another deathlike pause, commenced to ascend the stairs which led directly to us. "Can't you do something, Edward?" whispered my agonized wife, wringing her hands. "Can't you lock the door?" It is strange that the fact of the door being unlocked had not occurred to me before. I rushed to it instantly, and a sigh of intense relief escaped me at finding the key in the lock. I turned it like lightning, and we were so far safe. Then my wife flew to the window, and, throwing it open, began to scream for help--that is to say, she would have screamed if she had had the power, but her voice was almost frozen in her throat, and the sounds that issued from her were of a ravenlike hoarseness, and could have traveled but a few yards; too short a distance in our lonely situation to be of any practical value. Soon I added my shouts to her hoarse scream. They were sent forth to a dead world; to our frantic appeals no answer was made. Meanwhile, occupied as I was, I could still pay some attention to what was passing on the stairs that led to the room. I had indulged in a faint hope that our cries would alarm those without, and would induce them to forego their murderous attack upon us, but the stealthy pat, pat, pat of the footsteps continued, and were now in the middle of the staircase; there could be but a few more stairs to ascend. Still another hope remained--that when the footsteps reached the second landing they would proceed onward to the top of the house. This last hope, like those which had preceded it, was not fulfilled. Nearer, nearer, nearer they approached, until they were close to the door; then there was another pause; no further sounds were heard. My impression now was that the villains who had a design against us--for by this time I entertained no doubt of their diabolical purpose, and that we were in the direst peril--were making preparations to carry it into effect. Presently they would try the handle of the door, and, discovering that it was locked, would burst it open and spring upon us. A long and awful silence ensued, during which the agonizing question occupied my mind, what was being done outside the door? The torture of the suspense was maddening; the silence was more harrowing than the footsteps themselves had been. I was soon to receive an appalling answer to the question. The door--notwithstanding my firm belief that I had securely locked it--slowly and noiselessly opened. My heart beat wildly, but I held myself ready, so far as lay in my poor power, to meet the attack with which we were threatened. And now the door stood wide open, and I saw no form of man or woman. But gradually there shaped itself in the air the outline of a female shape, a shadow, which as I gazed grew more distinct, and yet was never quite vivid to my sight. It was the figure of a young girl, poorly dressed, with carpet slippers on her feet. Her hair was hanging loose, and the tattered remnants of a cap attached to it was an indication that her station in life was--or more properly speaking, had been--that of a domestic servant. Her face was white and wan, and her large gray eyes were fixed mournfully upon me. There was a dead beauty in their depths which seemed to speak of glowing hopes of youth prematurely blasted and destroyed, and, though the features of the apparition were but airy outlines, I could not fail to perceive that in a bygone time they had been comely and prepossessing. More terrible than any form of living man or woman was this appalling spectacle as it stood, silent and still, upon the threshold. Had the bell I rang summoned it from the grave? For what purpose had it come? What did it require of me? It is probable that I should have mustered courage to ask some such questions as these, and indeed I was aware that my lips were moving, but no sound issued from them--my voice was gone; I could not utter an audible sound. For several minutes, as it seemed to me, though it could not have been so long, did I continue to gaze upon the figure. I had directed a brief glance at its feet, but when my eyes traveled up to its face they became magnetized, as it were. The spell was broken by a movement on the ground, not proceeding from the apparition of the girl. I looked down, and there, gliding past the upright spectral figure, I saw creeping toward me a skeleton cat. It was veritably a skeleton, and was to my sight as impalpable as the young girl. Through its skin, almost bare of hair, its bones were sharply outlined. It was black; its ears were pointed, its eyes were yellow, its mouth was open, showing its sharp teeth. This second apparition added to my horror, which grew deeper and deeper as the cat, with gliding motion, approached me. Had its paws left upon the ground a bloody imprint I could not have been more awestricken. It paused a few inches from me, where it crouched motionless so long as I remained so. When I moved it accompanied me, and when I stopped it stopped, waiting for a mandate from me to set it in motion. Raising my eyes to the door I discovered to my amazement that the figure of the girl had vanished. Nerving myself to the effort, I stepped softly into the passage and gazed along and at the staircases above and below me, but saw no movement of substance or shadow. Returning to the room I was irresistibly impelled by a desire to convince myself whether the cat which had accompanied me to and fro was as palpable to touch as to sight. Kneeling to put this to the test I found myself kneeling on my wife's dress. So engrossed had I been in the astounding apparitions that I had paid no attention to her, and now I saw that she had fainted. Before devoting myself to her I passed my hand over the cat and came in contact with nothing in the shape of substance. It was truly a specter, and I beheld it as clearly as I beheld the body of my wife lying at my side. I took my flask from my pocket and bathed my wife's forehead, and poured a few drops of brandy and water down her throat, and I was presently relieved by seeing her eyes open. She closed them again immediately, and said, in a whisper: "Is it gone?" Anxious to learn what she had seen--for I inwardly argued that I might myself be the victim of a strange delusion--I met her inquiry by asking: "Is what gone, Maria?" "The girl," she murmured; "that dreadful figure that came into the room?" "Look for yourself," I said. It was not without apprehension that I made the request, and I nervously followed the direction of her eyes. "It is not in the room," she sighed. "But, Edward, who opened the door?" "The wind blew it open, most likely." "You locked it, Edward! I heard you turn the key in the lock." "I thought I did, but I must have been mistaken. Terrified as we were, how could we trust the evidence of our senses? And do you suppose there's a lock in the house in proper order?" "It must have been my fancy. Did _you_ see nothing?" How should I answer her? Revive her terror by telling her that she was under no delusion, but that the spectral figure of the young girl had really presented itself; or, out of kindness to her, strive to banish her fears by a pardonable falsehood? Before I decided how to act I felt it necessary to ascertain whether the cat lying in full view to me was visible to her. "Maria," I said, "take the evidence of your senses. Look round the room--at the door, at the walls, at the ceiling, on the floor--and tell me what you see." With timid eyes she obeyed, and glanced in every direction, not omitting the spot upon which the skeleton cat was lying. "I don't see anything, Edward." "Does not that prove that the figure you spoke of was a trick of the imagination?" "You actually saw nothing?" "Nothing." All this time she had been sitting on the floor, keeping tight hold of me. I assisted her to her feet; she was so weak that she could hardly stand. "For Heaven's sake!" she said "do not let us remain in the house another minute." I was as anxious to leave as she was, and had I been alone I should have rushed downstairs in blind haste, but I had to attend to my wife. The power of rapid motion had deserted her, and when we were about to pass through the passage she shrunk back, fearing that the apparition of the young girl was lurking there. She experienced the same fear as we descended the stairs, and clung to me in terror when we approached an open door. I was grateful that the apparition of the cat--which followed us faithfully down to the hall--was invisible to her; if it had not been she would have lost her senses again, and it would have been hard work for me to carry her out, as she is by no means of a light weight. The question which now agitated me was whether the cat would come into the streets with us, or would return to the resting place which should have been its last. It was soon and plainly answered. I opened the street door, and stood upon the threshold. The cat stood there also. I paused to give it the opportunity of returning, but it evinced no desire to do so. I went down the stone steps to the front garden; the cat accompanied me. I walked through the front garden out of the gate, straight into Lamb's Terrace, and thence across the wretched wastes of ground into more cheerful thoroughfares; and the skeleton cat was by my side the whole of the time. The evidence of civilized life by which we were now surrounded restored Maria's spirits; she found her tongue. "Why did you stop on the doorstep, Edward?" she asked. "I had to lock the street door," I answered. "We will not take that house, my dear," she said. "No, we will not take it." Some unaccustomed note in my voice struck her as strange. "Is anything the matter with you?" she asked. "No," I replied, glancing at the cat, "nothing." "What are you looking at? Why are your eyes wandering so?" "My dear," I said, with an attempt to speak in a lively tone, and failing dismally, "I must be a bit unstrung, that is all." She accepted my explanation as satisfactory. "No wonder," she said; "I would not go through such another trial for all the money in the world." CHAPTER VII. I MAKE SOME SINGULAR EXPERIMENTS. For a little while we walked along in silence, and then I asked my wife whether she would ride or walk home. "I should prefer to walk," she said; "it is early, and the air is fresh and reviving. Things look all the brighter now we are out of that horrible place. A walk will do us good." I made no demur, though I was curious to see what the skeleton cat would do when we entered an omnibus full of people. It would experience a difficulty in finding a place on the floor of the 'bus, and there would be no room for it to stretch itself comfortably on the seats. I wished to ascertain, also, whether among a number of strangers there would be one to whom it would make itself visible. I peered into the faces of the passers-by with this thought in my mind, but I saw no expression of surprise in them, notwithstanding that the cat seemed to touch their legs in brushing past. Again and again did I turn my eyes away from the apparition; and again and again, looking down at my feet, I beheld it as clearly as if it were an actual living example of its species. Once we got into a crowd and I hoped that I had lost it. No such luck; it evinced no disposition to leave me. "Edward," said my wife, "I am sure you are not well. I have tired you out with this eternal looking over houses to let. You have been very patient with me"--she pressed my arm affectionately--"and I will try and make it up to you. I know you never really wished to move." "I never wished it, Maria." "And you have gone through all this for my sake. I don't like to give up a thing once I have set my mind on it,--you know that of old, my dear,--but the experiences of this morning will last me a lifetime; so I will give this up." "The idea of moving?" I asked in a dull voice. "You give it up altogether?" "Yes, altogether. We will remain in our old house." It is a singular confession to make, but this proclamation of the victory I had gained afforded me no satisfaction. I had no wish to move; my earnest desire was to remain where we were; but with the infernal cat gliding by my side, I could think of nothing but the haunted house in Lamb's Terrace which we had just quitted. In that house was the spectral figure of the girl who, by spiritual means, had opened a door I had locked, and presented herself to me. She was now alone. I had deprived her of a companion who, for aught I knew, might have been a solace to her. It was as if I had been guilty of a crime; as if I had condemned her to solitude. But it was folly to torment myself with such reflections. What had I to do with the incidents of this eventful day? I was a passive instrument, and was being led by unseen hands. More pertinent to ask what was the portent of the apparitions, and why the supernatural visitation was inflicted upon me, although to these questions I could expect no answer. Involuntarily I stooped to assure myself once more that the cat was but a shadow. "What are you stooping for?" inquired my wife. "I thought I had dropped my handkerchief." "It is here, in your pocket." She took it out and handed it to me. "I was mistaken," I muttered. She held up her sunshade and hailed a passing hansom, saying energetically, and with a troubled look at me, "We will ride home." I did not object. I think if she had said "We will fly home," I should have made an attempt to fly, so absolutely was I, for the time, deprived of the power of deciding my own movements. I did not see the cat spring into the cab, but directly we were seated, there it lay crouched in front of us; and when the driver pulled up at our house there it was waiting for the street door to be opened. "Lie down and rest yourself for an hour," said my wife, with deep concern in her voice. "No," I replied, "I will smoke a pipe in the garden." With wifely solicitude she filled my pipe for me, and held a lighted match to the tobacco. I puffed up, thanked her with a look, and went into the garden accompanied by the cat. In the part of London in which we live there are pleasant gardens attached to many of the houses, and our little plot of ground is by no means to be despised. It is some ninety feet in length, is divided in the center by a broad graveled space, and has a graveled walk all around it; and here when the weather permits, my wife and I frequently sit and enjoy ourselves. I am also the proud possessor of a greenhouse, which, as well as the borders and beds I have laid out, is in summer and autumn generally bright with flowers, of which I am very fond; and into this greenhouse I walked to smoke the green fly, which was doing its worst for my pelargoniums. There are a couple of trees in my garden, and birds' nests in them. The birds were flitting among the branches, and I looked at the cat, wondering whether it would spring after its feathered victims. It took no notice of them, nor they of it. I remained in the greenhouse ten or twelve minutes, and then it occurred to me to make an experiment. With a swift and sudden motion I left the greenhouse and pulled the door behind me, shutting the cat inside. I walked toward the center of the garden, and the animal I thought I had cunningly imprisoned glided on at my side. Doors shut and locked, and doubtless stone walls, presented no greater obstacle to the creature than the air I breathed. I sat down on the garden seat and smoked and pondered, and was aroused by a soft purring at my feet, and the contact of a furry body against my legs. I uttered an exclamation, and, looking down, saw our own household cat--a tortoise-shell tabby--rubbing against me. Now, thought I, there will be a fight. But there was nothing of the kind. I felt convinced that the skeleton cat saw our tortoise-shell cat, and presently I was quite as convinced that the flesh and blood reality was unconscious of the presence of the disembodied spirit. I made another experiment. I went stealthily into the kitchen, and filled a saucer with milk. This saucer I took into the garden and put upon the gravel before the two cats. "You must be hungry," I said aloud to the spectral figure, with a feeble attempt at jocularity. "Lap up." It made no movement. With a look of gratitude at me our tabby lapped up the whole of the milk, and licked the saucer dry. My wife came out and, seeing what I had done, smiled. "Are you feeling better?" she asked solicitously. "There is nothing whatever the matter with me," I said, with an unreasonable show of irritation. She wisely made no reply, and I was once more left alone with my supernatural companion. Thus passed the day, and I was glad when the hour arrived for Bob Millet to make his appearance. He came punctually and was cordially received by my wife. "You are in time for tea, Mr. Millet," she said, shaking hands with him. "I want you to feel that you are really welcome here." "Indeed I do feel so," said Bob, gratified by this reception, which I fancy he hardly expected. They made a good meal, but though my wife had thoughtfully prepared a dish of which I was very fond--a tongue stewed with raisins--I ate very little. "No appetite, Ned?" said Bob. I shook my head gloomily. "He is out of sorts, Mr. Millet," said my wife, "and I am delighted you are here to cheer him up. He has me to thank for his low spirits; it is all because of my stupid wish to leave the house in which we are as comfortable as we could reasonably hope to be. I have worried him to death, almost, dragging him about against his will--though he has never complained--from morning till night for I don't know how long past. He is not half the man he was; he doesn't eat well and he doesn't sleep well, and I am to blame for it." She was ready to cry with remorse, and I felt ashamed of myself for not having the strength to battle with the delusion which surely would not torture me forever. I patted her on the shoulder, and put on a more cheerful countenance. She brightened up instantly, and then Bob asked whether we had been to 79 Lamb's Terrace. "Yes, we have," said my wife, "and I am truly thankful that we got out of it safely." "Ah!" said Bob, lifting his eyes. "You were right, Mr. Millet," said my wife, "the house is haunted." "Oh," said Bob, "I only told you what I had heard. For my part, I don't even know where Lamb's Terrace is." "Take my advice, Mr. Millet, and don't try to know. The less you see of the place the better it will be for you." "Why?" "Because it _is_ haunted," she replied with emphatic shakes of her head, "and I am much obliged to you for putting us on our guard." "Then you saw something?" My wife looked at me. "Tell him what you fancy you saw," I said. "It was not fancy," she rejoined; "I have been thinking over it during the day, and the more I think, the more I am convinced that I did see--what I saw." "I should like to hear about it," said Bob. "You shall." And she told him all; of our going over the house till we got to the room on the second floor, of my pulling the bell, of the sounds we had heard proceeding from the basement and approaching nearer and nearer till they were outside in the passage, of my locking the door, of the door opening of its own accord, and of the appearance on the threshold of the specter of a young girl, and, finally, of her fainting away. "It was only my obstinacy," she said, "that took us up to the top of the house. Edward was quite ready to leave it before we had been in the place two minutes, but I insisted upon going into all the rooms, and I was properly punished for it. I was frightened enough, goodness knows, before I fainted, for I was chilled all over by what I had already seen, and I ought to have been satisfied; but you know what women are, Mr. Millet, when they take a fancy into their heads." "There, Bob," said I, "there's a confession to make; not many women would say as much." Bob smiled, and said, "You are too hard on yourself. We are much of a muchness--men and women alike; there is nothing to choose between us." "You are very good to say so, Mr. Millet." "When you recovered from your faint," said Bob, "was the figure still there?" "No, it was gone." "And you did not see it again?" "No, thank God!" "Did you see it?" asked Bob, turning to me. "He says he didn't," said my wife, quickly replying for me, "but----" "But," I added, "she does not believe me." "How can I believe you," said my wife reproachfully, "when the very moment before I swooned away I saw your eyes almost starting out of your head with fright." "Oh, well," I said, "I suppose I have as much right to fancy things as you." "Of course you have, and it was very considerate of you to deny that you saw anything. He is the best husband in the world, Mr. Millet, and if he thinks I don't appreciate him he is mistaken." "Now, my dear," I said soothingly, "you know I don't think anything of the sort; if I am the best husband in the world, so are you the best wife in the world. What do you say to our going in for the flitch of bacon?" "It is all very well to make a laughing matter of it," said my wife seriously. "I will ask Mr. Millet this plain question. He may say, like you, that it is all fancy; but pray how does he account for the opening of a locked door?" "I told you," I interposed before Bob could speak, "that I must have been mistaken in supposing I had locked it." "Very good. But the door was shut if it was not locked." "I don't deny that it was." "How did it come open, then?" "I told you that, too," I replied. "The wind." "What wind?" "The wind from the window through the broken panes." She turned to Bob triumphantly. "What do you think of that, Mr. Millet? When we go into the room the door slams, and my husband says it slams because of the wind through the window. I accept that as reasonable, but is it reasonable to suppose that the same wind that blows a door shut from the inside of a room should blow it open from the outside?" "Well, no," said Bob, with a sly look at me; "I should say it was not reasonable." I was fairly caught. My wife's logic was too much for me. "And now," said she, "as I know it will worry him if I go on talking about it, I will leave you two gentlemen together while I go and look after some affairs. You will spend the evening with us, Mr. Millet?" "With much pleasure," he said. "And I beg your pardon," she said, "for having misjudged you. I did think that you and my husband were in a plot together to set me against the house, and I did not think it was nice behavior in a gentleman who was paying me his first visit. I told my husband as much last night before we went to sleep, and he stood up for you like the true friend he is; and now I am glad to say I have found out my mistake. I hope you will forgive me. "There is nothing to forgive," said Bob, in the kindest and gentlest tone imaginable. "All that you have said and thought and done was most fair and reasonable, and I ought to be thankful for the little misunderstanding, if it has given you a better opinion of me." CHAPTER VIII. I TAKE BOB INTO MY CONFIDENCE. "A sensible woman," said Bob, gazing after my wife; and then, in a more serious tone, "Ned, is it all true?" "Every word of it." "About the phantom of the girl?" "Yes, about the phantom of the girl. Frightfully, horribly true!" "You saw it?" "I did; and I would swear it was no trick of imagination." "And the door opened, as your wife has described?" "It did, and I will swear that _that_ was no trick of the imagination." We had moved our chairs and were sitting by the open window, from which stretched the bright prospect of the flowers in my garden; there was a space of some three feet between our chairs as we sat facing each other, and on this space lay the skeleton cat. "There is something more," I said. "Look down here." I pointed to the cat. "Well? I am looking." "What do you see?" "Nothing." "Absolutely nothing?" "Nothing, except the carpet." "Bob, would you judge me to be a man possessed of a fair amount of common sense?" "Certainly." "Not likely to give way to fads and fancies?" "Certainly." "Caring, as a rule, more for the prosaic than the romantic side of things?" "I should say that, without doubt." "And you would say what is true of me, up to the present moment. I prefer the plain bread-and-butter side of life, and though I hope I have a proper sympathy for my fellow-creatures, I am not given to extravagant sentiment. I am putting this description of myself in very plain words, because I really want you to understand me as I am." "I think I do understand you, Ned." "I have never had a nightmare," I continued, "and, as a rule, my sleep is dreamless. It is true that my rest has been a little disturbed lately by my wife's wish to move, but the few restless nights I have passed from this reason are quite an exception. To sum myself up briefly and concisely, I claim to be considered a healthy human being in mind and body." "It is not I, Ned, who would dispute that claim." "I have told you that the spectral figure of the girl appeared to me. A doctor would at once declare it to be a delusion of the senses. If my wife informed the doctor that she also saw it, he would reply that she also was suffering under a delusion, and he would attempt to explain it away on the ground of sympathy between us. But the opening of the door could be no delusion; it was tight shut, and the key was incontestibly turned in the lock; and yet it opened to admit the specter. The doctor would smile at this, and ask incredulously, 'Is it necessary for the entrance of an apparition, that a door should be open, when it possesses the power of passing through material obstacles?' It _does_ possess such a power, Bob; I have tested and proved it. Now, what I have been coming to is this. My wife saw one apparition; I saw two." "Two?" exclaimed Bob, regarding me more intently. "Yes, two. One, the girl, vanished; the other, the cat, remained." "In Heaven's name what are you talking about?" "I am relating an absolute fact. By the side of the girl appeared the apparition of a skeleton cat, which accompanied me from the house, which glided along the streets at my side, which entered my own house with me, and which now lies here, on this little space of carpet between us, on which you see--nothing. Now, Bob, tell me at once that I am mad." "I shall tell you nothing of the kind; I must have a little time to consider. What kind of reading do you indulge in? Sensation stories?" "I chiefly read the newspapers." "Digestion good, Ned?" "In perfect condition; for the last ten years I have not had a day's bad health." "All that is in your favor." "Thank you. I see that you are taking a medical view of my case." "Indeed, I am not; I only want to think it out for myself. You can actually see the cat?" "There it lies, its yellow eyes fixed on my face." "Touch it." I stretched forth my hand and passed it over and through the apparition. "Does it reply by any sign?" "By none." "And yet it moves?" "When I move. Otherwise it remains motionless, in a state of expectation, as it appears to me. "I don't quite understand, Ned." "It is difficult to understand, but it seems to be waiting for something in the near or distant future. It relieves me to unburden my mind to you, Bob. I do not intend to confide in my wife; it would frighten her out of her life, and in the kindness of her heart she would try to make me disbelieve the evidence of my own senses. Therefore not a word about this to her. I hear her singing; she is coming back to us, and she is singing to make me cheerful. Why, Maria," I said, as she entered the room, "what have you got your hat on for? Are you going out for a walk?" "I am," she replied briskly, "and you two gentlemen are coming with me. It is now half-past seven, and if you will be so good as not to raise any objection I propose to treat you to the theater." "A good idea," said Bob Millet, in a tone as lively as her own. "No tragedies," she continued, "a play that we can have a good laugh over; we have had enough of tragedies to-day, and I don't intend they shall get the best of me. We will go to the Criterion, where you always get a proper return for your money, and I hope you won't object to the pit, Mr. Millet?" "I assure you," said Bob, with grave humor, "that when I sit in the pit I shall consider myself one of the aristocracy. Your wife is a capital doctor, Ned." Very willingly I fell in with the thoughtful proposition, and as Maria insisted upon paying all the expenses out of her private purse I allowed her to do so, knowing that it would give her pleasure. We arrived at the Criterion before the raising of the curtain and we saw a laughable comedy most admirably acted, which afforded us great enjoyment. I may say that the circumstance of the skeleton cat not accompanying us was the mainspring of my enjoyment. Could it have been, after all, an illusion? Was it really possible that the apparitions I had seen were the creations of my fancy? Bob whispered to me once: "Has it accompanied us?" "No," I whispered back, "I see nothing of it." When we were outside the theater, and were ready to depart our separate ways, Bob said: "Will you come and spend an hour with me to-morrow evening, Ned?" "Yes, he will," said my wife; "it will do him good. It does not do, Mr. Millet, for a man to mope too much at home." So I consented, and we shook hands, and wished each other good-night. CHAPTER IX. I PAY BOB MILLET A VISIT. I was naturally curious when I arrived home to see if the cat was there. It was. It did not meet me at the street door, but it lay on the spot on which I had left it a few hours previously. Of course this distressed me, but I did not betray my uneasiness to my wife. I had at least cause for thankfulness in the silent announcement made by the apparition that it was not its intention to accompany me to every place I visited. We had our supper and went to bed; and it was an additional comfort to me when I found that it did not follow us to our bedroom. It was not likely, after such an exciting day, that I should pass a good night. My rest was greatly disturbed; and at about three o'clock I was wide awake. My wife was sleeping soundly. I rose quietly, thrust my feet in my slippers, and went downstairs to the dining-room. There lay the cat with its eyes wide open. "You infernal creature," I cried, holding the candle so that its light fell upon the specter, "what are you here for? What do you want me to do? Why do you not go back to your grave and leave me in peace?" I asked these questions slowly, and paused between each, with an insane notion that an answer might be given to them. No answer was vouchsafed, and I recognized the folly of my expectation. The peculiarity of the apparition was that its eyes never seemed to be closed, as the eyes of other cats are when they are in repose. It appeared to be ever on the watch, but what it was watching for was a sealed mystery to me. In a moment of exasperation I raised my hand against it threateningly; it did not move. I went no further than this, feeling that it would be cowardly to strike at a shadow. I returned to my bedroom, and after tossing about for an hour fell into a disturbed sleep. Bob lived at Canonbury, and had given me directions to take a North London train, his station being about half a mile from his lodgings. All the day the cat had remained in the dining-room, but when I was leaving the house on my visit to Bob, it rose and followed me. "Do you intend to favor me with your company?" I asked. "Very well, come along." And come along it did, to the train I took, got into the carriage with me, and emerged from it at the Canonbury station, where I found Bob waiting for me on the platform. "I have brought another visitor with me, Bob," I said, "but I can assure you it has accompanied me without any invitation." "Is it here, then?" he asked, following the direction of my eyes. "Yes, Bob, it is here." And as we walked to the old-fashioned house in which he rented one room at the top, I remarked, "Is it not singular that it did not come to the theater with me last night, and that it should accompany me now upon this friendly visit to you?" Bob nodded. "I am beginning to have theories about it," I continued, "and one is, that something will occur to-night in connection with the haunted house in Lamb's Terrace." "Do not get too many fancies into your head, old fellow," said Bob. "I will not get more than I can help, but ideas come without any active prompting or wish of my own; I am like a man who is being driven, or led." Bob's one room was by no means uncomfortable; it served at once for his living and bedroom, but the bed he occupied being a folding bed, and the washstand he used being inclosed, it did not present the appearance of a bedroom. There were shelves on the walls containing a large number of books; four or five of these were on the table. "Now, sir or madam," said I to the cat, "what do you think of Bob's residence, and what can we do to make you comfortable?" The cat glided to the hearthrug and stretched itself upon it; I wrested my attention from the unpleasant object. "I am very well off here," said Bob; "the landlady cooks my meals for me, and allows me to have them downstairs. I am at the top of the house, and there is a fine view from the roof; I often smoke for an hour there. You see that door in the corner; it is a closet, with a fixed flight of steps leading to the roof; in case of fire I should be safe. Sit in the armchair, Ned, and let us reason out things. I have been thinking a great deal about you to-day, and talking about you, too." "That was scarcely right, Bob." "Don't be afraid; you were not mentioned by name, and the gentleman I conversed with is blind. That is the reason, very likely, why he believes in what he does not see." "A friend of yours?" "A dear friend; a poor gentleman who has suffered, and who bears his sufferings with a resignation which can only spring from faith. I told you yesterday that I had been married and that I lost my wife. The gentleman I speak of is the son of my dead wife's sister, who is herself a widow. My wife's family were gentlefolk, who had fallen from affluence, not exactly into poverty, but into very poor circumstances. Ronald Elsdale--the name of my nephew--is a tutor; he was not born blind; the affliction came upon him gradually, and was accelerated by over study in his boyish days. Four years ago he could see, and when blindness came upon him he was fortunately armed, and able to obtain a fair living for himself and his widowed mother by tutoring. He is an accomplished musician, and frequently obtains remunerative engagements to play. He speaks modern languages fluently, is well up in the sciences, has read deeply, and is altogether as noble and sweet a gentleman as moves upon the earth." Bob spoke with enthusiasm, and it was easy to perceive that he had a sincere love for Mr. Ronald Elsdale. "In every way so accomplished and admirable," I said, "and with such a misfortune hanging over him, he needs a wife to look after him." "His mother does that," Bob replied, "with tender devotion, and Ronald will never marry unless--but thereby hangs a tale, as Shakspere says. He is not the only man who cherishes delusions." "Ah! he has delusions. I hope they are more agreeable than mine. How is it, Bob, that you have had time for so much talk to-day with your nephew?" "This is Thursday, and Mr. Gascoigne closes his office on Thursdays at two o'clock, so I have had a few hours at my disposal, which have been partly employed in talking with Ronald and partly in studying your case." "Explain." "I have been looking up apparitions," said Bob, pointing to the books upon the table. I did not trouble myself to examine them; it did not seem to me that the books would be of much service in my case; the facts themselves were sufficiently strong and stern, and I mentally scouted the idea that printed matter would enable me to get rid of the apparition that haunted me. "It is clear to me," I said, "that you think I am laboring under some hallucination, and that I see the specter, now lying on the hearthrug, with my mental and not my actual vision. Very well, Bob; a difference of opinion will not alter the facts." "The awkward part of it is," said Bob, "that all evidence is against you." I nodded toward the books on the table, and said, "All such evidence as that." "Yes, but you must not forget that cleverer heads than ours have occupied years of their lives in sifting these matters to the bottom." "In trying to sift them, Bob." "Well, in trying to sift them; but they give reasons for the conclusions they arrive at which it would be difficult, if not impossible, for men like ourselves to argue away." "There are two strong witnesses on my side," I remarked; "one is myself, the other is my wife. Bear in mind that we both saw the apparition of the girl; there was no collusion between us beforehand, and if, in our fright, our imaginations were already prepared to conjure up a phantom of the air, it is hardly possible that that phantom should, without previous concert, assume exactly the same form and shape; nor was there any after conspiracy between us as to the manner in which this phantom was to be dressed. Now, my wife has described to me the dress of the girl, the shreds of a cap sticking to her hair, the frock of faded pink, the carpet slippers, the black stockings, and I recognize the faithfulness of these details, which presented themselves to me exactly as they did to her. Granted that one mind may be laboring under a delusion, it is hardly possible that two minds can simultaneously be thus imposed upon. Answer that, Bob." "Sympathy," he replied. "The word I used yesterday evening, when I was imagining what the doctors would say upon my case; it is an easy way to get out of it, but it does not satisfy me. I suppose you have come across some curious cases in looking up apparitions?" "Some very curious cases. Here is one in which a door, not only locked but bolted, plays a part. A great Scotch physician relates how a person of high rank complains to him that he is in the habit of being visited by a hideous old woman at six o'clock every evening; that she rushes upon him with a crutch in her hand, and strikes him a blow so severe that he falls down in a swoon. The gentleman informs the physician that on the previous evening, at a quarter to six o'clock, he carefully locked and double bolted the door of the room, and that then he sat down in his chair and waited. Exactly as the clock strikes six the door flies wide open--as the door in Lamb's Terrace did, Ned--and the old woman rushes in and deals him a harder blow than she was in the habit of doing, and down he falls insensible. 'How many times has this occurred?' asks the physician. 'Several times,' is the reply. 'On any one of these occasions,' says the physician, 'have you had a companion with you?' 'No,' the gentleman replies, 'I have been quite alone.' The physician then inquires at what hour the gentleman dines, and he answers, five o'clock, and the physician proposes that they shall dine the next day in the room in which the old woman makes her appearance. The gentleman gladly consents; they dine together as agreed upon, and the physician--who is an agreeable talker--succeeds apparently in making his host forget all about the apparition. Suddenly, the clock on the mantelpiece is heard striking six. 'Here she is, here she is!' cries the gentleman, and a moment afterward falls down in a fit." "Very curious," I said, "and how does the wise physician account for the delusion?" "By the gentleman having a tendency to apoplexy." "There is, generally," I observed, "a weak spot or two in this kind of story. Does it say in the account that the door was locked and bolted when the gentleman and the physician dined together, and that the door flew open upon the appearance of the old lady?" "No, it does not say that." "The omission of the precaution to lock the door," I said, "is fatal, for the absence of that visible and material manifestation deprives the physician of the one strong argument he could have brought forward. Had the door been locked and bolted, and had the old woman appeared without its flying open, the physician could have said to the gentleman, 'You see, the door remains fastened, as we fastened it before we sat down to dinner; you imagined that it flew open, and there it remains shut, a clear proof that the old woman and her crutch is but a fevered fancy.' That would have disposed of this gentleman at once." "Quite so," said Bob. "You will, I suppose, admit that if the locked door had opened in the physician's presence, it would have been a sign that some spiritual power had been exercised for which he could not so readily have accounted?" "Yes, I should admit that." "Admit, then, that as my wife and I--two witnesses, each uninfluenced by the other--saw the locked door in Lamb's Terrace fly open, that _that_ is an evidence of the exercise of a spiritual power." Bob laughed a little awkwardly. "You have made me give evidence against myself," he said. Here there came a knock at the door, and Bob calling "Come in," the landlady of the house made her appearance. "Mr. Elsdale is downstairs," she said, "and was coming up, when I told him you had a friend with you, and he sent me to ask whether he would be intruding." Bob looked at me inquiringly. "Not so far as I am concerned," I said; "I should very much like to make your nephew's acquaintance." "Ask Mr. Elsdale to come up," said Bob; and the landlady departed. "I have more than a passing fancy to see your nephew," I said; "you tell me he has delusions; what he says in our discussion, which I don't propose to drop when he joins us, may be of interest." As I spoke Ronald Elsdale entered the room. "My nephew, Ronald Elsdale," said Bob, introducing us. "My old friend, Mr. Emery." As we shook hands my attention was diverted to an incident which, insignificant as it might appear, struck me as very singular; the skeleton cat had risen from the hearthrug and was now standing at Ronald Elsdale's feet, looking up into his face. CHAPTER X. RONALD ELSDALE GIVES OPINIONS. Something more singular than this next attracted my attention. Ronald Elsdale, blind as he was, inclined his head to the ground and seemed to be returning the gaze of the cat. "Can it be possible," I thought, "that this man, physically blind, and this cat, invisible to all eyes but mine, are conscious of each other's presence?" I put this to the test. "You appear to be listening for something," I said. "Did you bring a dog with you?" he asked. "My uncle, I know, keeps neither cat nor dog." "No," I replied, "I brought no dog." "Then I must be mistaken," he said, and he felt his way to the seat he was in the habit of occupying in Bob's room. The cat lay at his feet. I was prepossessed in the young man's favor the moment I set eyes upon him. He was tall and fair, a true Saxon in feature and complexion. There was an engaging frankness in his manner, and his bearing was that of a gentleman. He aroused my curiosity by a habit he had of closing his eyes when any earnest subject occupied his mind. He closed them now as he sat upon his chair, and when he opened them he said, in a singularly gentle voice, "My uncle has told you I am blind, Mr. Emery?" "Yes," I replied; "I sincerely sympathize with you. "Thank you. It is a great misfortune; but there are compensations. There are always compensations, Mr. Emery, even for the worst that can happen to a man." "It is good if one can think so," I remarked. "As a rule men are not patient when things are not as they wish." "It is not only useless to repine," was his reply, "it is foolish, and morally weak. For, admitting that there is such a principle as divine justice, we must also admit a divine interposition even in the small matters of human life. I should not speak so freely if my uncle had not told me of his early association with you, and of the friendly and affectionate greeting he received from you after a separation of nearly forty years. I look upon you already as a friend." "I am glad to hear you say so; we will seal the compact." I pressed his hand once more, and he responded as I would have wished him to respond. "I knew you would like each other," said Bob. "When I closed my eyes just now," resumed Ronald Elsdale, "it was because of the impression I had that there was some other living creature in the room beside ourselves." Bob and I exchanged glances, and Bob said: "We three are the only living creatures within these four walls of mine." "Of course, of course. Mr. Emery said so, and it is not likely he would deceive me. Blind people, Mr. Emery, are generally very suspicious; it follows naturally upon their affliction. Seeing nothing, they doubt much, and are ever in fear that they are being imposed upon and deceived. I am happy to say this is not the case with me; where I have not a fixed opinion I generally believe what is told me." A pang of self-reproach shot through me as he spoke. Here was I, in my very first interview with this frank and ingenuous young gentleman, deliberately deceiving him. Bob, also, did not seem quite at his ease. He was playing with his lower lip, always an indication in him of mental disturbance. "You said something just now," I observed, with a wish to change the subject, "about compensations for misfortune, and I infer that you have compensations for yours. But it must cause you regret?" "It does, but I do not fret, I do not take it to heart; I accept the inevitable. The proper use of the higher intelligence with which we are gifted is to reason calmly upon all human and worldly matters which touch us nearly. Those who can thus reason have cause for gratitude; and I have cause. Compensations? Yes, I have them. Difficult to describe, perhaps, because they are spiritual; inspired by faith or self-delusion, which stern materialists declare are one and the same thing." "Your uncle and I," I said, "were having a discussion upon delusions when you entered." "In continuation"--he turned to Bob; he seemed to know always where the person he was addressing was standing or sitting--"in continuation of the discussion we were having this afternoon?" "Yes," said Bob, "and we do not quite agree." "My uncle is a skeptic," said Ronald, "he does not believe in miracles." "You do?" I inquired. "Undoubtedly. It will be a fatal day for the world when faith in miracles is dead. Do not do my uncle an injustice, Mr. Emery; I never heard him speak as he spoke this afternoon when we were discussing this subject, and it almost seemed to me as if he were desirous of arguing against himself. Do you require absolute visible proof before you believe?" "Not always," I replied, with my eyes on the spectral cat. "I am forced to believe in some things which are not visible to other eyes than mine." "I do not quite understand you," said Ronald thoughtfully. "It is, at the best, but a half-hearted admission, and, regarding you in the light of a friend, as I do Uncle Bob, I would like to break down the barrier." "Try," I said anxiously. He was silent for a moment or two, considering. "My uncle, this afternoon, in the attempt to support his argument, brought forward some instances of spectral illusions such as that of a man who was in the habit of seeing in his drawing room a band of figures, dressed in green, who entertained him with singular dances; and he instanced other illusions of a like nature. These are waking fancies, produced either by a disordered mind or a disordered body; they are of the same order as dreams. At dead of night imperial Reason sleeps, And Fancy, with her train, her revel keeps. So by day, when the mind is disturbed by such fancies, does imperial reason sleep. For my own part I make no attempt to dispute the facts of these cases. They have been brought forward by physicians in proof of certain functional and scientific facts, and by wise treatment suffering mortals have been won from madness. In this respect they have served a good purpose; but materialists, and persons who now fashionably call themselves agnostics, seize upon these illustrations in proof that mortal life is of no more value, and means no more, than the life of a flower or the growth of a stone, and that when we die we are blotted out spiritually and materially forever. In their eyes we are so many pounds of flesh and blood; there is nothing divine, nothing spiritual in us; we are surrounded by no mystery. 'Miracles!' they cry. 'Stories for children; fables to tickle, amuse, and delude!' What we see and feel is, what we do not see and feel is not and cannot be. If this view were universal what would become of religion? The high priests of God, under whichever banner they preach, insist upon our accepting miracles, and they are right in thus insisting. You laugh at faith and destroy it, and in its destruction you destroy comfort and consolation; you destroy salvation. God is a miracle. Because we do not see him are we not to believe in him? Are we not to believe in the resurrection? Then farewell to the sublime solace that lies in the immortality of the soul. There is a road to Calvary called the Via Dolorosa, and there pilgrims kneel and see a miracle in every stone; there, hearts that are crushed with sorrow tarry, and go away blessed and comforted for the struggle of years that yet lies before them." His voice was deep and earnest, his handsome face glowed with enthusiasm. I touched his hand, and a sweet, pathetic smile came to his lips. "Mr. Elsdale," I said, "I thank you from my heart. May I venture to ask if you believe in spiritual visitations?" "Believing what I believe," he replied, "I must believe in them." "You have spoken," I continued, "of receiving comfort and consolation from such belief. Do you think that a man who is not, to his own knowledge, interested or involved in something which, for the sake of argument, I will call a crime, may receive a spiritual visitation which compels him to take an active part in it?" "Not in the crime," asked Ronald, "in the discovery of it, I suppose you mean?" "Yes. In the discovery of it." "I think," said Ronald, "that a man who is not in any way connected with it may be made an agent in its discovery." We had some further conversation on the subject, and at the expiration of an hour or so Ronald Elsdale took his departure, and expressed the hope that we should meet again, to which hope I cordially responded. As he stood with his hand on the handle of the door, the cat, which had risen when he rose, stood at his feet. "Are you going with him?" I mentally asked. "You are quite welcome." A troubled expression crossed Ronald's face, and he made a motion with his hand as if to dispel it. Then he left the room, but the cat remained. CHAPTER XI. BOB RELATES TO ME SOME PARTICULARS OF RONALD ELSDALE'S DELUSION. I listened to the blind gentleman's footsteps as he slowly descended the stairs, and I asked Bob if he considered it safe to allow his nephew to go home unaccompanied. "Quite safe," replied Bob. "When a man loses the sense of sight he acquires other senses which have not been precisely defined; he seems to have eyes at his fingers' ends. And Ronald prefers to be alone." "Can you account," I inquired, approaching a subject which I knew was in Bob's mind, and to which he was unwilling to be the first to refer, "for his impression that there was another presence in the room beside ourselves?" "I cannot," said Bob curtly; "nor can you." "I do not pretend that I can; but it has set me thinking. Would you object to let me into the secret of the delusion under which he labors?" "There can be no harm in my doing so," he replied, after a pause. "In a certain way it is a love story, of which I believe Ronald has seen the end, a belief which is not shared by him. The incidents are few, and he sets store upon them, as most young men do who have been in love. It commenced about six years ago, when Ronald, fagged with overwork, went for a summer ramble on the Continent. He spent a few days in Paris, and then took the morning train to Geneva. It is a long travel from Paris to Geneva, and to anyone not cheerfully inclined a wearisome one. A happy spirit is required to enjoy a dozen hours boxed up in a railway carriage, but probably this day was to Ronald the happiest, as it was certainly the most eventful, in his life. For traveling in that train were a young lady and her father, a widower, I believe, though upon this point I cannot speak with certainty, nor can I tell you the gentleman's name, for the reason that Ronald has never mentioned it to me. The lady's was Beatrice, and that is all I know. In the course of that eventful day Ronald found opportunity to make himself of service to the young lady, but his attentions did not appear to be as agreeable to the father as they were to the daughter. It could not be doubted that she accepted them very readily, and that Ronald was as attractive to her as she was to him. From what I have gathered I should say that it was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Ronald, as you have seen, is a handsome young fellow, who would be likely to win favor with ladies all the world over, and at the time I am speaking of he was not oppressed by the fear of losing his sight. "When they were within a short distance of Geneva he asked Beatrice at which hotel they were going to put up, and she replied that she did not know. He inquired of her father, and that gentleman said he had not made up his mind. "'I hope we shall meet again,' said Ronald to Beatrice. 'Where do you go from Geneva?' "'To Chamounix, of course,' she replied. 'I have never been in Switzerland before. Have you?' "'Oh, yes,' he said. And then he described to her some of the most beautiful spots in Switzerland, and you may be sure that those beautiful spots were the places he intended to visit, and for which he had taken a circular ticket. "'Perhaps I shall see you in Chamounix,' he said. 'Do you remain long in Geneva?' "She could not inform him, and he had perforce to live on hope; for, to a fishing inquiry he put to Beatrice's father as to their probable length of stay in Geneva, the reply he received was that no definite plan of travel had been laid out. They might remain in Geneva a week or a fortnight, or they might leave it the next day. Even at this early stage of his acquaintanceship with Beatrice, Ronald discovered that her father did not wish to be intruded upon by strangers. It was dark when the train stopped at the Geneva station, and all Ronald's offers of assistance with the luggage were refused. However, he had the satisfaction, when he shook hands with Beatrice and wished her goodnight, of receiving from her something more than a careless pressure, and he marched to his hotel with the determination not to lose sight of her. "It was his intention to go to Cluses by rail, and thence by diligence to Chamounix. 'They will take a carriage, of course,' he thought, 'but we shall travel on the same day and arrive in Chamounix the same evening.' "I have no doubt that he dreamt of Beatrice that night, and that, in his fancy, he saw her fair face in the depths of the beautiful lake the next morning. But that is all he saw of her in Geneva, for though he made diligent search and most industrious inquiries he could not discover the hotel at which Beatrice and her father were staying. "I know," continued Bob, "that you have formed a favorable opinion of Ronald, but still you can have no idea of the stability of his character and of certain traits in it which distinguish him from most men. Once let an idea take firm possession of him and it is next to impossible to dislodge it. He dwells upon it, strengthens it by self-argument, and begets a strong faith in it. He is not easily discouraged and he seldom gives way to despair; he is, in a word, extraordinarily tenacious, and he was tenacious in this, the first serious love affair in his life. As he has expressed it to me, he felt that fate had brought him and Beatrice together, and that fate would not separate them. These are comfortable convictions; they rob life of many small miseries. Thus strengthened and fortified, Ronald continued his search for Beatrice in Geneva, and was not dashed because of the non-success that attended it. On the third day he determined to go on to Chamounix, and if they were not there to wait for their arrival. In so small a village as Chamounix Beatrice's father could scarcely hope to conceal his daughter from Ronald's eyes. On he went, and discovered that he was before them. There is but one road from Cluses to Chamounix, and from three to six o'clock on the afternoon of every successive day there was no more indefatigable pedestrian on that road than Ronald Elsdale. At length his patience was rewarded. An hour before the diligence was due he saw on the road which crosses the Arve a carriage, in which were seated Beatrice and her father. He did not wish to be seen by them so early on their arrival and he stepped out briskly before them to the Chamounix village. Their carriage drew up at the Hotel d'Angleterre and in the course of half an hour they left the hotel for a stroll. The moment they were out of sight he entered and engaged a room, and maneuvered to have his seat at the dinner table placed next to theirs. They were greatly surprised to see him, and I need scarcely say that of the two Beatrice was by far the better pleased. Such chance meetings, however, as these between tourists on the Continent are common enough, and, as Ronald is unmistakably a gentleman, Beatrice's father could not but receive him politely. In the course of conversation over the dinner table Beatrice informed Ronald that they intended to remain in Chamounix for at least a week. "'We are not quite sure,' said Beatrice's father quickly. "'Oh, yes, we are,' said Beatrice. 'It was a binding promise.' "He made a grimace, but did not reply. "I mention these small matters," said Bob, breaking off here, "so that you may rightly understand the attitude adopted by the elder gentleman toward my nephew, and it certainly seems to be not open to doubt that he did not regard Ronald with a favorable eye. "In the course of that week at Chamounix some understanding must have been arrived at by the young people which caused them to consider themselves engaged, but I believe there was nothing absolutely definite between them at the time. Beatrice and her father left Chamounix for Lucerne, and Ronald followed; but he was as unsuccessful in his endeavors to find them in Lucerne as he had been in Geneva. He went from place to place in the hope of meeting them, and it was not until a fortnight had elapsed that he had the happiness of tracking them to Como. To make short of a long story, Beatrice's father could no longer affect ignorance of the feelings which existed between Ronald and Beatrice, and in a conversation with Ronald he expressed open disapproval of my nephew's attentions. The only effect this opposition had upon Ronald was to deepen his love for Beatrice, and it appeared to be the same with the young lady. In one of the interviews between the gentlemen, Beatrice's father did not hesitate to declare that Ronald was following his daughter for her money, which Ronald indignantly denied, the truth being that he had no idea that Beatrice was in any way an heiress; and, except that she was a lady, and her father a gentleman, he was entirely ignorant of their social position. "From this point of Ronald's story, what I have to relate must be conveyed in more general terms. I gather that when the tour was ended the young people met occasionally and corresponded; and also that every obstacle that he could devise was placed in their way by Beatrice's father. Thus passed twelve months or so, at the end of which time the young lady mysteriously disappeared; and all Ronald's efforts to trace her were of no avail. It was in the midst of this trouble that his sight began to fail him, and then it was that he was assailed by the doubt whether, threatened with blindness, he had any right to marry. Had it not been for this impending visitation he had sufficient confidence in his prospects to warrant him in setting up a home to which he could bring a wife. But now all was changed, and the best he could hope for was that his exertions would enable him to support himself and his mother in fair comfort. If he had known how to communicate with Beatrice he would have explained this frankly to her, but he did not know where to address her; and consequently Beatrice's father was thus far master of the situation. As you have seen, Ronald was not spared the affliction; the most experienced specialists could do nothing for him; he finally lost his sight, and I am afraid there is no hope of his regaining it. "Misfortunes never come singly, and they did not come singly to Ronald. About a year after blindness fell upon him he heard that Beatrice was dead, and that before her death she had been for some time in London. If her love for him had been lasting and sincere it was strange that, being in London, she had made no effort to see him and had not even written to him. There would have been no difficulty in her doing one or the other, because she was acquainted with his address; and here comes in one of his delusions. Notwithstanding her silence he believes that she was faithful to him. Upon this you may reasonably ask, 'Why, then, did he himself not endeavor to meet her--why did he discontinue his efforts to ascertain where she was living?' His answer is that he could not offer her a home, that he dared not ask her to share his lot, and that it was his duty to set her free entirely. There is a lack of logic in the method of his reasoning. By his own action he wishes her to believe herself in no way bound to him, and at the same time he believes that she is faithful to the vows they exchanged. Lovers are seldom logical, and my nephew is no exception to the rule. "But this is a trifling delusion in comparison with one I am now about to mention. "Beatrice did not die a natural death. Retiring to rest one night, apparently in good health, she was found dead in her bed the next morning. Bear in mind that I do not vouch for the exact correctness of the particulars I am giving you. Ronald has always been exceedingly reticent upon the subject, and it is only from chance observations that have fallen from him that I have gathered and put together what I am now relating. She met her death by asphyxiation. Putting out the gas before getting into bed she must have accidentally turned it on again, for her room was filled with its fumes. In the face of all this, what will you think of my nephew when I tell you that he is under the delusion that Beatrice still lives?" With the spectral cat in full view of me, I replied: "Seeing what I see, I cast no doubt upon any man's delusions. It is warm here, Bob, let us go on the roof; perhaps this lady here would like a mouthful of fresh air." CHAPTER XII. A HOUSE ON FIRE. Bob's phantom visitor and my faithful companion had no objection to the tiles, in which it may have found an endearing memory of old associations. Bob had fixed a couple of seats to the roof, where we sat and chatted and smoked, and enjoyed the usual prospect of chimney pots and attic windows. Sitting upon that height, accompanied by the spectral cat, reminded me in an odd way of one of Cruikshank's pictures, and I made an observation to this effect to Bob. "It _is_ rather weird," he said, "and especially in this light." The sun had set, and in the skies we saw the reflection of the yellow glare from the shops of crowded neighborhoods. Our conversation was confined within narrow limits because of the one engrossing subject which occupied my mind, and as we had pretty well threshed that out, and there was nothing particularly new to say about it, we fell into occasional silences, which suited the mood I was in. During one of these silences I observed what appeared to be an unusual restlessness in the cat. Instead of sitting quietly at my feet it crept backward and forward, and at length paused at a little distance from me, with its face to the west. I described these movements to Bob, and remarked that it seemed to be expecting something. "I wish with all my heart," was his reply, "that we could find some other subject to talk about than this wretched creature." "I wish so, too; but I don't see how it is possible till it bids me farewell. I no longer possess a will of my own, but am led or driven as if I were a machine." "Keep cool, Ned. I am not going to argue with you any more about the spiritual existence of your apparition. I accept it, and almost wish that it were as plain to my eyes as it is to yours. But what I want you to do, old fellow, while this visitation is upon you, is to keep cool. For less cause than you have, men have gone mad. That is an unusual glare in the sky; it can hardly be the reflection of gaslights." He extended his hand to the west--the direction in which the spectral cat was looking. "Do you see any connection," I asked, "between that glare and the attention which the apparition is bestowing upon it?" "No," replied Bob. "I do. That is the reflection of a house on fire." As the words passed my lips the cat glided up to me, and I could almost have deluded myself into the belief that it plucked at my trousers. This, of course, from so unsubstantial and impalpable a figure could not have been; but it is certain that by its motion it made me understand that I must not remain idle on the roof of Bob's house--that there was a fire in the distance, and that I must go to it. I obeyed the voiceless command. "Come!" I said to Bob. "Where to?" "To the fire, in which my spectral friend is taking the greatest possible interest." Bob shrugged his shoulders. "It must be a long way off." "We shall find it. Come!" There was no excitement in the immediate neighborhood as we walked along in the direction of the fire, being guided by the glare in the sky. A few persons turned their eyes upward, and, remarking that there was a fire somewhere, passed on. Their indifference arose from the circumstance that they were in no danger; I could not help reflecting upon the selfishness of human nature which causes men to look unmoved upon tragedies in which they themselves are not involved. Being anxious to reach the spot quickly I called a cab, which in half an hour conveyed us to the corner of Stanmore Street, West. This was as far as the driver could go, the street being deluged with water, and blocked with fire engines and firemen. It had been a serious conflagration while it lasted, but the efforts made by the brigade to confine it to the house in which it broke out were successful. This one building, however, was completely gutted, even in that short space of time, and the enthralling incident in connection with it which was upon every man's tongue was that a gentleman had perished in the flames. From the remarks that reached my ears I gathered that the house had been let out as chambers, and that when the fire arose there were no other persons in it except the housekeeper and the gentleman who lived on the first floor. The housekeeper was saved; the gentleman was burned to death. As I stood pondering, Bob at my side, the spectral figure of the cat at my feet, Bob asked, "Well, Ned, where's the connection?" "Wait," I replied, rather irritably. A woman, supported by two female friends, passed us. She was crying, and wringing her hands, and I learned that she was the housekeeper who had been saved. Instinctively I followed her, and my visible and invisible companions accompanied me. It was not a difficult matter to elicit from the housekeeper all the information it was in her power to impart. The gentleman who had met with so untimely an end was a single man, with few friends and no relations. "I don't think," said the housekeeper, "that he had a brother, or a sister, or a cousin in the world; leastways, so far as I know, no one ever came to see him who had any claim upon him. He was a quiet gentleman, and didn't give no trouble. What do you want to know, sir? Was he very rich? All I can say is he always paid his way, and always seemed to have plenty and to spare. His name? Mr. Alfred Warner, sir. Are you a friend of his?" "No," I replied--for it was I who had asked the questions to which she had replied--"I was not acquainted with him." "What name did she say?" asked Bob, in a whisper. "Mr. Alfred Warner," I said. Bob caught his breath, and said, "That's strange! It is the name of the gentleman who put into our hands No. 79 Lamb's Terrace." "There is the connection, Bob," I said. "What do you say now to the spectral cat and its having urged us to come to this fire?" "What can I say, except that it is most bewildering and mysterious?" "Do you think I am still laboring under a delusion?" "No, I do not." "It was not without a motive," I said, "that I asked your nephew this evening whether he believed that a man who is not interested in something which, to make myself fairly clear, I called a crime, might receive a spiritual visitation which compelled him to take an active part in its discovery. His reply was that he did believe such a thing could be. I believe it, too, more than ever now, after this strange fire; and I believe, also, that there is a crime involved in it, and that I--whether by design or accident I will not pretend to say--shall be instrumental in its discovery. My memory does not deceive me, does it, Bob? You told me yesterday that the gentleman who has met his death in that fire, Mr. Alfred Warner, when he placed 79 Lamb's Terrace in your employer's hands to let, did not mention the name of his last tenant." "Yes, I told you so," Bob answered, "and there seemed to be no reason why we should ask for it." "So that it is probable," I continued, "that there is not a disinterested person in London to whom we could go to obtain the name of the last tenant." "Not that I am aware of," said Bob. I looked at my watch. It was ten o'clock. "If we went to your nephew's house, do you think we should find him up?" "Very likely." "I am going there, Bob. I have a question to ask him." He put no opposition in my way. A kind of stupefaction appeared to have come over him. We drove to the residence of Ronald Elsdale, and found him up; his mother had gone to bed. As we entered his room, I observed again an uneasy expression flash into his face, and I saw his blind eyes turn toward the spectral cat. "Only yourselves?" he inquired. I left it to Bob to reply, and he said, "Only ourselves." "It is very odd," said Ronald, "but I have the same impression that I had when I entered my uncle's room this evening, that there is somebody or something else present. It is useless trying to account for it." Then he asked, "Is there anything you wish to know?" "It is a late hour to visit you," I said; "but I have a reason, which I cannot at present explain, for asking you where the young lady to whom you were attached lived when she was in London?" He turned his troubled face toward his uncle, who said, "It is not an idle question, Ronald. I should like you to answer it." "She may not have lived there all the time she was in London," said Ronald; "but I heard where it is supposed she met her death. It was in the Northwestern district--Lamb's Terrace, No. 79." "Thank you," I said. We wished him good-night, and left the house. CHAPTER XIII. I TAKE THE HAUNTED HOUSE. I was too much excited to go home by train, though I knew that my wife would be waiting up for me. I felt the need of physical motion; the idea of sitting down in a railway carriage, and being compelled to keep still because of the people with which at this time of night it was sure to be filled, was unendurable. The confinement and the close air would stifle me. The advantage of walking through streets more or less crowded is that you can be alone if you choose. Every person you meet or pass is so wrapt up in his own affairs that no notice is taken of you. You may wave your arms, flourish your stick or umbrella, mutter to yourself, even talk aloud, without attracting conspicuous attention. An idle fellow or two might think you eccentric--that is all. In a railway carriage or an omnibus such license and freedom are impossible; you cannot shift your seat without drawing all eyes upon you, in a certain sense you become the property of other passengers, who would be likely to regard you with alarmed suspicion, and would probably conclude that you were an escaped lunatic. In such circumstances you are deprived of the power of devoting yourself to the one absorbing subject which occupies your mind. "I shall walk home," I said to Bob. He nodded, as though he understood why at so late an hour I deliberately inflicted upon myself a good four mile tramp. For a quarter of that distance we proceeded in silence, and only then did it occur to me that Bob was coming out of his way. I made an observation to this effect. "If you don't object to my company," he said, "I shall be glad to walk with you." "What do you think of it all?" I asked. "I don't know what to think," was his reply. "No delusion, eh, Bob?" I said, in a tone of sarcastic triumph. "You will not hunt up any more cases of spectral illusions to prove that I am on the road to madness." "No, Ned. Don't harp upon my lack of faith; the doubts I entertained were reasonable doubts after all. It is altogether a most awful mystery, but I accept it, and place myself at your service. Heaven only knows if I can be of any assistance to you, but it may be that even the renewal of our old friendship, and our coming together after a separation of forty years, are not due to chance. If so, I stand within the charmed circle." "It was not by chance we met, Bob; in the smallest incident that has occurred in connection with that house--which I can see now with my mind's eye, dark, silent, spirit-haunted--I perceive the hand of fate. You _can_ be of service to me." "In what way?" "I wish to take the house in Lamb's Terrace!" A startled exclamation escaped his lips, but he said immediately afterward, as if in apology, "Yes, Ned, yes." "I should say, rather, that I wish to have the refusal for a certain time of taking it for a term of years. This can be managed, I think, through you, and the death of your client may make it easier than it would otherwise have been. Say to your employer that I have not made up my mind whether it will suit me, and that I want a few weeks for consideration. Pending my decision, I will pay three months' rent, and at the expiration of that period, if I do not then take it for a term of years, it will be open to another tenant. I have no doubt that Mr. Gascoigne has some sort of provisional power in the matter, and that he will be glad of the chance there is in my offer of securing a permanent and responsible tenant. Will you undertake to carry this through?" "Yes." "Then you may as well walk all the way home with me, and I will write a check to-night, which you can give to Mr. Gascoigne in the morning. There is another thing which I must seriously consider. On the two occasions to-day when we and your nephew, and this specter of Fate gliding at my heels, were together, he was troubled by the fancy that I had brought some creature with me of which we made no mention. Is this new to you, or has your nephew expressed himself to a like effect on other occasions?" "It is quite new to me. Ronald has never had such a fancy before." "The natural conclusion, therefore, is that he was conscious of the presence of this apparition, without being able to define its nature. There is here a chain of psychological circumstances which would not be admissible in a court of law, but which I, with my strange experiences, cannot but believe to be of supreme importance. I have an odd impression upon me that the mysterious adventure in which I am engaged has lasted for some considerable time, whereas scarcely two days have elapsed since my introduction to beings of another world. I seem to be familiarized with mysterious incident, and I am so prepared that I doubt if anything would astonish me. Reflect, Bob, upon the links of a chain which is dragging me on, and which is not yet completely formed. Fate directs my steps, through the agency of my wife, to the office of Mr. Gascoigne; link number one. You, my old schoolfellow, whom I never thought to meet again, are employed in that office; link number two. My wife, against my wish, insists upon looking at a house to let in Lamb's Terrace, which I am certain will not suit us; link number three. These three links, to perfectly disinterested observers, would appear to be the result of the merest chance. We know that it is not so; we know that there is here at work a supernatural agency, every step in which is directed by an unseen power. You renew your old friendship with me, and accompany us home, and there you attempt to dissuade us from having anything to do with the house in Lamb's Terrace. Your kindly efforts are thrown away; link number four. You may ask me here how this seemingly trivial incident can be made into a link. My answer is that you are the uncle of Ronald Elsdale, and that when we left Mr. Gascoigne's office, had you not followed us and accepted my invitation to accompany us home, the natural probability is that I should not at the present moment have known of the existence of your nephew, who stands now a foremost stone in this monument of mystery. My wife and I visit the haunted house, and there we behold two apparitions, only one of which makes itself visible to her. I perceive two reasons for this. The first is, that she shall be so horrified by what she sees as to give up all idea of taking the house, and perhaps of ever going near it again. The second is, that I am the person appointed to carry this dark mystery to its as yet unknown end. The apparition of the girl and the cat form link number five. I visit your house this evening, and make the acquaintance of Ronald Elsdale; link number six. On this occasion, and on the occasion of my seeing him again in his own house an hour ago, he has a troubled consciousness of a spiritual presence--the presence of the specter now gliding at our feet; link number seven. The eighth link is fashioned from the circumstance that the young lady whom Ronald Elsdale loved and loves is said to have met her death in the house in Lamb's Terrace." "You have reasoned all this out," said Bob, "in a most wonderful way." "It is not I who reason it out. I am conscious of the extent of my own natural powers, and it would be impossible for me to bring forward these links and to logically connect them were I not spiritually directed. What is occupying my mind just now is the question whether I ought to take Ronald Elsdale into my confidence without waiting for further developments?" Bob's reply was very humble. "Whatever you decide upon, Ned, will be right. The fatalist never doubts that the least incident in his life could have been otherwise than it is." "Truly," I said, "I am in the position of a fatalist, and once a step is decided upon I shall not hesitate to take it, and shall not question its wisdom. By to-morrow morning the question will be answered for me." My wife opened the street door for us. "Why, who would have thought of seeing you, Mr. Millet!" she exclaimed. "But come in, come in; there's a bit of supper for you. Now, you two keeping together at this time of night shows what friends you must have been when you were boys. I hope you've had a pleasant evening." "Rather an exciting one," I said. "We have been at a fire." "A fire! Where?" "In Stanmore Street; a long way from here." "No one hurt, I hope?" "An unfortunate gentleman lost his life in the fire. It is rather curious, Maria, that this gentleman should have been the owner of the house we looked over in Lamb's Terrace yesterday." The news made her grave. "There is nothing but trouble connected with that dreadful place," she said. "But there, I don't want to think of it. I'd have given a good deal never to have set foot in it." Before Bob left I wrote out the check for Mr. Gascoigne, and when I went to bed I was kept awake for a long time by thinking whether I ought to take Ronald Elsdale immediately into my confidence. I fell asleep with this question in my mind, and when I awoke in the morning I decided that it would be first advisable that I should ascertain some particulars of the last tenant, and of the death of the young lady, Beatrice. It was not an easy task I now set myself, and I felt that there was little chance of success, if I attempted it unaided. Desultory inquiries could lead to no satisfactory result, and I therefore determined to enlist the services of a private inquiry agent. Casting my mind over the most likely person to assist me, I recollected that a friend some years ago had need of the services of such a person, and had employed one Mr. Dickson, with good effect. Looking through the columns of a morning paper I saw Mr. Dickson's advertisement; and at eleven o'clock I set out for his office, which was situated in Arundel Street, Strand. On my doorstep I confronted a telegraph boy with a telegram for me. It was from Bob, and it ran as follows: Arranged house, Lamb's Terrace; yours for three months. My interview with Mr. Dickson was soon over. I explained to him what I wanted done, and he undertook the commission for a specified sum. It was arranged that he should give me his report in writing, and he promised to set about the inquiry without delay. "Will it lead to anything further?" he asked. "It is quite probable," I replied; "but at present this is all I require of you." Two days afterward I received his report. CHAPTER XIV. A MEAGER REPORT FROM THE INQUIRY AGENT. "Sir: From inquiries I have made I am enabled to give you certain information respecting the matter you placed in my hands. "The uncompleted term of the lease of the house, 79 Lamb's Terrace, was transferred, about nine years ago (not six or seven as you gave me to understand), to a gentleman of the name of Nisbet. At the time that this transfer was made the principal landlord was abroad--I believe in Australia--and his business affairs were in the hands of a firm of solicitors whose address I have not taken the trouble to ascertain, as it does not come within the limit of my instructions. Any information you wish upon this, or any other points which you did not mention in our interview, I shall be happy to obtain for you. "Mr. Nisbet's family, at the time he entered into possession of 79 Lamb's Terrace consisted of himself and his stepdaughter Beatrice--he being her mother's second husband. Beatrice's mother died four months after her marriage with Mr. Nisbet, and by her will she left the bulk of her fortune to her daughter, and only a small portion of it to her husband. He was appointed guardian to Beatrice, and in the event of her death her fortune was to revert to him. "Should you desire to become acquainted with the precise terms and phraseology of the will, you can do so at Somerset House. "The young lady inherited £60,000 invested in consols. From the interest of this sum Mr. Nisbet was to receive £1000 a year for his guardianship of his stepdaughter; and £200 per annum was apportioned to the young lady for pin money. The remaining portion of the interest was to accumulate until the young lady was twenty-one years of age, when she was to come into possession of it and the original capital. I have glanced through the will, and it appears to be carefully and sensibly worded, and devoid of complications. "According to my information, Mr. Nisbet was deeply affected by the death of his wife, and he sought consolation in foreign travel. The consequence was that he and his stepdaughter spent much of their time abroad, and the house in Lamb's Terrace was occupied but a few weeks every year. About four years ago they returned to London, with the intention, as I learn, of remaining here some time. "Their domestic affairs, however, do not appear to have gone on smoothly; they had difficulties with servants, and after a while were left with only one, a young woman who, I should judge, was willing to make herself generally useful, and was rather more amiable than the majority of her class; otherwise she would not have remained. Keeping house under such circumstances presented few attractions, and they were contemplating taking up their permanent residence on the Continent when a calamity occurred which frustrated this intention and broke up the establishment. "The young lady, going to bed, turned off the gas in her room, as she supposed, and went to sleep. "Certain conjectures must be taken into account. If she had turned out the light and taken away her hand at once, there would have been no escape of gas. Whether, after the light was out, she carelessly or willfully turned on the tap again, or whether she got up in the night and did so, cannot be proved at this distance of time, because there was no witness of the incident with the exception of herself. Next morning she was found dead in her bed, having been suffocated by the fumes of the escaped gas. "There was an inquest, and the evidence given of the cause of death was accepted as conclusive. Mr. Nisbet shut up the house in Lamb's Terrace, and left England. Having no instructions to ascertain where he is at the present time, I have made no inquiries. "By the terms of his wife's will he came into possession of his stepdaughter's fortune. "I inclose a newspaper, containing an account of the inquest, and I shall be happy to prosecute the inquiry in any further direction you desire. "Yours obediently, "James Dickson." Although this report was not so full as I expected it to be, I had no cause of complaint against Mr. Dickson. He had kept strictly within the limit of his instructions, which he had taken down in writing from my lips, and he had lost no time; I had, therefore, reason to be satisfied with him. I turned my attention to the account of the inquest. CHAPTER XV. WHAT THE INQUEST REVEALED. "An inquest was held yesterday at the Hare and Hounds on the body of Beatrice Lockyer, a young lady residing with her stepfather at 79 Lamb's Terrace, who met her death by suffocation. The coroner said this was a sad case, the deceased being young and apparently in good health on the night of the occurrence. The facts appeared to be very simple, and the jury would have little difficulty in arriving at a verdict. The first witness called was Mr. Nisbet, the deceased's stepfather, who gave his evidence with manifest distress. "'What is your name?' "'Oliver Nisbet.' "'Profession?' "'None. I live on my means.' "'What relation do you bear to the deceased?' "'She was my stepdaughter.' "'Her age?' "'Twenty last birthday.' "'Is her mother living?' "'No, she died four years ago.' "'How long were you married?' "'A few months only.' "'At the time of her mother's death the deceased was sixteen years old?' "'Yes.' "'Did her death affect the deceased in any particular way?' "'She was deeply grieved at the loss, but apart from this natural feeling there was no change in her.' "'Have you observed any change in her during the last few days or weeks?' "'No; we had had domestic worries with servants, such as happen to most housekeepers in London, but they had passed away, and as we had determined to reside abroad we regarded them rather with amusement. We looked forward to an easier life in a foreign country.' "'On the night of your stepdaughter's death, at what hour did she retire to her room?' "'At a little after ten.' "'Who was in the house besides yourselves?' "'No one.' "'You had a servant left. What became of her?' "'It was arranged that she should remain in our service on the Continent, and we sent her on before us.' "'Where to?' "'To Lucerne. I had taken a châlet in Vitznau, and she was to proceed there to see to the rooms, and to await our arrival.' "'How is it that you and the deceased remained in the house when there were no servants in it?' "'It was against my desire. I wished my daughter to go to a hotel, but she refused. She said we could manage very well at home. She had an aversion to English hotels, and was never happy in one. As we were to leave London the next day, I humored her.' "'Can you give us any explanation of the cause of her aversion to our hotels?' "'She was in the habit of saying that they were so different to Continental hotels--so stiff and formal. But I do not think that was quite the reason. She was nervously distrustful of herself in the society of strangers, and was, I regret to say, of a melancholy disposition.' "'Had this been always the case with her?' "'From her childhood, her mother used to tell me. For years past I have endeavored to bring her to a more cheerful frame of mind by travel and constant change of scene, but I fear my efforts were wasted.' "'Was her mother of a similar disposition?' "'Yes. It is a natural inference that it was inherited.' "'How did you pass the day before her death?' "'We breakfasted together in the morning--a simple breakfast, which she herself got ready--and then I went into the city to complete the arrangements for our journey, and to settle my monetary affairs. This occupied several hours. At six o'clock I returned home, with the intention of taking her out to dinner; but she had a little dinner prepared for us, and said she would enjoy it much more than dining out. After dinner we chatted, and she played upon her zither.' "'Cheerful airs?' "'No; but she was a very sweet player, and whether her music was sad or bright, it was a pleasure to listen to it.' "'Have you at any time observed a disposition in her to commit suicide?' "'Never; and I never heard her utter a word to indicate that she was tired of life.' "'Was her general health good?' "'Yes, fairly good; she suffered a little from headaches, but she has had no serious illness in my experience of her.' "'Describe your movements on the morning of her death.' "'I rose at about eight o'clock, and employed an hour in packing my bags. We were to leave the house for the station at half-past ten. At nine o'clock I listened, and did not hear her move. I was not surprised at this, because she was a late riser and frequently overslept herself. During our travels we have lost trains from this cause. I went to her room, and knocked and called, and, receiving no answer, opened the door, and was immediately driven back by the fumes of gas. Dreading a calamity, I rushed in and threw the window open; then I saw my dear daughter lying motionless upon her bed. I was educated in the medical profession, though I do not follow it. I made a hasty examination of her condition and, fearing the worst, I ran for Dr. Cooper. He accompanied me back to the house, and confirmed my fears.' "'Her bedroom door was unlocked?' "'It was; she would never lock it, being, I think, afraid of fire. It was hard to reason her out of any of her fancies. I frequently expostulated with her upon her dislike to fresh air. I tried to induce her to keep her bedroom window open a little from the top, but I could not persuade her that it was unhealthy to sleep in a close room.' "'That is all the information you can give us?' "'I know nothing further.' "Dr. Cooper's evidence tallied with that already given. He had been called to the deceased by Mr. Nisbet, who had come to him in a state of great agitation, and whom he had accompanied immediately to Lamb's Terrace, arriving at the house too late to be of any service. The unfortunate young lady had been dead for hours, and the cause of death was indisputable. "There were no other witness and after a brief summing up a verdict was returned of death by misadventure." I gathered from the account that the case had excited very little interest and attention, and was soon over and forgotten. This is all I learned from the report of Mr. Dickson and the account of the inquest. The bare facts were clear enough to the ordinary mind, that is to say, to the mind that had no profound motive to urge it to look beneath the surface. They were clear enough to me, but not in any sense satisfactory. It appeared to my judgment that the inquest was hurried over, that statements had been accepted which should have been the subject of more searching examination, and that any person deeply interested in the case would have asked questions which did not seem to have occurred to coroner and jury. My own experience had led me to the conclusion that at these hasty inquests many important matters of detail which might have a vital bearing on the verdict are altogether overlooked. The coroners have too much to do, too many inquiries to make in the course of a few hours; the jury, dragged from their occupations without adequate remuneration, are only anxious to get the matter over and return to their businesses and homes. There should be some better method of procedure in these important investigations if it is desired that justice shall be properly served, and for my part I was stirred by an uneasy consciousness that in this instance justice had been hoodwinked. How, indeed, could I have felt differently with the specter cat lying at my feet, and looking up into my face? The silent monitor was an irresistible force. Although the death of Beatrice Lockyer did not personally concern me, and I had no direct interest in discovering whether she died by fair means or foul, I was impelled onward by the conviction that I should never be freed from this supernatural visitation until the truth was brought to light. It was evening when I received and read the report of the inquiry agent and the account of the inquest, and I had made no appointment to meet Bob. On the chance of finding him at home, I took the train to Canonbury, leaving a message with Maria that if he called during my absence he was to remain till I returned. Accompanied by my spectral companion, I mounted Bob's staircase, and he, hearing my footsteps, received me on the landing. "I half expected you," he said, casting his eyes downward. "It is with me, Bob," I said, answering the look. "Have you seen your nephew to-day?" "No," he replied. "I should not be surprised if he pops in to-night. You have some news?" "Mr. Dickson has sent me certain particulars relating to the death of the young lady, whose name, as you will see, is Beatrice Lockyer. I should like to go through them with you, and to hear what strikes you as having a suspicious bearing on the case." I handed him the papers I had brought with me, and he read them carefully. "I doubt," he said, when he had finished, "whether Ronald knows to this day that Beatrice was not Mr. Nisbet's daughter." "Would he not have read the account of the inquest?" I inquired. "He could not read it himself; he was blind at the time, recollect; and I know no one who would have inflicted upon him the pain of making him acquainted with the sorrowful details. I am convinced that these published particulars have not come to his knowledge." "Point out weak and suspicious points, Bob." "She was not his daughter," said Bob. "Exactly. And therefore there was no reason why he should have had any strong affection for her." "I suppose," said Bob, "that we had best take the worst view of anything that suggests itself." "I don't intend to soften anything down," I replied. "At present we are doing no one an injustice, and I am inclined to accept the most terrible suggestion without shrinking. We need not give it a name, Bob. If it is in your mind as it is in mine, let it rest there till the time arrives to proclaim it aloud." Bob nodded and said, "There was a large fortune. £60,000 is a tempting bait." "Observe," I remarked, "that at the inquest no allusion is made to the fact that Mr. Nisbet would so largely benefit by the death of his stepdaughter." "It is singular, Ned. Could it have been willfully suppressed?" "If so it was suppressed by only one man--the man who has obtained possession of the fortune. Who else at the inquest could have known anything about it? Not the coroner, certainly, or it would have been mentioned; certainly not the jury, to whom the unfortunate young lady and her stepfather were absolute strangers. Mr. Nisbet, as it appears to me, had the game entirely in his hands, and could play it as served him best. There was no one to question him or his motives, not a soul to come forward to verify or falsify anything he cared to say. He and Beatrice were alone together in this great city, cut off, as it were, from all mankind. There is no mention of the name of a single friend. On the night of her death only he and she were in the house, in that lonely, wretched house which my stupid wife had set her heart upon." "It must have been in a better state then than it is now." "Granted; but there are large grounds attached to the house, and there was not even a fitful gardener employed to keep it in order, who could come forward and say, 'I will tell you what I know.'" "Are you sure of that, Ned?" asked Bob. "Ah! It is a suggestion that must not be lost sight of. There is the value of talking a thing over in an open way. At all events, no such man makes his appearance. Now, does it stand to reason that a lady and gentleman of ample means would willingly bury themselves in such a place? If the man had been straight minded and right minded, would he not have insisted on taking a young lady whom he calls his daughter into more comfortable quarters? He is her guardian, her protector, she has no one else to depend upon, she has no friend in whom she can confide. Although, as you say, the house must have been in a better condition then than it is now, is it at all likely that, without some sinister motive, Mr. Nisbet should have deliberately selected a residence in so cheerless a locality? He says she was averse to society. We have only his word for that. From the little concerning her which Ronald Elsdale has imparted to you it does not appear that she was disinclined to make pleasant acquaintances. Why did not her stepfather give her opportunities of doing so? On the contrary, he regards with aversion even the slight advances which a gentleman like Ronald, with everything in his favor, pays her on a legitimate occasion. Is that in his favor?" "It tells against him distinctly." "Your nephew describes her as a young lady of singular attractions. What does such a lady naturally look forward to? Would it not be to marriage, to a home of her own? But, that accomplished, all chance of Mr. Nisbet coming into a fortune of £60,000 would be lost? Here we find the motive spring of his actions. It was for this, probably, that he married the mother. So dark are the thoughts that keep cropping up in my mind that I ask myself, 'How did the mother meet her death?'" I had worked myself into a state of great excitement, and I was now restlessly pacing Bob's little room. "Even without this evidence," I continued, pointing to the apparition of the cat, "I should suspect his motives. With such evidence I am almost ready to condemn him unheard. The arguments I bring forward seem to me reasonable and conclusive, and so far as lies in my power I will bring the matter to its rightful issue." "I cannot blame you," said Bob, "and, as I have already told you, I will assist you if I can. The difficulty is, where to commence. You have no starting point." "I have. The house in Lamb's Terrace. I shall put your courage to the test before I leave you to-night; but I will speak of that presently. There is another circumstance I wish to refer to with respect to Mr. Nisbet's evidence at the inquest. He speaks of the one domestic who remained in their service after the others had left, or had been discharged." "Why do you say discharged?" "It has only at this moment occurred to me. Things suggest themselves as I ventilate the subject which I did not think of at first. We may be able to find one of these servants who left of their own accord, or were turned away. Keeping to this one domestic who remained faithful to them, the probability is that it was an English girl of humble origin. This being so, it is still more probable that she knew nothing of foreign countries and foreign travel; and that she could speak no language but her own." "Well?" "Mr. Nesbit says he sent her on to Lucerne before the day on which he intended to start with Beatrice, and that she was to proceed to Vitznau from Lucerne to attend to the rooms he had taken there. Was that not a curious thing to do, and was it likely that an ignorant London domestic could be expected to reach the place without mishap." "It was a strange proceeding." "It is more than strange. If we could lay hands upon that girl we might learn something useful. If we can find her people----" I paused; there were footsteps on the stairs, and I knew, from the care that was being taken in ascending, that it was Ronald Elsdale who was coming up. I opened the door for him, and gave him good-evening. I observed again the look of discomposure on his face as he entered the room; again I saw him turn his eyes downward to the spot upon which the cat was lying. He made no reference, however, to the fancy which oppressed him, but brushed his hand across his forehead, as he had done before. "I am glad you are here, Mr. Emery," he said. "I wished to ask you something. Why did you want to know where the young lady lived whom, but for my blindness, I should have asked to be my wife?" I paused a moment before I spoke. I felt that the time had not arrived to take him fully into my confidence. "I beg you will not press me," I said; "I had a reason, but I cannot disclose it at present." "You will some day?" "Yes, I promise you." "Thank you. I have been thinking of it a great deal, and I felt that you did not ask the question out of idle curiosity." "I did not. And now, if you will deal more generously to me than it may appear I am dealing to you, I should like to ask another question or two concerning her--if," I added, "the subject is not too painful to you." He turned to his uncle, who said, "Yes, answer the questions, Ronald." "I will do so freely," he said. "I assure you," I commenced, "that I am impelled by a strong and earnest motive, and that before long you shall know all that is passing in my mind. When you met her on the Continent, did she give you the impression that she was of a morbid or melancholy temperament?" "Not at all. She was always cheerful and animated." "Was she averse to society? Did she show that it was distasteful to her?" "Oh, no. With modesty and discretion she seemed glad to converse with people whose manners were agreeable and becoming." "She had a favorite instrument, had she not, upon which she was fond of playing?" "You seem to know a great deal about her, Mr. Emery. Her favorite instrument was the zither." "Have you heard her play upon it?" "Yes, and her touch was sweet and beautiful." "Would you say that her inclination was to play sorrowful or somber airs?" "By no means. The zither does not lend itself to boisterous music, there is a tenderness in the instrument which goes to the heart. Her taste lay in the direction of sweetness; but there was nothing sorrowful or somber in her playing." These questions answered, I succeeded in changing the subject of conversation, and Ronald stopped with us an hour, and then took his departure, saying before he left, "I rely on your promise, Mr. Emery." When he was gone I said to Bob, "False in one thing, false in all. Mr. Nisbet's evidence at the inquest was a tissue of fabrications. Now, Bob, I am going to put you to the test. The house in Lamb's Terrace is mine for three months. Will you spend a night or two with me there?" He looked up, rather startled at the proposition; but any uneasiness he may have felt passed away almost immediately. "Yes," he replied. "When?" "Not to-morrow night. It would not be fair. You have to get to the office on the following morning, and a night of unrest may interfere with your duties. Your Sundays are free. Let us fix Saturday night." "Very well, Ned. What explanation will you give to your wife?" "I shall exercise a pardonable deceit upon her. On Saturday afternoon you and I will be supposed to be going to Brighton for a blow. She will raise no objection and we may depend upon her not disturbing us. Untold gold would not tempt her into that house again." "I will join you," said Bob, in a serious tone. "I should not like you to be alone there." So it was arranged, and I bade him good-night. CHAPTER XVI. IN 79 LAMB'S TERRACE. As I supposed, my wife was entirely agreeable to the seaside excursion, and professed herself delighted at the idea. "You should go about more," she said. "Too much moping at home is bad for a man. We don't notice the changes that take place in ourselves, but others do." "You have noticed some change in me?" I asked. "I have. You are not half the man you used to be; your good spirits seem to have quite deserted you, and you keep looking about you in a most suspicious way." "Tell me, Maria, in what particular way?" "Well, as if you were afraid somebody was going to pick your pocket, or as if you fancied you had a shadow for a companion. My opinion is that you have not got over that unfortunate visit we paid to the house in Lamb's Terrace." "Have you got over it?" "No, and never shall. I can't keep my thoughts away from the place, and I often feel as if something was dragging me to the house again, though a second visit would be the death of me." "Never be tempted, Maria; don't go near the neighborhood. We both need change of scene to clear the cobwebs away. When I come back from Brighton you shall run off to the seaside for a day or two; you can easily get a lady friend to keep you company, especially if I pay all the expenses." "Why should we not go together?" "Because in each other's society we should brood over the frightful adventure we had. Change of company, Maria, as well as change of scene; that is what will do us good." This conversation proved that my wife had not succeeded in forgetting the adventure, and had only refrained from speaking of it out of consideration for me. Her confession that she sometimes felt as if she was being dragged to the house against her will rather alarmed me, and I determined to adopt some means to send her from London for longer than a day or two. It would be beneficial to her, and would leave me free to act. Before the hour arrived upon which Bob and I were to set out upon our pretended holiday, I paid a second visit to the inquiry agent, Mr. Dickson, and commissioned him to ascertain for me: First. The name of the servant girl who was sent to Switzerland by Mr. Nisbet; where her family lived; when she returned from the Continent. Second. The names and residences of the other servants in Mr. Nisbet's employ who had discharged themselves. Third. Where Miss Beatrice Lockyer was buried. Fourth. Any particulars he could gather relating to the death of Miss Beatrice's mother. Fifth. Where Mr. Nisbet was living at the present time. Mr. Dickson informed me that these inquiries could scarcely be answered in less than a couple of weeks, and I left them in his hands, requesting him to use expedition. Contrary to my expectation I received a letter from him on Saturday morning, in which he informed me that he was enabled to give me imperfect answers to three of my questions. First. The name of the servant girl who was sent to Switzerland was Molly Brand. She had no parents, and the people she lived with when she entered Mr. Nisbet's service had emigrated. At that time she had a little sister dependent upon her, a child of some six years of age. This child had presumably been taken by Molly's friends to Australia, but upon this point, and upon the point of the child's age, he could not speak with any certainty. He had not yet succeeded in obtaining any traces of Molly from the time of her departure from London, and could not therefore say whether she had returned or where she was. Second. From what he could gather Mr. Nisbet had had no other servants in his employ. Third. The young lady was not buried. She was cremated at Woking. To these scanty particulars was attached a memorandum to the effect that he was cramped by a limit I had mentioned as to the amount of the expenses to be incurred in his investigation. It was a measure of prudence I had adopted, for I was not inclined to give him quite a free hand, but it seemed to be fated that my desires to reach the heart of the mystery should be continually baffled by meeting with closed doors, and I now determined to be more liberal in my instructions. I wrote to Mr. Dickson to this effect, inwardly marveling as I wrote the letter that, in a matter in which I did not appear to be in any way personally interested, I should be impelled into a reckless course of expenditure. But, casting my eyes downward, I saw the phantom cat at my feet, and I felt that I should not be released from this frightful companion until my task was completed. "Rest content," I said to the specter; "I will pursue it to the end." There was no sign, no movement from it. Waiting for the development of events, it was ever on the watch. If, like Poe's raven, it had uttered but a word, it would have been a relief to me, for nothing could intensify the terror of the dread silence it preserved. There was within me a conviction that a moment would arrive when it would take some action toward the unraveling of the mystery, but in what shape this action would display itself was to me unfathomable. At one o'clock Bob called for me, and I bade Maria good-by. "Now, mind you enjoy yourselves," she said; "and take good care of him, Mr. Millet." "I will do that," said Bob, rather guiltily. He was not an adept in deception, but my wife had no suspicion that we were deceiving her, and we took our departure in peace, each of us provided with a Gladstone bag, Bob's being the bulkier of the two. In mine my wife had placed, in addition to toilet necessaries, two flat bottles, one containing brandy, the other port wine, and the usual packet of sandwiches which the middle-class feminine mind deems a positive essential for a railway journey. Bob had also provided himself with food and liquids, and thus furnished we started upon our expedition. On our road we discussed the information I had received from Mr. Dickson, each item of which strengthened our suspicion of foul play. The strongest feature in confirmation of this suspicion was the cremation of the body of the unfortunate young lady. We would not for one moment admit that Mr. Nisbet was an enthusiast on the subject of cremation, but accepted the course he had adopted as damning evidence against him. I mention it to show to what lengths the prejudiced mind will go in arriving at a conclusion upon an open matter; but, apart from this consideration, we certainly had ample reason for the strong feelings we entertained. A hasty inquest held by incompetent persons, the acceptance of conclusive statements from the party most interested in the young lady's death, the falsehoods of which he already stood convicted, and other falsehoods which I had little doubt would be in a short time discovered, pointed one and all to a miscarriage of justice. Bob no longer disputed the conclusions at which I arrived, but accepted them with gloomy avidity. Needless to say that we did not set out upon our expedition without the society of my spectral familiar, and that we were both in a state of nervous excitement as to what would occur. Bob had never been in the neighborhood of Lamb's Terrace, and its desolate appearance surprised him. Dismal and forlorn as was its aspect on the occasion of my first introduction to the region, it was still more so now. This sharpened accentuation of its desolate condition was probably caused by the knowledge I had since gained, and by the vagaries of our beautiful London climate. When we stated from home there was the promise of a tolerably fine day, but during the last half hour the sky had become overcast and dreary mists were gathering. "Cheerful, isn't it, Bob?" I said. "Do you mean to tell me," was his response, "that having come so far on your first visit, your wife did not immediately abandon the idea of taking a house in such a locality?" "Whatever may have been in her mind," I replied, "she certainly insisted upon finding the house and going over it. It was offered to us at half the value of a house of such dimensions, and did you ever know a woman sufficiently strong minded to resist a bargain? I do not believe she would have had the courage to complete the arrangement, but she went quite far enough." We turned down the narrow lane and skirted the dilapidated wall till we arrived at our destination. As we walked through the front garden entrance, choked up with its weeds and rank grass, and ascended the flight of steps, I asked Bob how he felt. "It is impossible not to feel depressed," he answered; "but you will not find me fail you, Ned. We will go through what we have undertaken." "Well said. We shall get along all right till Monday morning. There was a little furniture in one or two of the rooms, and I do not suppose it has been removed. When my wife was here we only examined the front room on the second floor; the rooms I have not seen may be habitable. I expect we shall have to go out and buy some necessaries. What have you got in your bag?" "You shall see presently." The cat entered the house with us, but it did not remain with us in the lobby. I saw it pass down to the basement, and it gave no sign of expectation that I should accompany it. "That's a comfort," I remarked. I had to explain my meaning to Bob, and he seemed to regard the departure as a significant commencement of our enterprise. We did not follow our spectral companion to the basement, but proceeded upstairs to the apartments I had already seen. In all, with the exception of the front room on the second floor, in which I had rang the bell which summoned the apparitions, there was some furniture left, and Bob expressed his astonishment that it had not been removed or sold by the last tenant. "It would have been a simple matter," he said, "to call in a broker, who would very soon have cleared the house of every stick in it." "He must have had his reasons," I observed. "Perhaps his coming into possession of a large fortune made him careless of these trifles." "They are not exactly trifles," said Bob, who was better able than I to speak on the subject. "A broker would give at least fifty pounds for what is on this floor. The wonder is that the place has not been robbed." We had not yet reached the second floor, and we now ascended to the room in which my wife and I had met with our appalling experience. Before entering it we examined the back rooms, and in one, a bedroom, we found two beds, which we determined to occupy for the night. Bob, having lived a bachelor life for many years, now showed his handiness. He examined the stove, to see that the register was up, and then he opened his Gladstone bag, the contents of which surprised me. He produced first a bundle of wood, then a remarkable case which contained within its exceedingly limited space a kettle with a folding handle, a gridiron, two tin pannikins, knives, forks, and spoons, and a spirit lamp, fitting in each other. "Bravo, Bob," I said; "living alone has taught you something." He smiled, and proceeded to further surprise me, fishing out a loaf of bread, tea, sugar, a tin of condensed milk, sausages, salt, pepper, a revolver, a pack of cards, and a Bible--a motley collection of articles. "A bachelor's _multum in parvo_," he said, adding, as he touched the revolver, "wouldn't be bad for the bush. We are short of two things, coal and water. But look here--we are in luck. A scuttle nearly full. There will be no water in the house fit to drink. We shall have to go and market, but there will not be so much to get in as I expected." With the manner of a man accustomed to attend to his wants he knelt down and burned some paper and wood in the grate, and the draught being all right, laid the fire, but did not set light to it. Rising, he expressed a wish to see the front room. It was, as before, quite bare and empty, and Bob said it looked as if it had not been furnished. The bell ropes were there, one broken, the other in a workable condition. I laid my hand on the unbroken cord, and cast an inquiring glance at Bob. "Yes," he said, "pull it." He threw the door wide open, and stood with his back to it, to prevent its closing. He held his revolver in his hand, his finger on the trigger. I gave the rope a smart tug, and, as on the previous eventful occasion, it was followed by the jangle of a host of discordant bells. The sounds died away in a low wail, and we waited in silent apprehension. But this time there was no response to the call; it was answered only by a dead silence. The feeling of relief I experienced was shared by Bob, though, curiously enough, there was an expression of disappointment in his face. "Of course it is better as it is," he said, "but I expected something very different. Where is your apparition, Ned?" "I cannot tell you. Thank Heaven, it is not in sight!" "Perhaps this is an end of the matter." "You are wrong, Bob; there is more to come before we finally leave the house." "We will wait for it, then," he said, and I saw that he was beginning again to believe that I had been under the spell of a delusion. "And now, as we have determined to remain here two nights, we had best go and get in the things we want to make us comfortable. I will empty my bag to carry back what we purchase, and if what we leave behind us is carried away we shall know that human, and not supernatural, agency is at work. Come along, old fellow." We left the house and no spectral apparition accompanied us. Bob's spirits rose, and I confess that I myself was somewhat shaken by the desertion of my familiar. We had to go some distance before arriving at a line of shops, and not wishing to attract attention I purposely selected those which lay apart from the principal thoroughfares. Our principal difficulty was water, and this we carried back with us in a zinc bucket I purchased. The shopkeeper stared at us when I asked him to fill it, but he did not refuse, and, furnished with all we required, we returned to Lamb's Terrace, and ascended to the room we intended to occupy for the night. By this time it was dark, and we lit the fire and saw to the beds. Then we prepared a meal, and were fairly jolly over it. Every few minutes one of us went into the passage and listened, but we were not disturbed by any sounds from below or above. It had been my intention to search the various rooms for some chance clew relating to the last tenant, but it was too late and dark to carry it out; I therefore postponed it till the morning. Bob proposed a game of cards, and we sat down to cribbage, which we played till ten o'clock. Under such circumstances it was rather a lugubrious amusement, but it was better than doing nothing. After the game we drank hot brandy and water out of the pannikins, and prepared for bed. The lock of the door was in workable order, and for a wonder the key was there. We turned it, undressed, put out the light, and wished each other goodnight. "If your good wife had the slightest suspicion of our proceedings," said Bob drowsily, "she would never forgive me. I have an odd Robinson Crusoe-ish feeling upon me, as though the civilized world were thousands of miles away." I answered him briefly, and soon heard him breathing deeply. For my part I could not get to sleep so easily. For a long time I lay awake, closing my eyes only to open them and gaze upon the monstrous, uncouth shadows which the dying fire threw upon the walls and ceiling. At length, however, I closed my eyes and did not open them again till, as I judged from the circumstance of the fire being quite out, some hours had passed. It was not a natural awakening; I was aroused by the sound of something moving in the lower part of the house. CHAPTER XVII. BARBARA. I sat up in bed, and quickly lit a candle. Bob was sleeping soundly, and I saw nothing in the room to alarm me; I was quite prepared to greet once more the apparition of my faithful companion, but as the cat was not in sight I inferred that it was contented with its quarters in the basement. On a small table by Bob's side lay his revolver, ready to his hand, and even in this moment of apprehension I smiled at the idea of my friend--the most humane man in the world--possessing so murderous an instrument. I was thankful, however, that he had brought it; powerless as it would be against spectral foes it inspired me with confidence. I slid from my bed, seized the pistol, stepped to the door and listened. My movements aroused Bob, as I intended they should, and he jumped up. "Who's there?" he cried, clapping his hand on the table. "What's the matter?" "Hush," I said, "make no noise. Your pistol's all right; I've got it. Slip on your clothes, and come and keep watch while I get into mine. There's someone--or something--downstairs." He was soon ready and he took his station by the door while I dressed myself. "I don't hear anything," he said, when I joined him. "All is quiet just now, Bob, but I was not mistaken. I am positive I heard it." "What was it like?" "Like somebody moving softly about, wishing not to be heard." "Rats or mice, perhaps. I shouldn't wonder if the lower part of the house is full of them." I caught his arm. "Listen, Bob." With our ears close to the door, we both caught the sound of a stealthy movement below. "There it is," he whispered, and I felt his arm tremble in my grasp. A moment afterward he said, "We are trapped." "Don't lose your nerve," I responded, in as cheerful a tone as I could command; "we must see it through, now we are here. I am sorry I brought you, Bob; the next time I come, I will come alone." "Indeed you shall not, Ned," he replied, "and I am ashamed of my weakness. I was prepared for something of the sort, and here am I showing the white feather. I am all right now, old fellow." "Bravo! Take your pistol; I brought a weapon with me." It was a thick flat strip of iron, tapered at one end, which I used at home to open cases, and which, unknown to my wife, I had secreted about me. Bob nodded as I produced it. "A formidable weapon," he said, "but useless against apparitions; we may have more formidable foes to contend with, however, and it is as well to be provided. It would be foolhardy to leave the room. We should have to carry a candle, and it might be dashed from our hands; the darkness would be horrible. We are safer where we are." "We will not go out yet, Bob. The sound has ceased. Take a nip of brandy, and give me one." This dialogue was carried on at intervals. We paused in the middle of sentences, and finished them as though it was our customary method of pursuing a conversation. In the fever of our senses we lost sight of the natural order of things, and the shadows created by the flickering light appeared to be in harmony with the position in which we were placed. The silence--as dread in its mysterious possibilities as threatening sounds would have been--continuing, Bob rekindled the fire, and we remained quiescent for an hour and more. Bob looked at his watch. "It is past two, Ned." "Yes. I have been thinking over what is best to be done." "Have you decided?" "I have, but I hardly like to propose it to you." "I am ready for anything," he said, divining my wish. "Every moment that we are shut up here grows more oppressive." "My feeling. We are fairly strong men, and are well armed. Have you the courage to explore the house with me?" He straightened himself and replied, "Let us set about it at once." We adopted every reasonable precaution. We each carried a candle, and held pistol and iron bar in our right hands, firmly resolved to use them promptly in case we were attacked. Throwing open the door we stepped into the passage. So far as we could judge from the evidence of our senses, there was not a movement in the house which did not proceed from ourselves. Slowly and cautiously I led the way downstairs, and when we reached the hall I unlocked the street door and left it ajar, thus affording a readier means of escape should the need for flight present itself. In our progress we entered and examined every room on the three floors, and saw no spiritual or material foe. Then we descended to the basement. As I touched the handle of the kitchen door I fancied I heard a faint sound, and looking at Bob I gathered from the expression on his face that he also was impressed by a similar fancy. "What do you think it is?" I asked in a whisper. "It sounds like soft breathing," he replied, in a voice as low as my own. We paused a while, and then, receiving from Bob a silent approval, I gently pushed the door and we entered. We had not been beguiled by our fancies. In the extreme corner of the kitchen we observed a huddled heap of clothes and coverings, from beneath which issued the low breathing of a person asleep. Treading very softly we drew near to the spot, and to our astonishment beheld--no form of ruffian or bloodthirsty marauder, but the form of a child, deep in slumber. It was a girl whose age appeared to be eleven or twelve. She was undressed, and was lying upon some strips of old carpet; other strips of old carpet and the clothes she had taken off comprised her bed coverings. Her face was not clean, but there dwelt upon it, even in her sleep, a pathetic expression of want and suffering. There was a loneliness and helplessness in the figure of this young child slumbering unprotected in such a place which stirred me to pity. Her tangled hair lay loose across her face, and her eyelids were swollen, as if she had been weeping before the angel of sleep brought ease and oblivion to her troubled heart; one little naked arm had released itself from its wrappings, and lay exposed; it was thin, and sharp, and pointed, and the tale of woe it told accentuated the pity I felt for the child. Bob put his pistol in his pocket, and I buttoned my coat over my weapon. "Nothing to scare us here," he said. "No, indeed," I replied. "See, Bob--there are three boxes of matches which look as if they have been carried in her little hands for hours. She has been trying to sell them, perhaps, to get a bit of supper. Poor soul! What brings her to this dismal, haunted hole?" "No other roof to cover her," suggested Bob. So engrossed had I been in the contemplation of the pathetic figure that I had not noticed another figure crouching close to it. It was the apparition of the skeleton cat, seemingly keeping guard over the child. The moment my eyes fell upon it Bob knew from my startled movement what it was I beheld. "It is there, Ned," he said quietly. "Yes, it is there, and this child has some connection with the mystery which hangs over this house." He did not dispute with me. The hour, the scene, and all that had passed, were favorable to my opinion, and he accepted it without question or remonstrance. The presence of the apparition, although it was not evident to his senses, disturbed him more than it disturbed me. I was by this time accustomed to it, and the feeling of horror with which it had at first inspired me was now replaced by a feeling of agitated curiosity as to the issue of the mission upon which I was convinced we were both engaged. There was not the slightest doubt in my mind that its presence by the side of the sleeping child, in conjunction with our discovery of the child herself, was an indication that I had advanced another step toward the unraveling of the mystery. The latter part of our conversation had been carried on in our natural voices, our desire being to arouse the child from her slumbers. As, however, she still slept on, I knelt by her side and laid my hand upon her shoulder. Even then she did not awake, and it was not till I had shaken her--which I need scarcely say I did with a gentle hand--that she opened her eyes. With a terrified scream she started up, and then she plunged down again, and hiding her face in her clothes, began to shake and sob. "We are not going to hurt you, my child," I said. "We are your friends. You have nothing to fear from us." "I aint got no friends," she sobbed, "and I aint done no 'arm. Oh, please, please, let me go away!" "Where to?" I asked. "I don't know, I don't know," she sobbed. "Please don't do nothink to me, and let me go away." "You shall go away if you like," I said, to soothe her, "but you must dress yourself first, you know." "I will this minute, sir, if you'll only let me alone. Oh, my! oh, my! What shall I do, what shall I do?" "You shall be let alone--you shall do exactly what you want to do. Only believe, my child, that we are really your friends and that we want to help you. You went to bed hungry, did you not?" "Yes, I did, sir. I 'ad three boxes of matches, and I couldn't sell 'em, though I tried ever so. I've been all day at it, and nobody'd buy a box or give me a ha'penny." "Been all day at it," I said, the tears starting to my eyes at the infinite pathos in the girl's voice; "you have been hungry all day?" "Yes, sir, I 'ave," she answered plaintively. "I'm used to it. A boy give me a bit of bread this morning, and nothink else 'as passed my mouth all the blessed day." "He was a good boy to be so kind to you." I turned to Bob. "Would you mind going upstairs alone, Bob, and bringing down some bread and butter and sausage. Then the little girl will believe that we wish to be as good to her as the boy was this morning." Bob did not hesitate. All his fears had vanished, and he hastened from the kitchen, and soon returned with food and a cup of cold tea. Meanwhile I continued to speak to the child in my kindest tones, and she mustered courage to peep at me two or three times, and each time, I was pleased to observe, with renewed confidence. Once she asked why I had asked the gentleman if he wouldn't mind going upstairs alone, and I replied that my friend was rather timid because the house was so lonely. "It is, sir," she said upon this; "it's awful!" "In what way, my dear?" I inquired, but she closed her lips, firmly, and did not answer. I did not urge her, deeming it prudent not to press her until her confidence in us was completely won. "Now, my dear," I said upon Bob's return, "sit up and eat this. The tea is cold, but we will give you a cup of hot tea presently if you care to have it. And see--I will buy your matches of you. Here is sixpence for them." Her eyes, with wonder in them, were raised to mine, and her hot fingers closed over the coin, as she tremblingly sat up in her wretched bed, and wiped her tears away with her naked arm. "Thank yer, sir," she murmured, and she began to eat and drink. Never in my life have I beheld a human being devour food so eagerly and ravenously, and she made no pause till she had drained the cup and disposed of every crumb. "Do you feel better?" I asked, with a smiling nod at her. "Ever so much, sir; thank yer kindly," she said humbly and gratefully. "I'm good for another day." "And for many more after that," I said. "I dare say we shall be able to do something for you if you are a good girl." "I aint bad, sir," she said, with an imploring look; "don't believe that I am. I never forgit what Molly sed----" she stopped with a sudden gasp. "You aint come from 'er, 'ave yer, sir?" "From Molly, my dear? No, we have not come from her. Who is Molly?" "My sister, sir," she replied with a sigh; "the only one, I aint got no other brothers or sisters." "You have a mother and father, my dear?" "No, sir, there was only Molly and me." "Some relatives, surely?" "No, sir, not as I knows on." "Have you no home, my dear?" "No, sir, 'xcept this, unless you turn me out of it." "If we do turn you out of it, my child, it will be to put you in a better one." "Don't, sir; oh, please don't!" she cried. "Not put you in a more comfortable home, my dear?" I asked in surprise. "I don't want a more comfortable one, sir, till Molly comes back. If she don't find me 'ere, where's she to look for me, and 'ow am I to know? I 'ope you won't turn me away; I do 'ope it, sir!" "There, there, my dear," I said, "you need not distress yourself. Depend upon it we will do nothing that you do not wish done, and that is not for your good. We will see about it all presently. Where is your sister?" "That's wot I want to know, sir; that's wot I want to find out. Oh, wot wouldn't I give if I knew where Molly was!" There was pregnant matter here for me to think about. The child did not want to find another home till her sister came back. Came back where? To this Heaven-forsaken house. It was here that Molly would come to look for the poor little waif. The conclusion was that Molly knew something of the house, was familiar with it, else she would not expect to find her young sister in it. Was it a reasonable conclusion that she knew something of the last tenant, and could give me some information concerning him? I did not pursue the subject with the little girl in this direction, deeming it best to await a more advantageous opportunity for learning what I desired to know. "What was it Molly said to you that you will never forget?" I asked. "She said, Molly did, 'Look 'ere, Barbara, mind you're good, and mind you allus keep good. If you don't you shan't be no sister of mine.' That's wot I won't forgit as long as ever I live. But O Molly, Molly, why don't you come back? Why don't you come back!" The imploring earnestness of this appeal powerfully affected me, and I gazed pitifully at poor Barbara, from whose eyes the tears were streaming. That when she put her hands up to her eyes, she should keep her little fist tightly clenched, touched me to the heart; the little silver piece was her shield against hunger, for a few hours at least, and she clung to it instinctively through all her grief. I waited till she was calmer before I said: "Dress yourself quickly, Barbara, and come upstairs with us. There's a nice fire there, and I want to talk to you about Molly. We will try and find her for you, and you shall not be hungry again. Will you trust me?" "Yes, sir, I will; no one could speak kinder, and you're not the sort of gentleman to take me in. Perhaps you won't mind telling me 'ow long you've been 'ere. I didn't know there was anybody in the house but me." "We came only a few hours ago, Barbara," I answered, "and I have been here but once before." "Wot did you come the first time for, sir?" "The house is to let, and I thought of taking it." "To live in, sir?" "Yes, to live in." "But you're never going to, sir?" "No, I am not going to." "I should say yer wouldn't," she muttered. "Who would, I'd like to know? What did you come for this time, sir?" "I will tell you more when you're dressed," I said. "It will be warmer and nicer upstairs. Be as quick as you can." Bob and I went out of the kitchen while Barbara put on her ragged garments, in which she looked a truly miserable object; Bob patted her cheek, and I took her hand and led her upstairs, the cat following at our heels. I noticed that she kept her eyes closed most of the time, and that when she lifted her lids she did so timorously and apprehensively, but I refrained at present from asking her the reason of this. It was only when we were in the room which we had selected for our sleeping apartment that she opened her eyes and kept them open. "Now, Barbara," I said, putting a chair by the fireside for her, "sit down there, and warm yourself; then we will talk." She sat down obediently, and spread out her thin hands to the comforting flame, and with a kind of wonder watched Bob as he put the kettle on and prepared to make the tea. He poured out a cup, and put in milk and sugar liberally, and gave it to her. She thanked him and drank it, saying when the cup was empty, "That's good, sir." "Are you ready to talk, Barbara?" I asked. "Yes, if you please, sir." "I am going to ask you a good many questions, and perhaps they'll lead to good." "I'll answer all I can, sir." "So you sleep in this house regularly, Barbara?" "Yes, sir; I aint got no other place. Where else'd I go to, I'd like to know?" "How long have you lived here?" "I can't tell you that, sir; it must be years and years." "Since the house has been untenanted, perhaps?" "Unwhat, sir?" "I mean, Barbara, since it has been empty?" "I dessay, sir. I know one thing--it was three weeks to a day after Molly went away that I first come 'ere, and I've 'ardly missed a night all the time. There was twice I couldn't git in for the snow, and I was 'most perished. When I did git in I was that numbed and froze that I could 'ardly move, but I knew I was done for if I didn't stir my pegs, so I put some sticks on the 'earthstone and set fire to 'em, and little by little I got thawed. It was touch and go with me then, sir, but I managed to dodge 'em that time. I don't know as I'd 'ave cared much one way or the other if it 'adn't been for Molly. Once there wos a gal she knew that throwed 'erself in the water, and she sed to me, sed Molly, 'It wos a wicked thing to do, Barbara,' she sed. 'There's 'eaven,' sed Molly, 'and there's 'ell,' she sed. 'If we do good things we go to 'eaven, if we do wicked things we go to the other place.' It's the way Molly used to talk to me that's kept me up over and over agin." I had made up my mind not to interrupt Barbara even when she wandered from the subject in which I was most interested. By doing so I might lose valuable suggestions to be gathered from her chance words, and I naturally wished to hear everything it was in her power to impart. Impatient as I was to learn more of Molly--who evidently was imbued with a strong sense of duty, and whose story, I felt convinced, had a direct connection with the mystery I was endeavoring to solve--I recognized the advantage of leading gradually up to it. It was by far the wisest plan to allow her to ramble on in her own way, and not to startle her by abrupt questions. "Why did you not light the fire in the stove, Barbara?" "I wosn't sech a mug as that, sir," she replied with a faint dash of humor. "When smoke comes out of the chimney of a empty 'ouse the peeler sez, 'Ho, ho!' and in he pops to find out who's done it. Wot'd become of me then, I'd like to know? They'd 'ave made precious short work of me." "And you have not lit a fire in a stove all the time you have been here." "Never once, sir." "How did you manage for coals, Barbara?" "Well, sir, when I first come, there was a lot of coal in the cellar, and I used it all up. It lasted ever so long, but there was a end to it. Then I begun on the furniture and odd bits of sticks I found inside the house and out. Sometimes when it was dark and rainy I foller the coal wagons, and pick up wot drops from the sacks. Then there's dead branches; I've got 'arf a cupboardful downstairs." "What time did you come"--I hesitated at the word--"home to-night?" "Past one, I think, sir. I kep' out late trying to sell my matches, but I 'ad to give it up for a bad job." "It was you we heard moving about?" "Did I make a noise, sir? I don't, 'ardly ever, but I s'ppose I wos desp'rate, being so 'ungry, and thinking wot I should do to-morrer for grub. I wosn't long gitting my clothes off, cos I wanted to git to sleep quick and forgit everythink and everybody--everybody but Molly. I'm 'appy when I'm asleep, sir." "Poor child! Do you mean to tell me, Barbara, that all these years you have never once been found out, that all these years you have come and gone from the house without being seen." "Yes, sir, as fur as I know. If I aint clever in nothink else I've been clever in that. Oh, but the way I've had to dodge, and the tricks I've played! They'd fill a book if they wos took down. Allus coming 'ome late at night, looking about me, and turning another way if anybody wos near; allus very careful when I went out agin, peeping round corners, and 'iding quick if I 'eerd a step. Eyes, sir! I can see a mile off. Ears, sir! I could 'ear a blade o' grass whisper." "You have had a hard life, my dear," I said, taking her hand. Despite her ragged clothes she looked more comfortable now. There was no wolf tearing at her vitals for food. This, and the warmth of the fire, the excitement of the conversation, the consciousness that we were her friends, and the novelty of such an association in a house in which she had not heard the voice of a human being during all the years she had slept and starved in it, had caused her cheeks to glow and her eyes to sparkle. "Yes, sir, there's no denying it's 'ard, but it'll be all right when I see Molly agin." "You expected to do so long before now?" "Oh, yes, sir, ever so long before. She can't 'ave forgot me, she can't 'ave forgot me! You don't think that, do yer, sir?" "I am sure she has not, my dear. She was always a good sister to you, from what you have told me, and always a good girl." "The best in all the wide world, sir. There's nobody like 'er, I don't care where you look. 'I'm more than yer sister Molly,' she sed, 'I'm yer mother, and I'll never, never turn from yer as long as I live.'" "Tell me, Barbara. What was your sister?" "A servant gal, sir. I'd like to be one." "Was she in a situation in London?" "In course she wos, sir." "Where?" "In this 'ouse, sir. That's why I'm 'ere now." And that, thought I, looking down at the cat, is why _I_ am here now. I glanced at Bob; the revelation that poor Barbara's sister was in domestic service with the last tenant had brought a flush of expectation into his face. CHAPTER XVIII. MOLLY. I continued the conversation. "That must be a long time ago, Barbara?" "Oh, yes, sir; ever so long ago." "What was the name of her master?" "I don't remember, sir." "If you heard it, would you remember it?" "Yes, sir." "Was it Mr. Nesbit?" "That's the name, sir. 'E 'ad a daughter, sech a nice young lady, Molly told me." "Miss Beatrice Nesbit?" "That's 'er, sir. Molly was so fond of 'er, and she liked Molly, too." "Do you know, Barbara, what became of Miss Beatrice?" "No, sir; do you?" I evaded the question. "Can you read?" I asked. "Large letters, when they're wrote plain, sir." "You can't read newspapers?" "No, sir." "When Molly went away--we will speak about that presently--did nobody tell you that something had happened in this house?" "No, sir; I didn't speak about Molly or the 'ouse to nobody, and nobody spoke to me. Wot did 'appen, sir?" "Never mind just now. It is for me to ask questions." "I beg yer pardon, sir." "No need, Barbara. Where and how did you live, my dear, while Molly was in service here?" "It's 'ard to say, sir. I lived anywhere and any'ow. If it 'adn't been for Molly I don't think I'd 'ave lived at all. She used to say, used Molly, 'One day we'll live together, Barbara. When yer grows up, per'aps Miss Beatrice 'll give yer a place with 'er. Then we shall be in the same 'ouse, and we'll be as 'appy as the day's long.' The day aint come yet, sir." "When Molly worked here used you to come and see her?" "On the sly, sir. Mr. Nesbit, Molly sed, wouldn't allow no followers, and nobody else come to the 'ouse that didn't 'ave no business there, so I 'ad to come unbeknown to 'im. One night I wos in the kitching when Molly 'eard 'im coming down. She 'id me quick be'ind the clothes 'orse, as 'ad some things drying. It was lucky for me and Molly that he didn't ketch sight of me, or he'd 'ave bundled us both out. My 'eart wos in my mouth all the time." "You saw Mr. Nesbit?" "Yes, sir; I peeped through the things and sor 'im." "A nice looking gentleman, Barbara?" "Quite the other, sir; but 'e spoke smooth to Molly." "Did you ever see Miss Beatrice?" "Once, sir, the same way, and I think she knew I wos 'iding, but she never sed nothink. She was the nicest looking young lady I ever sor." "Tell me about Molly going away." "She sed she was going into the country with 'er master and Miss Beatrice, and that she wouldn't be away long. She give me some money, and promised to send me some more every week, but I aint 'eerd nothink of 'er from that day to this. There wos Mrs. Simpson, sir; she let me sleep in a corner of 'er room. She wos allus 'ard up, Mrs. Simpson wos, and two weeks after Molly wos gone she got into trouble, and went away, I don't know where to, and I'd no place to put my 'ead in. I walked about the streets and slep' in the park, and then I thought I'd come 'ere and wait for Molly. There wos nothink else for it, 'cause Mrs. Simpson 'ad cut 'er lucky, and Molly wouldn't know where else to look for me. It wos orfle lonesome 'ere at fust, and I wos frightened out of my life almost; but I got used to it after a bit, and it _wos_ a slice of luck, wosn't it, sir, that I found a place to sleep in without being arsked to pay no rent? Then there wos the coal cellar pritty well full of coals, and lots of wood to make a fire with. Daytime I'd go out selling matches, begging, doing anythink to make a honest penny, and it wosn't easy to do that, I can tell yer. But 'ere I am, no better off and no wus since I begun, and never found out till to-night." "You must have managed very cleverly, Barbara." "Oh, they don't make 'em much artfuller nor me," said the poor girl rather proudly. It was a pitiful boast from one who had suffered such hardships, and who, after years of struggle, presented so lamentable an appearance. "I aint told yer all, though," she continued eagerly. "I don't keep no count of the days 'xcept with bits of sticks--one stick, Monday, two sticks, Tuesday, three sticks, Wednesday, up to six sticks, Satterday, and then I know to-morrer's Sunday, and I begin all over again. Weeks I don't know 'ow to reckon, and that's why I can't tell 'ow long Molly's been away. I dessay it was three months when a Satterday night come--not the last by a good many--and I got 'ome as 'ungry as 'ungry could be, and not a ha'penny to get grub with. So wot do I do but prowl about on the chance of finding somethink that 'll 'elp me on. Molly used to sleep in the basement, next to the kitching, and there's a cupboard in the room. Wot 'yer think I found in that there cupboard on the top shelf, that I 'ad to stand on two chairs to git to? A wooden money-box, sir, that rattled as I shook it up. There wos letters outside wrote large by Molly, 'For Barbara.' Yer might 'ave knocked me down with a feather when I sor it, and I did tumble off the chairs and 'urt myself, but I 'ad the money box in my 'and for all that. It wos locked, and there wos no key, but I soon prised it open, and there it was, 'arf full of coppers that Molly'd been saving up for me, else she wouldn't 'ave wrote 'For Barbara' outside. Wosn't that good of Molly, sir?" "Indeed it was," I replied. "I counted it out--six and tenpence, no less, sir, and I kissed the box, and the writing, and the money too, and I only wanted Molly alongside of me to make me as 'appy as the day's long. It lasted me a long while, that money did." "Did you ever find any more?" I asked. "No, sir, though I looked everywhere for it." "Now, Barbara, can you tell me the name of the place your sister was going to with Mr. Nisbet and Miss Beatrice?" "No, sir, she didn't know 'erself, she sed, but she promised to write to me--in large letters--directly she got there." "Where did she say she would send the letter?' "To the house that Mrs. Simpson lived in, sir." "You remained in that house two weeks after Molly went away?" "Yes, sir." "And no letter came?" "No, sir." "How can you be sure of that?" "Mrs. Simpson didn't git none for me, sir--I'm sure of that, 'cause I know she wouldn't deceive me. Why should she? It wouldn't 'ave done 'er no good to keep it from me; and she wosn't one of that sort. Then, sir, there wos the two postmen as used to leave the letters in the street. I made bold to arsk both of 'em about it, 'Is there a letter for Barbara, wrote large, please?' I sed to them every day, and they sed no, there wosn't. 'You won't give it to no one else, will yer, please, when it comes?' I sed to them and they sed they wouldn't. After Mrs. Simpson wos gone I went to the street regularly, and 'ung about for the postmen, and arsked 'em if there wos a letter for Barbara, or if there'd been one, and they allus sed no, and that they'd keep it for me if they got 'old of it. But it never come, sir. I couldn't 'ave done nothink else to make sure of it, could I, sir?" "You could do nothing more, Barbara; and you were very clever in doing what you did. Did you understand from Molly that she was going abroad?" "Abroad, sir!" exclaimed Barbara, in manifest astonishment. "Out of England, I mean." "Oh, no, sir; she'd 'ave been sure to 'ave told me if she'd 'ad any idea of that. And she'd never 'ave done it, sir; she'd never 'ave gone so fur away from me!" "I don't think she would, Barbara, if she had known it. Did she tell you she was going alone first, and that her master and Miss Beatrice were to follow afterward?" "No, sir, they wos to go all together." "Are you sure of that?" "As sure as I can be, sir." "You have given me sensible answers to all my questions, my dear. I noticed when you came upstairs with us that you kept your eyes closed. I suppose you were sleepy." "It wasn't that, sir." "What was the reason?" "I was frightened, sir." "Of what?" Barbara looked around timidly, and drew closer to the fire. "There's shadders in this 'ere 'ouse," she said, in a low tone. "There are shadows everywhere, Barbara," I answered, as Bob and I exchanged glances. "Tell us what you mean." "I can't, sir; it's beyond me. I 'eerd once, permiscuous like, that there wos a 'ouse somewhere in these parts as wos 'aunted, and I sed to myself, 'It's this one.' Then I begun to feel shadders about. It's months and months since I've come 'igher than the kitching; I've been frightened to. It's allus as if somethink wos going to 'appen, and when you woke me up to-night I thought it 'ad." "You began to _feel_ shadows about, Barbara?" "Yes, sir." "But what have you seen?" "Nothink, sir; but I know they're 'ere." "Have you heard anything?" "Only a shaking and rattling, sir." "When there was a wind blowing, Barbara. From your description that must have been what you heard. Some of the window sashes are loose, and of course, in a high wind, they would make a noise." Barbara did not answer, but seemed dubious, and at the same time a little relieved. I glanced at the cat at my feet. "You have seen nothing to-night?" "No, sir." "You see no shadows now?" "No, sir." In these replies there was no such confirmation of my own strange experiences as I had expected, and hoped, to receive when she began to speak of shadows, and I ascribed her fears to the natural nervousness of a child living in a lonely house. They were no stronger than sensitive children living in comfortable homes, with parents and brothers and sisters around them, often suffer from. I had tired Barbara out with my string of questions; her eyelids were closing and opening; her head was nodding. In the silence that ensued she closed her eyes, and did not open them again. The child had fallen asleep. CHAPTER XIX. IMPORTANT INFORMATION. Bob and I conversed in whispers; but Barbara was sleeping so soundly that we might have spoken in our natural voices without fear of awaking her. "What do you think of it, Bob?" I asked. "I don't know what to think," he replied. "I only know one thing--that the child has spoken the truth." "Of that there is no doubt," I said; "but what does it point to?" He conveyed his answer in two words, "Foul play!" I nodded. "My own opinion, not newly formed, for I have had it all along; but what we have been told gives a new turn to it. And still," I added fretfully, "we are in the dark. Where can we look for direction as to the next step to be taken?" "Has it not occurred to you," said Bob, "that it was singular that Mr. Nisbet should have had the body of his stepdaughter cremated instead of buried in the usual manner?" "He may be an enthusiast on the subject of cremation," I observed. "Many eminent men advocate such a disposal of the dead." "There is another answer to the question. We are both agreed that there has been foul play. If we are right, Mr. Nisbet, by having the body cremated, has effectually destroyed the most important evidence that could be sought against him." "The doctor testified at the inquest to the cause of the young lady's death." "Ah, the doctor. The inquiry agent gave you his name, I believe?" "He did. It is Cooper." "Might not something be gained from him?" I caught at the suggestion. "A good thought, Bob." "We do not know," continued my shrewd adviser, "who this Dr. Cooper is, whether he is a practitioner of repute, and whether any relations of a confidential nature existed between him and Mr. Nisbet." "You are letting in light," I said. "Go on." "So far as you have gone you are ignorant of this doctor's standing. If he holds a good position, if he has an extensive practice, we shall obtain no assistance from him. No respectable medical man would run a risk for the sake of a bribe. As a rule, doctors are the kindest men in the world; but here and there you may meet with a backslider, or with one who has been careless in such a matter as this, or with one whose necessities lay him open to temptation. That is the extent of my suggestion; but it appears to me to be worth following up--on the off-chance, as sporting men say." "It shall be followed up," I said. "To-morrow I will make inquiries concerning him. And now we will get a little sleep. It is not likely we shall be disturbed again." We lay down in our clothes, and were awake betimes. But Barbara was up before us; and when we rose we found the room nicely tidied up, a bright fire burning, the kettle singing on the hob, and the table ready spread for breakfast. "Bravo, Barbara," I said. "You are a handy little girl." "I thought you'd like it done, sir," she said; "and I moved about very quiet so as not to wake yer. I slep' like a top, and I feel ever so much better than I did last night. But yer did give me a start, yer did, when yer come upon me in the kitching." "You are not sorry for it now?" "I'm glad, sir. It was a reg'lar slice of luck." "You shall find it so. Any more shadows, Barbara?" "No, sir. I never feel 'em in the daytime; it's only at night that I'm afeerd." "We'll put a stop to all that, my girl. Let us get breakfast over; I dare say you're ready for it." "That I am, sir. I'm allus ready to tuck in." Despite the seriousness of our situation, we were quite a cheerful party. We had provided liberally, and we made a hearty meal, Barbara, to our mingled pity and admiration, proving herself a champion in that line. Had she been of colossal proportions instead of an attenuated mortal, literally all skin and bone, she could scarcely have eaten more. A full meal was a delightful novelty to her, and she greatly distinguished herself. "I wouldn't call the queen my aunt," she declared, when we rose from the table, which we considered a very original remark, although its application was not exactly clear. While she was clearing away the things and washing up, Bob and I had a consultation. It was decided that he should remain indoors with Barbara, and that I should go out to make inquiries for Dr. Cooper. During my absence it was his intention to thoroughly examine the house from top to bottom. He had the idea that he might light upon something that would furnish a clew; and as he had greater experience than I in untenanted houses, he was the better fitted for such a search. It being Sunday, the facilities for seeking information were limited; but in the by-streets I found a common cigar shop open here and there, and I laid out a great many pennies without satisfactory result. At length, however, I entered a poor little shop, which I was told had been established for several years. An elderly woman answered to my raps on the counter; and after spending sixpence with her, I led up to the important subject, and soon discovered that I was on the track. Dr. Cooper had lived in the neighborhood, not very far from her shop; but he had removed two or three years ago to another part of London. Was he a doctor in good practice? She could not say as to that. He was a poor man's doctor, and gave advice and medicine for a shilling. He had a large family, and did not pay his way. Then his business could not have been a flourishing one? Not at all; he had run away in debt to everybody--to her among the number. But by accident she found out his new place of business, and had served him with a county court summons. He had run up a bill of twenty-five shillings with her, and he pleaded that he was not in a position to pay it. Judgment was given for her, and he was ordered to pay half a crown a month, which, he said, was the utmost he could afford. The trouble she had to get her money! She had to threaten him over and over again, and at last succeeded in obtaining what was due to her. "A bad lot, sir," she said. "Always drinking on the sly, and as fit to attend to sick people as my old cat there. If I was dying, and there was not another doctor in London, I wouldn't call him in." Had she any objection to give me his address? Not the least objection. She ought to know it, as she had been there twenty times to get her money. It was in Theobald's Row, South Lambeth, when she saw him last; she did not remember the number, but there were not many houses in the Row, and I should have no difficulty in finding it; "if he hasn't run away again," she added. I left the shop, thanking the chance that had led me to it. In the information I had gained there was pregnant matter for thought. That a wealthy gentleman like Mr. Oliver Nisbet should call in such a man in a case of life and death was something more than strange; it was in the highest degree suspicious, and I felt confident that some information of importance to my mission was to be elicited from one whose necessities, as Bob had observed, might lay him open to the temptation of a bribe. South Lambeth was a long way from the north of London; but so anxious was I to lose no time, that I determined to proceed there at once. With this intention I walked into the wider thoroughfares to look for a cab, and was about to hail one when a man walking quickly toward me, stopped as we came close to each other, and accosted me. "Why, Mr. Emery," he said, "I heard you were in Brighton." It was Mr. Dickson, the private inquiry agent. "I am in London, as you see," I replied. "Who told you I was in Brighton?" "I learned it at your house two hours ago." I groaned inwardly, thinking of what was in store for me if my good wife discovered that I was deceiving her. "Did you see my wife?" "No, a servant answered the bell, and said you had run down to the seaside for the day." "I wished the business between us," I said rather severely, "to be kept secret. What took you to my house, Mr. Dickson?" "Oh, there was no fear of my saying anything about the commission you gave me. I did not even leave my name." I breathed more freely. "I went to see you because I had something to tell you which I thought you would like to know immediately." "What is it?" "Mr. Nisbet is in London," replied Mr. Dickson. CHAPTER XX. DR. COOPER. I caught my breath. There was nothing strange in the information; for all I knew Mr. Nisbet might have been in London for years, as ignorant of my existence as, until lately, I had been of his; but the accidental discoveries of the last few hours seemed to me to be pregnant with important possibilities. "I am glad you have lost no time in telling me," I said. "How did you discover it?" "Almost by accident. I have a partner, whose methods are of the quiet order, I being the active worker in our business, and it is he who made the discovery--almost by accident, as I have said. Nisbet is not a very uncommon name, but tack Oliver to it, and it becomes exceptional. Yesterday there arrived from the Continent a gentleman bearing those two names, and he is now at the Hôtel Métropole." This destroyed the hypothesis that Mr. Nisbet had been a constant resident in London since my introduction to the skeleton cat. "From what part of the Continent?" I inquired. "Lastly from Paris; but by way of Paris from any one of a hundred different places. Can you give me a personal description of the gentleman?" "No," I replied, "I have never seen him; but I can obtain it for you." "Do so, and let me have it as soon as possible. At present my partner is shadowing him, and he will not be lost sight of. You will never guess where I have just come from, Mr. Emery." "I shall be glad to hear." "In the course of such a business as ours," said Mr. Dickson, "we become acquainted with strange things, which, as a rule, we keep to ourselves, secrecy being an integral part of our operations. Some cases take hold of us, some do not, and I confess that my curiosity--a human weakness, you know--has been excited in this particular case. So, after leaving your house, the idea entered my mind of strolling to Lamb's Terrace and having a look at No. 79. That is where I have just come from." "You have not been inside the house," I said, rather startled, as I thought of Bob and Barbara. "How could I get inside," he retorted, "without the key? What a melancholy, Heaven-forsaken place! I will tell you what occurred to me, if you like." "Yes, tell me." "Just the spot for a crime, thought I as I wandered about; just the spot to carry out a deep-laid scheme in comparative safety. I have no wish to pry into your secrets, Mr. Emery; but one cannot help what comes unbidden into one's mind, and men engaged in such pursuits as mine are more open to suspicion than others. We see shadows behind locked doors, we work out theories in the dark, and sometimes we come upon unexpected results. However, it is no affair of mine, as my own personal interests are not involved in it." "If they were," I hazarded, "you would follow it up." "Undoubtedly. I could not possibly evade the duty, with three such links as a sudden death, a cremation instead of a burial, and a vast fortune on the issue." "And if you were to add," I thought, "the experiences I have gone through, you would be still less inclined to rest till the mystery was unraveled." Aloud I said, "Do not let the matter flag for a few pounds. I am most anxious to work it out, if there is a possibility of doing so." "It shall not flag. The mischief of it is, the most important clews are destroyed. Only through the principal agent can the crime--if one has been committed--be brought to light." "Or through an accomplice," I suggested. "Quite so. But where to look for this accomplice--there lies the difficulty. Still it is the unexpected that often happens. Well, good-day, Mr. Emery; I hope to hear from you to-morrow." Theobald's Row, South Lambeth, if not so desolate a neighborhood as Lamb's Terrace, was sufficiently depressing in its general aspect to cause one to resolve to give it a wide berth unless special business called him to the spot. There were sad, melancholy railway arches which might serve for a chapter in a modern "Inferno"; there were timber yards stacked high with discolored lumber, which appeared to be piled up not for purposes of trade, but to add one more melancholy feature to a worn-out, dilapidated locality; there were workingmen's lodging houses, whose flat surface of stone walls resembled prisons in which every vestige of brightness in life was hopelessly entombed; there were rows of houses as hopeless and despairing, and as poverty-stricken and irremediably shabby; and there was the most leaden atmosphere of which even London could boast. The men, women, and children I saw there were in keeping with their surroundings; the youngsters were playing listlessly and with no heart in their games; the men smoked pipes and haunted street corners or wandered in and out the beer shops and public houses; the worn-faced women conversed jadedly and dispiritedly; and everywhere the spirit of discontent proclaimed itself. Even the dogs nosing the gutters were infected with the prevailing gloom. In the center of Theobald's Row, which consisted of sixteen small houses, eight on each side, and all of a flat dead level, I came upon Dr. Cooper's place of business, a parlor window, with two large dust-covered bottles displayed therein, whose ghostly colors were green and red. Half a dozen ragged children were disporting themselves on the doorstep, and as I approached the shop a slatternly woman came to the door and swooped them all into the house. As she was turning to follow them I accosted her. "Is Dr. Cooper at home?" "What do you want of him?" she retorted. "I wish to see him on a matter of business." I had stepped into the shop, and as I looked around at the nearly empty shelves, dotted here and there with a few miserable fly-blown bottles, I thought that a man in search of health or of a remedy for a bodily ailment could not have found a more unlikely place for relief. "Is it opening medicine?" said the woman. "I can serve you." "My business is not professional," I replied. She cast a suspicious glance at me, and I guessed that she supposed me to be a dun. "It may be something of advantage to him," I observed. She brightened up instantly. "My husband is not in," she said; "but you may find him at the George." "At the George?" "Or the Green Dragon," she added. "Where are they? Far from here?" "Oh, no, not far; he has to keep himself handy in case he is called in anywhere. The George is at the corner of the next street, and the Green Dragon is at the opposite corner. If he is not at either of those places he is sure to be at the Britannia. Anybody will tell you where that is." As I walked to "the corner of the next street" I could not help smiling at the idea of Dr. Cooper being so considerate as to pass his time in a public house, within convenient hail of his place of business, in case he might be "called in anywhere"; but I pitied those who needed his assistance in a case of sickness. He was not at the George, and I was advised to try the Green Dragon; he was not at the Green Dragon, and I was advised to try the Britannia; and at the Britannia I found him. He was a washed-out, weedy man, with an inflamed countenance, and when I presented myself he was in the act of clinking pewter pots with some boon companions, who, according to my judgment, were standing treat to him. He drained his pot to the dregs, and turned it upside down on the counter, with a thirsty air about him notwithstanding the long draught he had just taken. I am not a teetotaler, nor an advocate of teetotalism, but it has always been a matter of regret to me that the persevering search for enlightenment on the part of the British public at the bottom of pewter pots does not lead to more encouraging results. At the moment of my entrance he and his companions were discussing a criminal case which had excited great interest and had largely occupied the newspapers for several days past. It was a supposed case of poisoning, and the person charged--it was a woman--had been acquitted after a long trial. Her husband had been the victim; but the medical evidence was inconclusive, and she had been given the benefit of the doubt. The woman and her husband had been on proved bad terms, and she had much to gain by his death. There was a man in the case, the woman's lover, and there was a strong suspicion that he was implicated; but, guilty or not guilty, he was not arraigned because no direct evidence could be brought against him. Only on the previous night had the case been concluded, and the result was published in the Sunday morning's papers, the jury having been locked up for eight hours before they arrived at their verdict. "She's escaped by the skin of her teeth," said one of the topers. "If I'd been on the jury she'd have had the rope." "Law's law," said a half-tipsy Solon, "and justice is justice. I don't believe in hanging a woman upon presumption. My opinion is that he poisoned himself to get rid of her." "That's a queer way of getting rid of a nuisance," was the reply. "Besides, there was no poison found in the body." "You're all at sixes and sevens," said a third speaker. "The doctors disagreed, and the weight of evidence was in favor of the woman. She's as artful as you make 'em; but that's no reason for hanging her." "The man was killed," persisted the first speaker. "He didn't die a natural death." "Nothing was proved," said the third speaker, "and when nothing's proved you can't bring anyone in guilty. This is a free country, I believe." What struck me in the expression of these opinions--if opinions they could be called--was their utterly illogical bearing. It was like a lot of weathercocks arguing; and when the half-tipsy Solon said, "Ask the doctor," they turned toward him, as though a direct question had been put to him, which he, as a weighty authority, could answer in a word, and thus settle the whole matter. "What I say is," said Dr. Cooper thirstily and with indistinct utterance, "that there are more ways of killing a man than one." "Ah," they all observed in effect, "Dr. Cooper knows." What it was that Dr. Cooper knew with respect to the case was not very clear. What I knew, when I heard him speak, was that he was drunk. Quickly came to my mind the suggestion whether he would be of more service to me drunk than sober. "Who's going to stand treat?" he inquired, with a nervous fingering of his pewter pot. "Your turn, doctor," they said. "If it's my turn," he replied pettishly, "you'll have to wait." They laughed, and left him one by one. Then he asked for liquor across the counter; but the barman shook his head and devoted himself to ready-money customers. I saw my opportunity, and advancing toward him, asked if he would join me in a friendly glass. "In a friendly glass," he said, "I would join Old Nick himself." A declaration which, frank as it was, could scarcely be said to be a recommendation. It was a peculiar feature of Dr. Cooper's tipsy condition that, although his speech was thick and somewhat indistinct, he did not slur or clip his words, which denoted that he still preserved some control over himself. "Beer or whisky, doctor?" I asked. "Whisky for choice," he said. "Irish." Whisky it was, and Irish; I spilled mine on the floor, and filled my glass with water. Dr. Cooper dealt with his as he dealt with the beer; it was evidently not his habit to take two bites at a cherry. "Another?" I suggested. "You're a gentleman," he said. When he had disposed of this second portion in a similar manner to the first, I opened the ball, and inwardly took credit to myself for rather artful tactics. "I came down this way, doctor," I said, "especially to see you." He seized my wrist with one hand, and put the other into his waistcoat pocket, removing it immediately, however, with a husky cough and an angry shake of his head. "No, no, doctor," I said, laughing, as he fumbled at my pulse, "I do not need professional advice to-day. The fact is, I have come to pay an old debt." He retained my hand, as though to prevent my escaping him. "You're one of the lot that has brought me down," he growled. "How much is it, and how long has it been due?" "It has been due a long time past," I replied; "and the amount is two shillings, for two bottles of medicine and advice." "Are you sure it isn't more?" "Quite sure. I should have paid you before to-day, but when I went to your place--a long while ago, I must tell you--I found you had gone. You practiced in the north of London, you know." "I do know; I have reason to know. If I had got my rights I should not be as I am. I should be practicing in Belgravia, and driving in my carriage. I'll take another whisky." I nodded at the barman, who refilled the glass, which he instantly emptied again. "What do we slave for? What do we study for? What do we waste the midnight oil for? To be taken in, to be robbed and swindled, to have promises made to us that are never fulfilled." "Unfortunately," I said, sympathizing with him, "it is the way of the world. It is the simple-minded and the honest that are defrauded." "You know how it is. Five shillings, you said." "No; it is two shillings I owe you." "Interest added, makes it three. You can't object to that." "I don't object; here is the money." He took it, and dropped it in his pocket. We had each of us only one disengaged hand, as he still kept hold of my wrist. "A feeble pulse," he said, shaking his head with tipsy gravity, "a very feeble pulse. Needs a stimulant." "Irish whisky?" "Irish whisky," he echoed; and disposed of his fourth glass, while I spilled mine as I had done before. These rapid potations had the effect I desired; they weakened his self-control, they loosened his tongue. "That was an interesting discussion you were having," I observed, "when I came in. What was it you said? That there are more ways than one of killing a man. How true that is! But it is only those who are experienced in such matters that can speak with authority. Do you suspect, doctor, that the woman is guilty?" "I will take my oath she is guilty." "But the fact of poison being administered was not absolutely established." He snapped his fingers. "That for being established! There are poisons and poisons; there are way and ways. Did you ever take a sleeping draught?" "Never." "Well, when you want one, come to me, and I will give you something that will make you sleep so sound that you will never wake up again." "Declined with thanks. But would it not be discovered?" "It might or it mightn't. Suppose it is discovered that you died of an overdose. Then comes the question, who administered it? When a man suffers from insomnia he doses himself as a rule, and if he overdoes it he has only himself to blame. There's the bottle at his bedside empty. There are the people who are interested--generally two, a man and a woman. If there are servants in the house they are asleep. What have they to do with it? The man, or the woman, does not wake up again. Now prove that the man, or the woman, who is left alive forced the sleeping draught down the other one's throat. You can't do it. I can tell you where you can buy some effervescent sleeping globules that you put in your mouth, and fall asleep while they are dissolving. One makes you sleep for six hours, two makes you sleep for ten hours, three makes you sleep for twenty, four makes you sleep forever. Some of us doctors have secrets that we keep to ourselves; make you as wise as we are, and where should we be? There was a case--I mention no names--of a man suffering under a painful disease which might run its course for months, perhaps years, before it prove fatal. Wife suggests that it would be a mercy to kill him, and so put him out of pain. A little syringe, a slight injection while the man is sleeping; it is done in a moment; the man is dead. The woman comes into a fortune, and marries her lover. Medical testimony, the disease from which the man has been suffering, and which _must_ prove fatal some time or other. Quite natural. Everybody's happy, and nothing more is heard of the matter. There are other ways. Charcoal, which English people don't take to; escape of gas"--I caught my breath, but fortunately my sudden spasm passed unnoticed--"quite as easy, quite as natural. For one murder discovered, how many undiscovered? Work that out!" "An interesting study for statisticians," I said. "If they had the facts before them; but they can't get hold of them. There are liquid poisons that can be mixed with food, and are tasteless and colorless; they can be administered for months, and nobody the wiser. You may find a trace in the body after death, but not sufficient to account for what has taken place, not a twentieth part sufficient to account for it. There are others to weaken not only the body but the mind, to destroy memory, to make one oblivious of the past. Perfectly pleasant and painless. Now, what do you think of a man who knows what I know being in such a position as I am." "It is disgraceful," I said. "It is infamous. You are struggling, you are poor, you have a large family, you are fond of the pleasures of life. A person--again I mention no names--comes to you, and says such and such a thing--never mind what thing. This person is rich; you are in debt. I am only supposing a case, you know." "Of course." "The person says, there's a sudden death in my house--an accident, say by charcoal, say by gas. A pure accident, most lamentable. A doctor's testimony is required, for formality's sake. Any doctor will do. You are in the neighborhood. Will you testify? Fee, so many guineas, and afterward a lift up in life, a chance to get along. As our national poet expresses it, 'My poverty, but not my will, consents.' You do no wrong; the person is a gentleman, and you take his word; you testify at the inquest, and all is smooth sailing. The affair is forgotten. You receive your few guineas, and you wait for the chance to get along in life, for the lift up that will bring you a lucrative practice. It never comes. The person shrugs his shoulders, contradicts you, jockeys you. What's the consequence? Your suspicions are excited. The person inherits a great sum of money by the death. You ferret that out; your suspicions grow stronger. You go to the person, and you mention your suspicions. He says, 'You are putting yourself in danger; if you have given false evidence, the law will make you suffer for it; you are a fool and a knave. Get out!' You are bound to submit. What are your feelings toward the person who has treated you so shamefully? What would you do him if it was in your power?" "I would certainly--supposing this not to be a hypothetical case----" "Which it is," interposed Dr. Cooper, "purely hypothetical." "Exactly. How could it be otherwise? But such conversations are most interesting to an outsider like myself. Supposing then, this not to be a hypothetical case, I would certainly be glad of any chance to be even with the person who has imposed upon me. Carrying the hypothesis further, what should you say became of the body of the--did you say a lady?" "No, I don't think I said a lady; but let it be a lady, for the sake of argument." "What became of the body--though that's a stupid question, because, of course, it was buried in the usual way?" "It might not have been. There's such a thing as cremation." What turn the conversation would have taken after this startling observation it is out of my power to say, for the slatternly wife of the doctor made her appearance here, and told my tipsy companion that a patient required his immediate attention. An hour afterward I was once more in Lamb's Terrace. CHAPTER XXI. BARBARA GIVES US SOME VALUABLE INFORMATION. "We thought you were lost," said Bob, and Barbara looked up with a smile, a sign that she regarded me as a friend. They had waited dinner for me, and I was surprised to see on the table quite an imposing array of crockery. "Where does all this come from?" I asked. "We have made discoveries," replied Bob, giving me a significant look. "Barbara here had no idea what was in the house, which proves that she is not one of the prying kind. All sorts of things have been bundled out of sight in odd nooks and corners, crockery, cutlery, table linen, and goodness only knows what. We have made another room ready for Barbara to sleep in to-night; it is on the same floor as this, and she says she is not afraid." "Not a bit," said Barbara, "now I aint in the 'ouse alone." "And she's going to bed early," added Bob. "As soon as ever you tell me," said Barbara. The dinner they had prepared was not at all a bad one, and I was hungry enough to enjoy a much worse fare. To Barbara it was a veritable feast, and she did as much justice to it as she had done to the breakfast. The moment we finished she jumped up, and took the plates and dishes to her own room where she washed them up. "You have something to tell me, Bob," I said, taking advantage of her absence. "I have. You have something in your budget, too." "Yes." "We will wait till Barbara has gone to bed; we can talk more freely then." "I have a question to ask her first," I said. "I also want a little information from her, the meaning of which you will understand when we are alone for the night." The little girl entering at this moment, Bob turned his attention to her. "Barbara, was your sister fond of dress?" "Lor', sir," answered Barbara. "Aint all gals fond of it? She used to say if she was a lady she'd allus dress in silk." "Do you recollect what frock she wore when you saw her last?" "It was a cotton frock, sir--pink, with little flowers on it. Miss Beatrice give it to 'er." "You would know it again, I suppose, if you saw it?" "In course I should know it, sir, 'cause Molly'd be in it." "But it would be worn out by this time, Barbara." "Yes, sir, it would. I didn't think of that." "Do you recollect the dress that Miss Beatrice wore when you saw her last?" "I should think I do, sir; it _was_ a beauty. A gray silk, it wos, with steel trimmin's. She looked lovely in it, she did." Bob conveyed in a glance at me that he had no further questions to ask, and I took up the cue. "You have a good memory, Barbara, and I dare say you can give me a description of Mr. Nisbet. You told us he was not a nice looking gentleman." "Not at all, sir, though he did 'ave a 'igh fore'ead. 'E 'ad a look like ice in his eyes." "What color were they?" "A kind of cold blue; and 'e 'ad a red beard and mustache." "A tall gentleman, Barbara?" "Yes, sir. 'E didn't have no 'at on when 'e came into the kitching, and I sor that 'is 'ead wos bald in the middle, and was flattish at the top. As 'e looked round the kitching 'e put a pair of gold spectacles on, and when they wosn't on 'is eye 'e was allus a-dangling 'em with 'is fingers, twiddling 'em about like." "You don't seem to have liked his looks?" "I didn't, sir; there was something about 'im that made my 'eart's blood run cold. I pitied Miss Beatrice, I did." "For any particular reason, Barbara?" "Not as I knows on, sir, but I thought to myself, 'I shouldn't like to 'ave a father like that; I'd rather 'ave none at all.'" "What did your sister Molly think of him?" "She didn't care for 'im no more than I did, but she didn't say much about 'im. It's my belief she wos frightened of 'im. She told me a funny thing once." "Yes?" "She sed that sometimes when he looked at 'er she felt as if she couldn't move or speak of her own accord. 'Barbara,' she sed to me, 'it's my opinion that if 'e ordered me to go up to the roof and stand on the top of one of the chimbley pots I should go and do it without a single word.' But he allus spoke soft to 'er, she sed." "Thank you, Barbara; and now it will be best for you to get to bed. Last night was a broken night, and you must be tired." Wishing us good-night the girl went to her room, and when I opened her door a few minutes afterward she was fast asleep. Then, before asking Bob to speak of what was on his mind, I related my own adventures. He was greatly excited at my description of Dr. Cooper and the supposititious case he had put to me, and also at the news of Mr. Oliver Nisbet being in London. "There's never smoke without a fire," he said. "Dr. Cooper was not drawing upon his imagination when he spoke about poisons and sleeping draughts, and of a poor doctor being called in to testify to a death of which he knew less than nothing. It happened, Ned! it happened; it fits in with what occurred in this house. He supplied the proof in the last words he spoke to you--'there's such a thing as cremation.' It is as clear as the noonday sun. Mr. Nisbet wanted a doctor's certificate of death; he calls in Dr. Cooper and obtains what he requires, in the exact shape he desires, for the payment of a few guineas and the promise of a further reward which has never been fulfilled. What is the consequence? This wretched pettifogger bears an animosity against his employer, which may perhaps be turned to good account--though whether he babbles when sober as he does when he is in his cups remains to be seen. He must not be lost sight of." "He shall not be. I am thinking whether it will be advisable to put the inquiry agent on his track." "We can decide nothing as yet, but the thing is moving, that's one comfort. Every day, almost every hour, some new feature seems to come to light. What are you doing?" "Writing the description of Mr. Nisbet's personal appearance with which Barbara supplied us. I promised to let Mr. Dickson have it as soon as possible, and I shall post it to him to-night. Now for your news, Bob." "Almost as important as yours. When you left us I commenced to make a thorough examination of the house, as I said I would. Barbara assisted me. I examined every room, every cupboard, and found a lot of things which had apparently been thrown away in haste. These discoveries gave point to an observation I have already made to you--that it is strange the last tenant did not call in a broker and dispose of articles for which he had no use, as he evidently had no intention of occupying the house. Barbara was much surprised at our discoveries, and I shouldn't wonder, honest as I believe the child to be, if the idea occurred to her that she might have made use of the property from time to time to relieve her poverty. However, that is neither here nor there, and I may be doing Barbara an injustice. We had occupied some time in our search, when it became necessary to devote attention to the preparation of dinner, so I sent the girl away, and continued to poke about alone. It was well I did so, for I made what I conceive to be a startling discovery. On the floor above this there are two attics, presumably intended for servants' bedrooms. There is a rather large landing, and in the wall of this landing I observed two low doors. Opening them, I found that they were cupboards for the receptacle of lumber; they extend far into the outer wall of the house. It was in one of these cupboards, at the extreme end, that I made my startling discovery. What kind of dress did Barbara say that Miss Beatrice wore when she last saw her?" "A gray silk, with steel trimmings." Bob went to a corner of the room and brought forward a large bundle. "Here it is." There it was, sure enough--a very beautiful dress, perfectly made, of expensive material. "Observe," said Bob, "this is not a dress which has served its day, and which it is at all probable the wearer voluntarily discarded. It is almost new, and could have been worn but a few times. I put this aside, and I produce every other article of a lady's attire--silk stockings, shoes, petticoats, mantle, hat. I produce also a lady's nightdress, and every other requisite--the outfit is complete. All these articles are in good condition; the stockings show no signs of wear, the shoes are nearly new, the mantle must have cost a fair sum of money. To whom did these clothes belong?" "To Miss Beatrice." "Yes, to Miss Beatrice. What did Barbara say was her sister's favorite dress?" "A pink cotton, with little flowers on it." "Here it is." He produced it. "And also every other article worn by a young woman in Molly's station in life. Nightdress as well. The two outfits, complete in every particular. Now, a singular feature in this discovery is that these things were not thrust hurriedly and hastily into the cupboard. Each article that could be folded was carefully folded, and each costume was carefully packed and wrapped in thick brown paper. Time and attention has been devoted to the task, and there must have been an underlying motive in the care that was exercised in its accomplishment. What was this motive, and how are we to act? My firm opinion is that Mr. Nisbet's hands are responsible for the packing of these clothes. Ordinarily a man could be careless of such things, and would not waste his time upon them. The conjectures that present themselves are so extraordinary that I cannot reduce them to order or reason, but I have an odd conviction--for which I can give you no explanation--that we are on the threshold of further disclosures. What is the next step, Ned?" "There are several," I replied, "and we will speak of them. First, let me tell you that it is my intention to keep watch on this house." "To reside here?" "For a time. To eat, and drink, and sleep here, and to be absent from the house as little as possible." Bob interrupted me by asking if the apparition of the cat was in the room. "It is on the hearthrug," I replied, "seemingly waiting, as we are waiting, for developments." Then I continued speaking of the realities of the position. "I suppose it would be too much to ask you to keep me company here this week, after your office work is over?" "It is not too much to expect; I should have proposed it myself if you had not suggested it. Every evening, directly my work is done, I will come and join you." "You are a good fellow. I intend to be very careful in my movements, and, so far as possible, not to let it be known that the house is occupied. I do not wish Barbara to remain. We must find a home for her somewhere, and we must pledge her to secrecy. I would take her to my own house, but at present I do not consider it prudent to do so. My wife is an inquisitive woman, and something might leak out; besides, in order that my time may be perfectly free, I intend to send her into the country for a fortnight; she shall go to-morrow. I can easily find an excuse for not accompanying her. You lodge in a quiet part of London, and you have spoken in praise of your landlady. Would she, for a consideration, give Barbara board and lodging for a little while?" "No doubt she would. In fact, I think she is looking for a girl to assist her in the house." "Very well. At what hour in the morning are you due at your office?" "Half-past nine." "Then you will be able, if you leave here at about seven or half-past, to take Barbara to Canonbury, and get to the office in time." "Yes, I can do that, and in the evening I will join you." "Thanks. The next thing is about your nephew, Ronald. It appears to me to be almost an act of treachery to conceal from him what has occurred." "What good purpose would be served," asked Bob, "by disclosing it to him? He is blind, and could not assist us. By and by, perhaps, he may be of use, though I do not see in what way; at present it would only distress him to let him into the secret." "We will wait, then; but I shall call upon him to-morrow and have a little chat with him about Mr. Nisbet. It will be a busy day for all of us, and I shall be absent from the house till evening, but you will find me here when you come. Another thing that is in my mind is whether there is any special motive for Mr. Nisbet's return to London--any special motive, I mean, in relation to this mystery." "Impossible to say, Ned." "That is so. Well, we must wait. Now I think we have threshed matters out, and we will get to bed. I will just run out and post my letter to Mr. Dickson, and this exciting day's work will be over." We were all up next morning before seven o'clock, and after a hasty breakfast I told Barbara of our plans with respect to her. She was quite willing, and expressed her gratitude; her only trouble was about her sister Molly, who, she said, might come to the house in search for her when she was absent. It was not difficult to set her mind at ease upon this point, and she departed with Bob in perfect contentment. The first call I made--at ten o'clock--was upon Mr. Dickson. He had received my letter, and he informed me that the description I had given of Mr. Oliver Nisbet tallied exactly with that gentleman's appearance. He had not ascertained from what part of the Continent Mr. Nisbet had come, but he had learned that he had been abroad for some time past. Our relations with each other being now on a more confidential footing, I spoke to him about Dr. Cooper, and instructed him to keep his eye on the pettifogger. From his office I proceeded to the residence of Ronald Elsdale, and opened up a conversation with him, leading artfully to the subject upon which I desired information. "From certain events that have transpired lately," I said, "I am curious to learn something more of his character. Were you aware at the time of your intimacy with him that his stepdaughter was heiress to a large fortune?" No, he answered, he was not aware of it. From the manner in which they traveled he judged Mr. Nisbet to be a man of means, but he knew nothing further. "Respecting his acquirements," I said. "Was he of a scientific turn of mind?" "He was fond of chemistry, I believe," said Ronald, "and of experimentalizing. Your question brings to my mind a conversation which took place at _table d'hôte_ when we were in Chamounix. It was on the subject of anæsthetics, and the effect of certain poisonous chemicals upon different temperaments. I fancy that Mr. Nisbet was at first disinclined to take part in the discussion, but a remark escaped him which was disputed by a person at the table, and he grew warm, and spoke with authority upon the subject, with which he was evidently familiar. It was the only occasion upon which I heard him speak freely, and I think he was not pleased at having been drawn into the conversation, for he stopped suddenly in the middle of a sentence, and left the room. Beatrice told me afterward that he was very clever in those matters, and that on occasions when she had passed a sleepless night from toothache or some other ailment, he had given her a draught which produced a good night's rest. I recollect now that she related an incident which strangely interested me. She had been restless and in pain for two or three days, and her stepfather prescribed for her. When she awoke in the morning her pain had passed away, and she was quite well physically, but a singular thing happened to her. She had lost her memory. She could not recall what happened yesterday or the day before, and she said with a smile that it was with difficulty she remembered her name. Gradually her power of memory came back to her, and she recollected everything perfectly." "Did this occur to her again, Mr. Elsdale?" "So far as I know it occurred only once. I suppose you will not tell me why you are asking these questions, Mr. Emery?" "Not yet; and I am going to ask you two more. Do you believe that you will ever see the young lady again?" "See her? No. How can I? You forget that I am blind. But I have the firmest belief that I shall come into association with her again." "In life?" "In life," he replied gravely. "My other question is this. On former occasions, when we were in each other's company, your uncle being present, you have had an impression that there was a dog, or some other living creature, in the room. Have you such an impression now?" "No." (I may mention that the apparition of the cat was not visible to me.) "I know, Mr. Emery, that you must think I am laboring under some hallucination, but I cannot help that. You must take me as you find me, and make the best, and not the worst, of me. I have an engagement with a pupil, and you will excuse me now." I had studied the time-tables, and, it being twelve o'clock, it was safe for me to present myself to my poor deluded wife. On my way home I met with another adventure. There was a block of vehicles in the road, and cabs, omnibuses, and carts were waiting for the policeman's instruction to proceed. In one of these cabs, a hansom, a gentleman was sitting whom I immediately recognized as Mr. Oliver Nisbet. He had a red beard and mustache, he had a high forehead, his eyes were of a cold blue, and he was impatiently dangling a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses between his fingers. The faithfulness of Barbara's description rather startled me, and I should scarcely have been surprised if he had accosted me. But I was a stranger to him, and he took no notice of me; this gave me the opportunity of observing him closely, and I was confident that I was not mistaken. What particularly struck me was the steely blue of his eyes; there seemed to be a compelling power in them which strangely affected me, and I could not help thinking that I should not relish coming under their influence. The policeman stood aside, and the vehicles passed on. In a moment or two he was out of sight. My wife opened the door for me, and kissed me affectionately. "Have you enjoyed yourself?" she asked. "Immensely," I replied, with a guilty feeling. "I am glad to hear it," was her response, "though I must say, Edward, you don't look much the better for the trip." "That is only your fancy, Maria. It has done me so much good that I want you to spend a couple of weeks in Brighton." "I shall be very glad of the change. When shall we start?" "I cannot go with you," I said, "as I have business to attend to in London. You can easily get a lady friend to accompany you, and I will be responsible for all the expenses. Maria, I insist upon it. You are pale, you are out of sorts, and the change will set you up. I intend to exercise my authority, and to insist upon it." "You are very kind; but----" "I will have no 'buts.' It has to be done, and done it shall be." And I was so determined that done it was. I did not leave home till I had seen Maria and a lady friend off; then, and then only, did I look upon myself as free. If the necessity arose I could easily keep her away for a longer time than two weeks. Once more I set my face toward Lamb's Terrace, riding in a cab, and furnished with provisions, in the shape of a cooked ham, a supply of chops, bread, butter, tea, and everything that was necessary to victual the garrison. I took the things with me in a hamper, and at the corner of the desolate thoroughfare I discharged the cab, and carried the hamper to the house. It is necessary here to mention what I did before I left the house in the morning. I can give no reason for my proceedings, and therefore I must content myself with relating what it was I did. The two dresses found in the attic cupboard I repacked carefully in their wrapping of brown paper, and replaced them in the cupboard. I locked the two rooms which had been occupied by Bob and me and Barbara, and I removed all traces of any persons having been in the house. Again, I say, I do not know why I adopted these apparently unnecessary precautions; I must have been mysteriously prompted, as I had been on other occasions in the course of my strange adventures. I did not expect Bob for an hour, and I busied myself with arranging the supply of food I had brought with me. Then I went to the attic cupboard, with the intention of bringing down the women's garments I had discovered there. To my astonishment they were gone. Some person had been in the house during my absence, and had taken them away. CHAPTER XXII. MR. NISBET VISITS LAMB'S TERRACE. I had no doubt whatever that this person was Mr. Oliver Nisbet, who must have in his possession the means of access to the house. This being the case, the question of motive arose. It could not have been the value of the garments, which, to a man of fortune, was of small importance. The care which in the first instance had been taken to conceal them became now in my judgment of extreme significance; still more so the stealthy manner in which they had been removed. Mr. Nisbet had been in London comparatively but a few hours before he carried out a design the probable intention of which was to remove and destroy evidence which might in some way place him in peril. Likely enough he had come to London for this special purpose, fearing, as he was no longer the tenant, that the house would be let to strangers, into whose hands the clothing would naturally fall. Surely he would not have paid his stealthy visit to Lamb's Terrace if he had not cause to dread exposure! Bob, who presented himself punctually at the time he named, agreed with me in this view, and when I told him of my coming by chance upon Mr. Nisbet, and spoke of the impression he produced upon me, he looked disturbed. I asked the reason, and he answered: "Well, Ned, I don't mind confessing to you that I have a secret horror of Mr. Nisbet, and an unreasonable dread of him. I hardly think we two would be a match for him." I could not help smiling as I remarked, "There is not much chance of a personal encounter, Bob." "I am not so sure of that," he said. "I am not so sure that he is not at this moment concealed in the house, the ins and outs of which he must be much better acquainted with than we are." "Concealed for the purpose of doing us an injury?" I inquired. "Concealed," he replied, "first to ascertain if any persons were in occupation and had any suspicions of the last tenant--in which case he would in all probability endeavor to get rid of those persons as he got rid of his unfortunate stepdaughter." "You forget, Bob, the gas is cut off." "Ned," said Bob impressively, "my firm belief is that the young lady did not meet her death by asphyxiation caused by an escape of gas. True, we have no evidence of a crime having been committed; our suspicions go for nothing; your apparition of the cat goes for nothing; a third-rate lawyer would laugh them to scorn; but none the less do I believe that the lady my nephew loved was murdered by her stepfather. Your interview with Dr. Cooper strengthens these suspicions, the removal of the women's clothing confirms them in my mind. And still, legally, we are no further advanced. Everything in this house belongs to the last tenant. He paid the rent regularly while he held the lease, and if he chose to leave his property here unprotected, it was his affair; and if, after a long absence from England, he returns and pays an early visit to the house, which is still practically without a tenant, for the purpose of taking possession of part of his property, he is still fairly within his right. Even supposing that there were a law to touch him--which there is not--he could easily explain the matter, and his explanation would be accepted without question." "Unless," I interposed, "we stepped forward with what we know." "We know nothing, Ned, absolutely nothing. We should only bring ourselves into trouble, lay ourselves open to a criminal action for defamation, which the most skillful lawyer in the land could not successfully defend. What do you think I have done to-day?" "I have not the least idea." "I asked my employer for a holiday, and I have got it. I have been slaving in his office for years without a single week's vacation. He gave me the holiday, three or four weeks, at my option, and I intend to employ the time in remaining with you and assisting in the elucidation of this mystery, if it is ever to be arrived at." "You are a real friend; but, Bob, that is a nice idea of a holiday, after years of hard work." "Never mind. The mystery has got tight hold of me, and I don't mean to leave it unless I am compelled by circumstances to do so. You have no objection to company and assistance, I suppose?" "I am truly grateful for it." "You see," said Bob earnestly, "I happen to be more closely connected with it than you are. You have no human relation with the parties in the affair, who, until quite lately, were complete strangers to you. I have some sort of connection with them through my nephew Ronald, whom I have seen to-day, and who, I may tell you, is troubled by the inquiries you have made of him. He has no notion of their tendency, but he felt that something is being concealed from him which he has a right to know. It is in his interests, and for his satisfaction, that I enter into a direct partnership with you. Have you succeeded in persuading your good wife to go to the seaside?" "I have, and she will be away for at least for a fortnight; if necessary I shall insist upon her remaining at Brighton for a longer time." "So that we are free to set actively to work without interruption." "Yes, Bob. How about Barbara?" "My landlady takes her upon trial. There will be no charge for board and lodging, and if she gives satisfaction she will get a shilling a week to commence with." "I am glad to hear it. And now to get back to your suspicions that Mr. Nisbet may be concealed in the house even while we are talking. He might endeavor to get rid of us, you said. When, and how?" "When? In the dead of night, when we are sound asleep. How? Well, I put together these facts: Mr. Nisbet's knowledge of dangerous chemicals, the narcotic which Ronald informed you he gave to his stepdaughter, and the significant conclusions which can be drawn from your conversation with Dr. Cooper. I propose, not this evening, to-morrow morning, that you, or we together, pay a visit to Dr. Cooper, and have an interview with him. He has a grievance against Mr. Nisbet; it might be turned to effect." "You suspect him of being an accomplice?" "In a certain sense. What do they call it in law? Accessory after the fact. He might have known nothing at the time; the belief that his knowledge of poisonous narcotics--bear in mind his boast--had been used to a bad end may have come afterward." "But if he makes any admission it could be used against himself." "It could, but he may be able to prove his innocence of a guilty intention. However, that is a point for future consideration. A visit can do no harm. He is desperately poor, and a little bribe may tempt him; if we cannot worm anything out of him, we may out of his wife. Now, Ned, before I consent to sleep in this house I intend to search it thoroughly from roof to cellar." We carried out this proposal; we thoroughly examined every room, we made fast every door when we closed it behind us; and we discovered nothing. Our search over, we were quite convinced that we were the only persons in the house. The following two hours were devoted to preparing supper, and while we were thus employed we discussed our movements for to-morrow. Bob insisted that Ronald Elsdale should be made acquainted with all that had transpired, and I consented. Our first visit in the morning was to be paid to the inquiry agent, our second to Dr. Cooper, our third to Ronald. Bob was thoroughly in earnest, and I perceived that his interest in the matter was now no less than my own. I have already stated that the room we had selected was on the second floor, and that its windows faced the back garden. There were Venetian blinds to the window, and some of the slats were awry and loose from long neglect. For a reason which he did not explain Bob shaded the one candle which we had lighted, so that the fact of the apartment being occupied could not be quite clearly established from without. Several times Bob went to the window and cautiously peeped through the crooked slats. "What for, Bob?" I asked. "Just a fancy of mine," he replied. "Is your apparition present?" "It is not." The weather had suddenly changed, in fit accordance with the extraordinary vagaries of our beautiful climate. A fine night had set in, and there was a full bright moon. In the middle of a game of cribbage Bob rose once more, and stepped to the window and remained there. "Don't touch the candle, Ned," he said, "and move cautiously. Come here quietly, so as not to give an observer outside any indication that human beings are in the room." I obeyed him, and presently was standing motionless by his side, peeping through the slats. The garden was bathed in light. Standing in full view I saw a man facing our window, his eyes intently fixed in our direction in the endeavor to discover whether the apartment was inhabited. "Can you see him plainly?' "Quite plainly, Bob." "Who is it?" "Mr. Oliver Nisbet." "Ah!" And now a strange incident occurred, visible to me, but not to Bob. In the clear moonlight I saw the skeleton cat creeping toward the man who was watching. Slowly it advanced and fastened itself upon him, and climbed upward till it reached his shoulder. And there it squatted, its yellow eyes resting ominously on Mr. Nisbet's face. He seemed to be perfectly unconscious of the presence of the apparition, but to me it was an unmistakable sign, more powerful than the strongest human proof, that the man had been guilty of a horrible crime. In silence we stood at the window for several minutes, and then Mr. Nisbet slunk away to the rear of the garden. He climbed the crumbling wall which encompassed it, and was gone. "What do you say to that, Ned?" asked Bob. I could not answer, so enthralled was I by the spiritual evidence of guilt of which I had been a witness. Bob looked at me inquiringly. "Your face is as white as death," he said. "Are you ill?" "A moment, Bob," I replied; and when I was sufficiently recovered I explained to him what I had seen. It stirred him as deeply as it had stirred me. "If a shadow of doubt was in my mind," he said, "it is dispelled. The villain must be brought to justice." "He shall be, if human effort can accomplish it. I will not rest till his guilt is brought home to him." We slept but little that night, and did not take our rest together. Fearful of consequences to which we could give no name, we slept and watched in turn, Bob's pistol being handy for any emergency. Nothing further, however, occurred to disturb us. Early in the morning we breakfasted, and took our way to Mr. Dickson's office. "You received my message, then?" were his first words to me. "What message?" I inquired. "The one I sent to your house an hour ago. I knew it was safe to leave it, because your wife was in the country. Oh, we find out things without being told. It belongs to our business." "I did not sleep at home last night; I received no message." "It does not matter, now you are here. I have news for you. Yesterday Mr. Oliver Nisbet paid two visits to the house in Lamb's Terrace." "You discovered that, did you?" "I should be a bungler if I had not. We have never left him, and I will stake all I am worth that he had not the slightest suspicion that he was being watched. His first visit was made at two o'clock. He let himself into the house with a key, and remained there about an hour. He went in with his hands empty; he came out with his hands full. He carried a large parcel with him wrapped in brown paper, and this evidently was the motive for his first visit. We do not know what was in the parcel; he took it to his room in the Métropole, and left it there. His second visit was paid in the night, at half-past nine. He did not enter by the front door; indeed, he did not enter at all. He climbed over the back wall of the garden, and stood there, watching the back windows, for half an hour or so. Then he returned the same way as he came. From Lamb's Terrace he went to Theobald's Row, South Lambeth, and had an interview with a disreputable apothecary there of the name of Cooper. He calls himself a doctor, but I doubt whether he has a diploma. From Theobald's Row, Mr. Nisbet returned to the Métropole, and left instructions to be called early. If you went to the hotel now you would not find him there." "He has fled!" I exclaimed. "I do not know about that," said Mr. Dickson, with a smile. "We will call it a departure. He has taken his departure." "Gone to another hotel?" "Not in this country. He left for the Continent this morning by the early train." I stamped my foot impatiently. "Then he has escaped us!" I cried. "He has not gone alone," said Mr. Dickson calmly. "One of my officers went by the same train. I am right in my understanding that you do not mind a little extra expense?" "Quite right." "The question of expense is frequently a puzzling matter with us, movements requiring an unauthorized expenditure of money sometimes occurring suddenly, when there is not time to consult our clients. If I had allowed Mr. Nisbet to leave the country unaccompanied he might have slipped through your fingers; in any event it would have been a great trouble, and have necessitated the expenditure of much more money, to pick up the broken threads. Many a good case has been spoiled by parsimony." "I understand that. Where has Mr. Nisbet gone to?" "I cannot inform you yet. As far as Paris, certainly; but my impression is he goes farther. My officer will telegraph me from Paris, and will not leave him till he has reached his destination." I considered a moment, and then took Bob aside. "Will you accompany me to Paris?" I asked. "With pleasure." I turned to Mr. Dickson. "Your officer will telegraph to you from Paris?" "Yes." "If I wait here for information I shall lose a day. You could telegraph to me in Paris the address you receive from your officer?" "There is no difficulty. You intend to follow?" "I do. Give me the name of some central hotel in Paris where I can put up till I receive your telegram." "Hôtel de Bade, Boulevard des Italiens." "That will do. I have something to do here in London before I can start. I can get through my business in about an hour, perhaps a few minutes more. Bob, run out and bring two hansoms with smart horses." Bob vanished. "Now, the best train, Mr. Dickson?" "Let me see. It is not yet nine. Your business say an hour and twenty minutes. A train from Victoria, another from Charing Cross, at eleven. Could you catch one of these, whichever is the nearest for you?" "Yes." "You arrive in Paris at seven this evening. Our man will reach there two hours and a half earlier. You may get a telegram from me at the Hôtel de Bade within an hour or so of your arrival." "Capital. Good-morning." The cabs were at the door, and I told Bob to drive with speed to my house, to pack up a bag for both of us expeditiously, and to meet me at Ronald Elsdale's house at a little after ten. The cab was to remain there, and he was to detain his nephew till I joined him there. Pending my arrival he was to tell Ronald everything. I gave him a line to my servant, authorizing him to take what clothes were necessary for the journey. "Double fare," I said to both the cabmen, "if you drive at your fullest speed." The next moment Bob was driving to my house and I was on my way to Dr. Cooper. CHAPTER XXIII. ON THE TRACK. Theobald's Row was as depressing in the morning as it had been in the evening, and looked as if a bath would do it good. The workingmen's lodging houses bore even a more striking resemblance to prisons, and the men and women I passed looked as if they had been up all night, and had hurried out to their depressing occupations without having had recourse to soap and water. On the doorstep of Dr. Cooper's shop the same half dozen children were playing the same games with pieces of broken crockery and dry mud, and bore no appearance of having been washed since I last set eyes on them. One of the children, catching sight of me, jumped up and ran into the shop, screaming: "Here's the gentleman, mother!" At which summons the slatternly woman immediately presented herself. It struck me that there was something aggressive in her aspect. "Oh," she said, in no amiable tone, "it's you!" "Yes," I replied, "it is I." "And you call yourself a workingman," she exclaimed. "I am not aware that I have done so." "So my husband told me last night; you are the man who called last night, and went to seek my husband at the Britannia. Don't deny it." "I have not the least intention of doing so. You gave me the information where to see him." "So I did, and he said you pretended to be a workingman. Now, a workingman wouldn't say, 'it is I'; he'd say 'it's me.' I have been brought pretty low, but I had fair schooling when I was young, and I know a workingman from a gentleman." "Well," I observed, "say that I am a gentleman; is that anything against me?" "It is everything against you. I heard from my husband all that passed between you--as nearly as he could remember, in the state he was. When he's in his cups his tongue runs too free, and you gave him rope enough. Perhaps you're not a gentleman, after all. What do you say to detective?" "I am not a detective," I answered, with, I confess, a rather guilty feeling, for if I was not doing the work of a detective, what else was I doing? "For what reason on earth should a detective be running after your husband?" "An admission!" she cried, and I saw that I had to do with a sharp woman. "Then you _are_ running after him." She folded her arms defiantly. "Now, what for?" I smiled rather feebly as I said, "You would not believe me if I told you I have come to put something in his way." "You are right there. I should not believe you." "But it is the truth, nevertheless, and it will not serve me to talk it over with you. Can I see your husband?" "You cannot see him." "Is he not at home?" "He is not at home." "Will he be in soon?" "He will not be in soon." There was no mistaking her meaning; she regarded me as an enemy, and it was her intention to be personally offensive. "You do not wish me and your husband to meet?" "You shan't meet if I can help it." "Then you must have something to fear." This thrust, which I gave involuntarily--for I had no desire to hurt the poor woman's feelings--drove the color from her face. She retreated a step, and stumbled over a child that was playing on the floor. The slight accident seemed to infuriate her; she angrily pushed the child away with her foot, and turned upon me like a tigress. "What are you hunting us down for?" she cried. "Do you think I have not had trouble enough in my life? Driven here and there, with a pack of hungry children in rags, and tied to a man who expects me to keep a home and a family upon ten shillings a week! But he's my husband for all that, and I'm not going to help you bring a deeper disgrace upon us. You came here yesterday to set a trap for him, with a lying story that you owed him a few pence which you were anxious to pay. God knows what you wormed out of him, for, clever as he is, he's a fool when he pours the drink down his throat. I've warned him over and over again to be careful what he says; but I might as well have talked to a stone. He's out of your reach now, at all events, and you'll have a job to find him. I wish you joy of your task, you cowardly sneak!" The passion of her defiance of me was wonderful to witness; but underlying this defiance was a terror which did not escape my observation. "I came here," I said gently, for her despair and her poverty inspired me with genuine pity, "in the hope that he would assist me in the discovery of a crime which has not been brought to light. If he is not implicated in it he would have earned a few pounds; if in any way he is involved in it, all I can say is, Heaven pity him--and you!" My time was too precious to waste further words upon her, and I left the shop, and entered the cab which was waiting for me. Before I could close the door a man accosted me. "I heard what passed inside the shop," he said. "Make it worth my while, and I'll tell you something about Dr. Cooper." "Jump in," I answered; "I have no time to stop talking here." I gave the driver Ronald Elsdale's address, and we sped thitherward. "Now, what have you to say?" "You want to know where the doctor is?" he commenced. "I do." "Well, I can't tell you that exactly, but I can put you on his track. It's worth, I should say,"--he deliberated, and looked at me covertly to decide what he would be likely to screw out of me--"not less than half a crown." "I will give you that if you keep nothing back." "All right. Where's the coin?" "No, my friend," I said, "I'll have the goods before I pay for them." "You're a sharp old file, but I'm out of work; It's capital and labor, and we know who's the grinder. Here was I, at six this morning, looking for work and not getting it. The doctor's shop shut, it's not the likes of him that catches worms. Back I come home at a quarter past seven, and there's a telegraph boy banging at the doctor's door. I help him bang, and out comes the doctor, doing up his buttons; takes the telegram, reads it, turns red and white, rushes into the house, rushes out in a brace of shakes, and scuds off. 'What's up?' thinks I, and off I scuds after him; he's too excited to notice. At St. George's Hospital, walking up and down in a fume, and looking as if he'd knock everything and everybody into a cocked hat if he had his way, there's a gentleman waiting for him, and a four-wheeler, with trunks atop, waiting for both of 'em. They have a hurried talk; I'm not near enough to hear what passes, but I get up to the cab as they step in. 'Charing Cross Station,' cries the gentleman to cabby. 'Break your horse's neck if you like; if I don't catch the Continental train I'll break yours.' Off goes the cab, and then, what do you think? off goes another cab that I hadn't noticed, after the first. I've got no money to pay for cabs, but having nothing better to do, and looking upon the move as a rum sort of move, I foots it to the station, and gets there at five minutes to eight. There they are, Dr. Cooper and his gentleman friend, as busy as bees, and there's the bell ringing and porters shouting, and everything hurry scurry. Away they go through the gate, and off goes the train; and if all that aint worth half a dollar I'd like to know what is." "You shall have the money," I said; "are you sure they both went away in the train?" "I'm sure they didn't comeback. I asked one of the porters what train that was. 'Train for Paris,' he said." "Did you see the man who went after them in the second cab?" "Never caught sight of him in the cab or out of it." "But you saw the gentleman who met Dr. Cooper at the hospital." "Of course I did." "Was there anything peculiar in his appearance that you noticed particularly?" "I noticed he had a red beard and mustache." "Did he wear spectacles?" "He had a pair of gold eyeglasses that he was continually putting on and off." "You have earned the money. Here it is." He took the half crown, bawled to the driver to stop, jumped out of the cab, and was off. At five minutes past ten my cab drew up at Ronald Elsdale's house. Bob had been expeditious, and was there before me; he had even found time to tell Ronald everything. He informed me of this as he himself admitted me into the house. "How did he take it?" I inquired. "Very quietly," Bob answered. "He did not interrupt me once, nor did he ask a single question. When I finished he said, 'I must write letters to my pupils, telling them that there must be an unavoidable interruption in their lessons for a short time----'" I did not follow Ronald's excellent example of listening quietly, but interrupted Bob excitedly. "For what reason?" I asked. "He intends to accompany us. I did not argue with him. When my nephew makes up his mind to a thing he is not to be turned from it. His mother is packing his bag now. I had no difficulty at your house. The maid showed me where your clothes were, and I bundled a lot of them into the Gladstone. Here is Ronald. Don't oppose him; it will be quite useless." "Good-morning, Mr. Emery," said the young man. "My uncle has related to me all the particulars of this strange affair, which we have not time to talk over now. You have heard of my intention to accompany you." "Yes." "I have taken it upon myself to send to my uncle's house for the poor child, Barbara, and she will go with us, too. She has no clothes for such a trip, I understand, but my mother has found a few things that will do for her, and when we are in Paris we can buy whatever else she requires. She will not be an additional expense to you; I will pay for her." "We can arrange that when we are on the road," I said, somewhat amazed at this unexpected addition to our party. "Do you really consider it necessary that she should accompany us?" "Otherwise," he replied, "I should not have ventured to send for her. Mr. Emery, we must not allow a chance to escape us; we must take advantage of everything that suggests or presents itself that is likely to assist us. I am blind; if Mr. Nisbet stood before me I should not know it. My uncle has not seen him; you are under the impression that you would be certain to recognize him, but there are thousands of men with red hair and gold eyeglasses. The only one of us who can be positive is Barbara." I saw that he was resolved, and that it would be useless to remonstrate. What struck me, also, was that he seemed already to have assumed the command of the expedition, and to have placed himself at the head of it. Undoubtedly he had the right to take the initiative, for if a foul deed had been committed it was the lady he loved who had been the victim. "Mr. Elsdale," I said, "I am satisfied with what you have done." "Thank you, Mr. Emery," was his response. "There is here a mystery to be solved, a horrible wrong to be righted, a criminal to be brought to the bar of justice. I do not pretend to say that in so short a time I have reduced to order the terrible suggestions and possibilities that have presented themselves to my mind, but a man's duty is before me, and I will perform it faithfully and inexorably. Mere worldly considerations do not weigh in the scale. Though I lived to be an old man with this mystery still unsolved, I would not relinquish it. I will pursue it unflinchingly to the end, if I walk the earth barefoot. To you has come a spiritual sign and a spiritual mandate, and, through you, it has come to me." He drew me aside. "Is the apparition that first appeared to you in that ill-fated house visible to you? Is it here with us in the room?" "It is not." "It will appear again; be sure that it will appear again; and when justice is satisfied it will disappear, and you will no longer be troubled by it." He turned to Bob, and included him in the conversation. "Another reason why it is necessary and right that the little girl, Barbara, should accompany us is that we go not only to seek Mr. Nisbet, but to seek her sister. The young woman may have fallen under the spell of Mr. Nisbet's evil influence; he may have made her his slave. If that is the case, the efforts of strangers like ourselves to enlist her on our side would be futile; the love she bore her sister may help us here." "You have entirely convinced me, Mr. Elsdale," I said, honestly and sincerely. "Little Barbara's aid may be invaluable to us." As I made this remark the child knocked at the door, and as the maid-servant admitted her, Ronald's mother entered the room and said that all was ready. I looked at my watch. "We have barely time to catch the eleven o'clock train," I said. "Wot d'yer want of me, sir?" asked Barbara, whose appearance denoted that she had been summoned from household duties, without having had a moment given to her to tidy herself. "We are going to take you for a trip, Barbara." "A trip! Where to, sir?" "To Paris, Barbara." The child gasped, and almost fell to the ground in her astonishment. "Don't be frightened. A brave little girl like you will be glad to see foreign countries." Ronald's mother was busy with the little girl, smoothing her hair and arranging her poor clothes. She had a child's mantle, which she put on the girl, and a hat which made her look quite presentable. It was surprising what a few skillful touches achieved in poor little Barbara's appearance. "Foring countries, sir!" she exclaimed, making no resistance to what was being done. "But I can't go, sir; I can't go! I must wait in London for Molly." "We are going to try and find Molly, my dear." "To find Molly! Oh--oh!" Her joy was so profound that she could not utter another word. And when Ronald Elsdale, after embracing his mother fondly, took Barbara's hand and led her to the door, she yielded unresistingly. Away flew the cabs, and landed us at the railway station just in time to catch the eleven o'clock train. It was fortunate that we had only hand baggage with us, or we should have missed it. Within a few moments of our seating ourselves in the carriage we were speeding to Dover pier. CHAPTER XXIV. WE ARRIVE IN PARIS. As we traveled to the sea I narrated what had occurred in my quest for Dr. Cooper, and was allowed to do so without interruption. Bob was unusually silent in the presence of his nephew and Barbara, and this silence was, as it were, enforced by himself. Several times he seemed to be on the point of interrupting me for the purpose of asking questions, and on each occasion he pulled up short and said nothing. Neither did Ronald speak much. It would have been natural had he made some observations upon the reason of Dr. Cooper's sudden departure in the company of Mr. Nisbet, and had he inquired whether I really believed the two men were traveling together. But respecting these matters he preserved absolute silence, and when he spoke it was upon any other subject than that of our all-engrossing mission. Barbara, also, had very little to say for herself--being altogether lost in the wonder of the adventure which was to introduce her to foreign countries--so we were not a very lively party as we were whirled to Dover. We were less inclined for liveliness when we were at sea, all of us, with the exception of Ronald, being prostrate and helpless, the passage being a bad one. With the earth beneath our feet we soon recovered, and were reconciled to life, though Barbara plaintively inquired if we couldn't get back another way. Her appearance attracted a great deal of attention to us, of which we took no notice, being too deeply occupied with our own affairs. We were only twenty minutes late, and before eight o'clock we alighted at the Hôtel de Bade, where we engaged rooms, keeping Barbara as much out of sight as possible. The first thing we did was to go out and purchase a suitable outfit for the child at an immense establishment, the "Old England," where everything in the way of dress could be obtained, and when she was arrayed in her attire she said she felt like a princess. Of course she was in a state of bewildered admiration at the lights of Paris, which she declared beat "a theayter," and I have no doubt she thought either that she was dreaming or taking a part in a ravishing fairy story. Upon our return to the hotel I found a telegram awaiting me from Mr. Dickson, from which we learned that Mr. Nisbet and a gentleman who had accompanied him from London were at the Hôtel Chatham. The last words of the telegram were, "Do nothing till you hear from me again. If you make open inquiries you may ruin all." This advice was sound but irritating, our mistaken impression being that by remaining idle, we were playing into the enemy's hands. There was nothing else for it, however; we were bound to wait for further information and instruction. We sent Barbara to bed early, and bade her not to leave her room in the morning till we called for her; then we went out and paced the bright boulevards. As we strolled and chatted Ronald suggested that we ought to ascertain for ourselves whether Mr. Nisbet and Dr. Cooper were at the Hôtel Chatham; he had become very restless, and we endeavored in vain to argue him out of the idea. We only succeeded in prevailing upon him to allow Bob to go alone to the hotel, and find some excuse for looking over the book of arrivals in the office for the names of Nisbet and Cooper. "Mr. Nisbet knows you," I said to Ronald, "and if he should see you we may as well return at once to England, for we shall have put him on his guard and have brought about our own defeat. He may also have some idea of my appearance, either from seeing me without my being aware of it, or from the description given of me by Dr. Cooper, and there would be danger in my going to make inquiries. Your uncle is the safest party; Mr. Nisbet can know nothing of him, and if they meet his suspicions will not be aroused." Bob went by himself to the Hôtel Chatham, not without inward misgivings, for he knew but a few words of French, and Ronald's assurance that the waiters and the managers could all speak English did not set him at his ease. However, he left us at the corner of Rue Daonou, making us promise not to wander away, in case he should not be able to find us upon his return, for he was distrustful of himself in the Paris streets, this being his first visit to the Continent. It was also my first visit, and I could not help thinking how poor a match for Mr. Nisbet Bob and I would have been without the assistance of Ronald Elsdale. Ronald was blind, it is true, but he could speak French and German fluently, and it was really he who guided us through the streets; he was familiar with every shop and building of note, and there was no fear of our losing our way in his company. Bob was absent fifteen minutes or so, and he came back with the information that the name of Mr. Oliver Nisbet was on the books as having arrived this evening, but that he could not find the name of Cooper. "Did you see anyone answering to their description?" asked Ronald. "No one," replied Bob. "All the better," I remarked. "Why?" said Ronald. "Do you suppose they have any suspicion that they are being followed?" "That is a question I cannot answer," I said, "though the probability is that Mr. Nisbet believes himself safe, or he would hardly have gone to so central a hotel as the Chatham; but it is certain that they are proceeding with some degree of caution, or the name of Cooper would have been found in the arrival book. Has any idea suggested itself to you that would be likely to explain the reason of Mr. Nisbet choosing Dr. Cooper as a companion?" "Many ideas have suggested themselves," answered Ronald, "of which I have not yet spoken; but we will follow this one out, to see if we agree. You paid a visit to Dr. Cooper on Sunday evening, and, as his wife said to you this morning, he let his tongue run too freely. Her remark proves that some conversation must have passed between them as to your visit, and that Dr. Cooper recalled--not very distinctly perhaps--what it was he said. My belief is that this conversation took place in the presence of a third party, who was chiefly responsible for it." "Of a third party!" I exclaimed. "The third party," continued Ronald, "being Mr. Oliver Nisbet, who visited the Coopers on the following night. He must have had some motive for this visit, for it is not likely--after what you learned from Dr. Cooper's lips of the feeling he entertained toward Mr. Nisbet--that this gentleman would have paid his accomplice a visit in which there was no direct motive. I speak of them as accomplices because there is no doubt in my mind on the point. Dr. Cooper was bribed to give a false death certificate, false for the reason that he was not in a position to give a true one, and for this service Mr. Nisbet paid him, and made promises (according to Dr. Cooper) which he did not fulfill. Whether these promises were or were not as Dr. Cooper hinted is of small moment in what we are discussing, the one thing certain being that Dr. Cooper labored under a sense of injury, and believed himself to have been wronged. It is more than probable that, in some way, Dr. Cooper conveyed this impression to Mr. Nisbet, and that he was aware of it. This must have occurred years ago, and shortly afterward Dr. Cooper loses sight of his employer, and has no means of communicating with him. If he had known where to write to him he would certainly have done so, in his state of poverty, and would most likely have thrown out some kind of threat. During this interval Mr. Nisbet keeps himself hidden from the man who has served him at a critical time; he has no use for him; all evidence of the crime (the nature of which has yet to be discovered) he has committed is destroyed, and there is only one person in the world who can throw the remotest suspicion upon him; that person is Dr. Cooper, and even he, if he dared take open action, would find himself implicated in the consequences. So matters rest for a considerable time, and we come now to the present. It is on Sunday only that you are informed by the private inquiry agent you employed that Mr. Nisbet had returned to London and was staying at the Métropole. Again crops up the hidden motive for his return. Was it to visit the house in Lamb's Terrace in which the crime was committed? Was it to seek Dr. Cooper for the purpose of obtaining his assistance in a fresh crime to be committed on foreign soil? Conjecture only will assist us here, for we know nothing; but conjecture, put to a logical use, may lead to the right conclusion. I assert that Mr. Nisbet's visit to London was expressly made either to go to Lamb's Terrace or to see Dr. Cooper; certainly for one of these reasons, perhaps for both. When you learn that he is in London you are on your way to Dr. Cooper's house; you find him; you have a singular conversation with him; you return home, and my uncle informs you of the discovery of the clothes he has found in the attic cupboard. That those clothes belonged to Beatrice and the servant cannot be disputed. On Monday morning, after my uncle leaves you to find a temporary home for poor little Barbara, you also leave the fated house several hours, and you take especial care to deposit the clothes in what you believe to be a place of safety; unfortunately, as it happened, in the place in which they were first discovered. Now, who knows of that place of deposit? You, my uncle, and Mr. Nisbet. During your absence Mr. Nisbet obtains easy admission to the house, goes straight to the attic cupboard, and bears away with him the garments which, by devious circumstantial evidence, might be a danger to him. While he is in the house some signs therein lead him to suspect that it is not absolutely untenanted, and he sets watch upon it in the night. Looking from the window of the room occupied by you and my uncle you see Mr. Nisbet standing in the garden in a watchful, observant attitude; and as he stands there the spectral monitor which has set this inquiry at work gives you a sign--an unmistakable sign from the spiritual throne of justice. Rank heresy or blind fatuity might misinterpret this sign; to you, to my uncle, to me, it is as clear as sunlight. It declared this man to be guilty of a horrible crime; it was like the writing on the wall. Satisfied or not, Mr. Nisbet leaves Lamb's Terrace, and goes to South Lambeth to see Dr. Cooper, of whose movements during the years that have passed he has had full knowledge. Mr. Nisbet is not only a dangerous man and a criminal, he is a man of resource and powerful intellect, and such a man leaves little to chance. Closeted with Dr. Cooper and his wife, he hears of your visit to him the previous evening; he worms out of his accomplice all that the man can recollect of your conversation with him; and he scents danger. Now, as I have said, whether he went to Dr. Cooper in the first instance to obtain his assistance in a fresh crime on foreign soil is hidden from us, but I am convinced that what he learns during this interview induces him to expedite his movements. He bids Dr. Cooper hold himself in readiness, and wins the wife's confidence by giving her money; thus they are both on his side. Were we and Dr. Cooper now in London you would worm nothing more out of him. Forewarned is to be forearmed, and his wife would see that he was not tampered with. When Mr. Nisbet leaves Dr. Cooper last night, he has not quite settled the order or time of his future movements, but considering the matter afterward he sees the advisability of getting out of England without delay. Hence his resolution to leave for the Continent this morning; hence his telegram to Dr. Cooper to meet him immediately for the purpose of catching the early train; hence the hurried and sudden departure, with the particulars of which we are acquainted. Have I made myself clear?" "Quite clear." "He does not suspect that he is being followed; he does not suspect that his departure is known; least of all does he suspect that I am taking part in the hunt. But at the same time he recognizes the necessity of caution, and that is why Dr. Cooper is traveling under an assumed name." A question was trembling on my tongue; it was whether, in the light of all that had been disclosed to him, the delusion he labored under with respect to Beatrice was now dispelled; but I feared to pain him, and I did not give utterance to the question. "Do you not think," he said, "that Mr. Dickson has been rather remiss in not giving you the name and address of the agent who traveled, unknown to Mr. Nisbet, from London with him?" "I wish he had done so," I replied, "for then we could have some conversation with him to-night, which might have been of service to us. The telegram he sent me is a long one, and perhaps I shall have a letter from him in the morning." This proved to be the case. In it Mr. Dickson acknowledged that it would have been as well if he had given me the name and address of his agent in his telegram; the name was Rivers, his address Hôtel Richmond. He had not heard from Mr. Rivers, he said, but when he did he would communicate to me everything the letter contained of any importance. I went at once to the Hôtel Richmond, which was not more than five minutes' walk from the Hôtel de Bade, and inquired for Mr. Rivers, and I took Ronald with me as interpreter, leaving Bob to look after Barbara. "M. Rivers?" said the waiter, "but he has departed." "When?" "This morning early. He slept but one night." "Do you know where he has gone?" "No, I do not know; I will ask the manager." The manager did not know. After his coffee and roll M. Rivers had paid his bill and given up his room. Did he leave in a cab? No, he left on foot, carrying his bag with him. Perhaps he went to a railway station? Ah, it was possible. Perhaps he was still in Paris. Ah, it was possible. If M. Rivers returned to the hotel, would the manager give him my card with a few words in pencil on it, asking him to come immediately to the Hôtel de Bade? M. Rivers should have the card, yes, with much pleasure. And so, good-morning. I half expected to receive a letter from my wife, demanding an explanation of my running away, but there was none for me. And now, nothing would satisfy Ronald but that Bob should go to the Hôtel Chatham, to ascertain if Mr. Nisbet was still there. He went and returned, we waiting for him as before at the corner of the Rue Daonou. Mr. Nisbet had left the hotel. "I spoke to a fool of a waiter," said Bob, "who thought he could speak English, and that is all I could get out of him." Ronald walked off at once to the hotel, and, knowing it would be useless to remonstrate, we followed him through the courtyard and into the office. There he entered into a conversation in French with a clerk. Yes, M. Nisbet and his friend had partaken of the usual first meal of the Frenchman, and had paid his bill and given up his room. Did they expect him to return? No, they did not. Had he and his friend occupied one room? Yes, a room with two beds. Did they leave on foot or in a cab? In a cab. For a railway station? Possibly. Did the clerk know for which railway station? He did not; he would inquire, if it was of importance. It was of great importance--would he kindly inquire. The _concierge_ was questioned. He did not know for which railway station. The waiters were questioned. They did not know for which railway station. And so, good-morning again. Thus were we left aground, as it were, with nothing but broken threads in our hands. Mr. Nisbet and Dr. Cooper had escaped us. CHAPTER XXV. WE COME TO A HALT. The indefinite replies to our questions at the two hotels rendered us helpless. It was not even certain whether the men we were pursuing had left Paris, and Bob privately threw out to me an uncomfortable suggestion that Mr. Nisbet might have discovered we were watching him, and was turning the tables by watching us. Ronald was not in hearing when this was said; he was in a state of extreme agitation; and we were careful to do or say nothing to excite him. Despite his perturbation, however, he was the only one of our party whose reasoning on the position of affairs was fairly logical, and who made a sensible attempt to arrive at a probable sequence of events. Sitting down in the courtyard of the Hôtel de Bade for the purpose of discussing matters, Bob and I proceeded to plunge them into further confusion by our wild conjectures, and Ronald, after listening to us in silence for a few minutes, brought us to order. "All this talk is useless," he said; "let us argue like reasonable beings. The first thing we have to decide is whether Mr. Nisbet and his confederate have left Paris. What is your opinion?" "I have none," I said. "I am in the same predicament," said Bob. "But we can be logical, at all events," said Ronald. "Compelled for a time to remain idle and in the dark, we can put flint and steel together in the endeavor to produce a light. I am inclined to the belief that they are no longer in the city. For what reason should they change hotels? Whatever may be the cause of their sudden association they would certainly wish to keep their movements quiet, and they would frustrate their wish by flitting from one hotel to another. From what I learned, Mr. Nisbet has paid frequent visits to Paris, and as his name appears frequently on the books of the Hôtel Chatham it is natural to suppose he has been in the habit of putting up there. If he had any fear that he was being followed, he would not yesterday have gone to an hotel where he was well known, but would have chosen another which was not in the center of the city, and where he would be less open to observation. The time they left the hotel favors the conclusion that they were bound for a railway station, and this conclusion is strengthened by the early departure of Mr. Rivers, whose occupations have made him more methodical than ourselves. We are apprentices in the craft; he is an expert. The inquiry agent in London has doubtless telegraphed him of our arrival here, and where we are staying--in which case he would have called upon us long before now. Yes, the tracked and the tracker are no longer in the city." "You have convinced me," said Bob, and I also recorded my conviction. "The point to determine is," continued Ronald, "for what place they are bound. No person in Paris can assist us. Our only hope is in Mr. Dickson. Let us wire to him at once." He and I went off straightway to the telegraph office, where we dispatched a message to Mr. Dickson. Bob remained in the hotel with Barbara, in order to receive a possible caller, who, it is needless to say, did not make his appearance. The answer to our telegram was that Mr. Dickson had received no information from his agent Rivers, that he had every confidence in his man, and that the moment he heard from him he would send us another wire. Meanwhile, we were to remain where we were, at the Hôtel de Bade. Nothing further reached us until nine o'clock at night, and then a welcome telegram, to the effect that the party were on their way to Lucerne, whither we had better follow them by the earliest train. "Put up at Hôtel National," were the concluding words of the message. Upon studying the railway trains we found that nothing was to be gained by starting in the night, and early the following morning we were on the road to Lucerne. At the Hôtel National a telegram from Mr. Dickson awaited us, instructing us to remain at the hotel until we heard from Mr. Rivers, whom we might now consider in direct communication with us, and before many hours had passed we received a note from that gentleman. "Take the boat" (wrote Mr. Rivers) "to Tell's Platte. I am stopping at the Hôtel-Pension zur Tellsplatte, and shall be happy to see you there. From, indications we have reached the terminus." This was agreeable news, and seemed to hold out the promise that we had at length tracked Mr. Nisbet down. We wasted no time, but took the first boat, and were presently steaming down the enchanting lake, the beauties of which perhaps only one of us thoroughly enjoyed, the little girl Barbara. "Oh," she sighed, "if Molly's 'ere, I don't wonder she never came back to London." It was three in the afternoon when we landed at Tell's Platte. We were in no mood for sightseeing, and did not therefore visit the chapel, but ascended the hill that led to the hotel, where we found Mr. Rivers waiting for us. He came forward to greet us, a short, wiry man, with clean-shaved face, browned with exposure to the sun, and a bright eye. He addressed me by name. "Mr. Emery?" "Yes." "May I ask the name of the gentleman who is doing business for you in London?" "Mr. Dickson." "Have you anything you can show me from him?" I produced telegrams and letters, and he looked over them and returned them to me. "Quite right, sir. My employer told me there were four in your party. It is always necessary to make sure in such an affair as ours. We have a sharp gentleman to deal with, and there's no saying what tricks he might be up to, and what he knows or doesn't know. I am Mr. Rivers." As I shook hands with him, I started, and he looked at me suspiciously. "Anything the matter?" he inquired suspiciously. "No," I replied, "nothing, nothing." I introduced Ronald and Bob to him, and then Barbara. "I've a little girl at home," he said in a kind tone, laying his hand on Barbara's head, "just your age and build." Then addressing me, "I have arranged rooms for you here. Very moderate--six francs a day; they must make a reduction for the girl." "You anticipate that we shall remain here some time," I said. "Until the business is finished, I expect. I should have liked a more retired spot, and perhaps it would have been as well if there were not so many of you; but that can't be helped, I suppose. There is no other place we could all have stopped at, and as we are to work together we must keep together. I will show you your rooms, and after you have had a wash we gentleman will have a chat, while Barbara can run about and amuse herself. By the way, you will be asked for your names. Don't give your own; I haven't given mine; never throw away a chance." I must explain what caused me to start as I shook hands with Mr. Rivers. From the time we left London I had not seen the spectral cat, and I had an idea that it had taken its leave for good. But at that moment, casting my eyes to the ground, there was the apparition in full view. Much as it had troubled me during the first days of our acquaintanceship I had by this time grown accustomed to it, and no longer regarded it with fear and aversion. In stating that I was glad to see it now, I am stating the truth, for it was to me an assurance that we had "reached the terminus," as Mr. Rivers expressed it in his note, and that we had been led in the right direction. "Now we can have our chat," said Mr. Rivers, as we left the hotel together. "According to present appearances we have plenty of time before us, and nothing certainly can be done to-day. Whether anything at all can be done remains to be seen. Sometimes in an inquiry of a delicate nature we come to a block, and the next step depends entirely upon chance; it may be so in this case. I had best commence by telling you my position in the affair, and it will do no harm if I am quite frank with you. First and foremost, then, I am totally ignorant of what it is you wish to discover. My employer calls me into his private room, and gives me certain instructions. 'A gentleman has just arrived from the Continent,' he says, 'and is stopping at the Métropole. You will take him in hand, and keep close watch upon his movements. You are not to leave him a moment, and you are not for one moment to lose sight of him.' We generally hunt in couples when instructions like those are given, because it isn't possible for one man to keep watch day and night, so while I was in London on the job I had a comrade, and we divided the watch so that we could get some sleep. I asked my employer if the instructions were to be carried out to the strict letter. 'To the strict letter,' he answered. 'Suppose the gentleman suddenly goes abroad?' I asked. 'You are to follow him,' he answered. That was the reason of my sudden disappearance from London, without having had time to consult my employer. I went alone, without my comrade; I did not feel warranted in incurring double expenses, and I thought I could manage the affair by myself when we were out of England. I was right, as it has turned out. Mr. Nisbet is here with another gentleman, and has taken up his quarters in a house about two miles away, which he has inhabited on and off for several years." "Is that your idea of shadowing a man," asked Ronald, "when you are instructed not to lose sight of him for a moment and to keep close watch upon all his movements?" "Begging your pardon, sir," replied Mr. Rivers, not the least ruffled by the rather sharp manner in which the question was asked, "a man can do no more than his best, and I have done that. Then he must be guided by circumstances. Keeping a watch upon a man in London is one thing; keeping watch upon him in a village like this is another. There is no place in the world in which a man can lose himself so easily, if he is inclined that way, as London. I tell you, it's a difficult job to carry out properly, to keep your eye on a man in a large city, with its windings and turnings and crowds of people pushing this way and that. He gives you the slip when you least expect it, and there's the labor of days and weeks thrown away. It is quite a different matter here. A man comes and a man goes, and he can't keep his coming and going from the few people there are about. There are no cabs and omnibuses, no crowds to worry you and put you off the scent. When he moves from one spot to another he has to make preparations; he has to walk along unfrequented roads where he is in full sight of anyone interested in him. There are other drawbacks which one who knows the ropes has to reckon with. He can't keep watch here as he does in a large city; if he prowls and sneaks about, if he's seen haunting a particular spot for days, if he shadows a particular house and keeps his eye on it continually, he draws notice to himself. People ask what for? It comes to the ears of the man he's observing who, in turn, shadows him, and there's his apple cart upset. Another consideration. Strike a man in a street in London, and a crowd collects. Strike a man on the head here when he's prowling up and down a lonely road, and no one sees it. Down he goes like a stone, and he can be done to death, and his body hidden in a hundred holes--and who's the wiser? That couldn't well be done, I grant you, to man, woman, or child who lives here; the absence is remarked, and the relations don't rest till they've found out what has become of the missing one. It's different with a stranger, who stops a day or so, or a week or so, and then, without a word, disappears. So long as he's here the hotel keeper takes an interest in him, because of the bill; the moment he's gone he's forgotten, and it's make way for the next. I've been employed on some difficult jobs in my time, and I'm not sure that this is not going to beat the record." "What makes you think so?" inquired Ronald. "I don't like the looks of the gentleman for one thing," replied Mr. Rivers, "and for the second thing I don't like the little I've found out about him since I've been here. But that's running ahead of my story. I'll get back to the London part of it, and make a finish of that. I suppose that is necessary, for my employer has written to me to put myself into your hands entirely, and to tell you everything I know. Well, in London a remarkable thing happened. There's a house in Lamb's Terrace--79's the number--that is almost as lonely as any house round about us now. On the first day I shadowed Mr. Nisbet he paid three visits to Lamb's Terrace, and it was as much as I could do to keep myself out of his sight. I succeeded, though, because I was on my guard, and he never set eyes on me. The first visit he paid he did nothing more than reconnoiter; I put a reason to that. There happened to be an old man poking about the ground there for bits of rags and bones, and Mr. Nisbet didn't seem to relish his company. So, after reconnoitering ten or fifteen minutes, and as the old ragpicker didn't seem as if he was going to leave in a hurry, Mr. Nisbet cut his lucky, and walked out of the neighborhood. On his second visit there was no one in sight, and Mr. Nisbet, looking carefully around, took a key from his pocket, and let himself in. He remained in the house half an hour by my watch, and he came out with a bundle. There was something suspicious in that, I thought, but it was not my business to inquire into it. My instructions were clear, and I couldn't go beyond them. Besides, what call had I to tap the gentleman on the shoulder and say, 'I'll trouble you to tell me what you have under your arm?' I should only have got myself in trouble, because our concern is a private one, and we haven't got the law to back us up. He took the bundle with him to the Métropole and left it there. He paid his third visit to Lamb's Terrace in the night, and this time he didn't go into the house. He didn't go to the front at all, but made his way to the back, and scrambled over the wall. He kept in the garden there, which is just choked up with weeds, for a precious long time, and all he did was to look up at the windows. I thought his going into an empty house in daylight and bringing out a bundle was queer, but I thought this last move a good deal queerer, for he kept quite still, and never took his eyes off the windows. When he'd had his fill he scrambled back over the wall and came away. From there he went straight to Theobald Row, South Lambeth, and knocked at the door of a chemist's shop kept by a doctor. The name over the shop window was Cooper. He stayed there an hour, and then returned to the Métropole. On the morning we left London I hadn't the ghost of an idea that he intended to start for Paris, and I followed him out of the Métropole to St. George's Hospital, outside of which he met the gentleman who has traveled with him to this place. I watched them pretty narrowly when we were on the steamer, but I didn't venture into the same carriage with them when we traveled by rail. On the steamer and in Paris, and wherever I could keep my eyes on them, they seemed pretty thick, and I fancied once or twice that they didn't quite agree with each other. Whenever they talked it was away from people, and I knew that it was not accidental that they should always choose spots where they couldn't be overheard. On those occasions I wouldn't risk discovery by going near them, but watched them from a distance, and once or twice I saw Mr. Nisbet look at his companion in a way that made me think, 'I shouldn't like to meet you on a dark road, my friend, and for you to know that I was shadowing you.' There was a cold glitter in his eyes which might easily mean murder, and that is what makes me say again to you, gentlemen, that we shall have to be very careful in what we do in this part of the world." CHAPTER XXVI. A GOOD NIGHT'S WORK. "Is that all you have to tell us," inquired Ronald, "of what came to your knowledge in London and on your journey here?" "That is all," replied Mr. Rivers. "Since you took up your quarters in this hotel what have you discovered?" "Nothing more than I have already told you--that Mr. Nisbet lives in a house about two miles away. I have been expecting your arrival, and my orders are that I place myself at your service. The command is in your hands now." "Have you seen the house?" "No." "From whom did you obtain your information?" "From one of the waiters here, who is ready enough to talk about everything and everybody in the place. I pumped him cautiously, and learned a lot that I didn't care to hear and a little that I did." "Do you speak French and German?" "I can just make myself understood, and the waiter can just make himself understood in English. He is anxious to know more of our language, as he intends to go to London and make his fortune, so I have been teaching him a bit. We are very good friends already, François and I." "Is that his name?" "I don't know; I call all foreign waiters François." "I suppose you have not discovered whether Mr. Nisbet lives alone?" "I haven't got as far as that; I thought it advisable to leave it to you gentlemen. It stands to reason that there must be someone in the house to do the domestic work. I have an idea, if you care to listen to it." "We will listen to everything that is likely to assist us." "This is likely to do so. François will wait upon us at dinner. One of you, Mr. Emery for choice--you have a solid look about you, sir, if you don't mind my saying so--is an hotel keeper in London, and when François gets to London, if you haven't a vacancy in your own establishment, you will be able to assist him to obtain a situation in another. That will be a sufficient bribe, and it will insure our being waited upon properly as long as we remain here." "I will play the part with pleasure," I said. "It is a good idea." So it was arranged, and at dinner François waited upon us with neatness and dispatch, having received a hint from Mr. Rivers as to my supposed vocation in London. In his hearing I dropped a hint or two which I perceived he caught up in praise of his politeness and dexterity, and I saw that, thus encouraged, he would be of service to us. He was also led to understand from our conversation that it was our intention to make a stay here of several days, and in this and other ways we endeavored to lead up to the success of our scheme. It would have been unwise, however, in my opinion, to make any sudden and specific inquiries respecting Mr. Nisbet; I felt that we could not proceed too carefully, and I determined to leave these inquiries till the following day. Meanwhile we had a difficulty with Ronald. Dinner over, he announced his intention of walking to Mr. Nisbet's house in our company, and it was long before we could dissuade him. "Why should I not go?" he asked. "Why should you go?" I asked in return. "You can do nothing until we have laid our plans. If it should happen that Mr. Nisbet sees you, all our labor is thrown away. It is right that the house should be reconnoitered without delay, but for us to do that in a body would be inviting defeat. Mr. Rivers and I will undertake this alone, and you must remain here with your uncle and Barbara." He consented unwillingly, and we were about to set forth when Barbara plucked my sleeve. "Well, my child?" I said. "If yer going to see Molly, sir," she said, with tears in her eyes, "won't yer take me with yer?" The fears that oppressed me with respect to her sister rendered this imploring appeal of solemn import. "We don't know that we shall see Molly, my dear," I said gravely. "We must look about us first before we can decide what to do. I am afraid Mr. Nisbet is not a good man, and we must be very careful. You must leave everything to us, Barbara." "Yes, sir, in course I must do that. But if yer _do_ see Molly, yer'll give 'er my love, won't yer, and arks 'er if I can come to 'er?" "If we see her, my dear, we will be sure to tell her all about you." "She _will_ be surprised, won't she, sir?" "Yes, Barbara, yes," I said, and I left her with a heavy heart. On the road it occurred to me that, in keeping Mr. Rivers in complete ignorance of the nature of our suspicions respecting Mr. Nisbet, I might be placing difficulties in our way, and weakening the assistance he was ready to give us. Therefore I enlightened him to some extent, being careful to make no mention of the supernatural visitants which had made me take up the matter. "What I have related," I said in conclusion, "is under the seal of confidence, and is not to be mentioned unless the mystery is brought to light. Just at this moment I confess to feeling dispirited; the web of conjecture is so slight that I am oppressed by the feeling that we may, after all, be following a will-o'-the-wisp, and that there is no ground for the suspicions that have led me on." "That is one way of putting it," observed Mr. Rivers, "but as you suspect that a crime has been committed, would it not be a relief to you to find that there is no ground for the suspicion?" I was at a loss to reply to this question, and he proceeded. "It may be due to the occupation I follow, but I generally place the worst construction upon these matters. If I were otherwise inclined, I should place the worst construction upon this, and my belief is that Mr. Nisbet has been guilty of nothing less than murder. Every circumstance in the case points to the conclusion, which is strengthened by the impression he has produced upon me. He is a man capable of any desperate deed, or I am no judge of character. I am obliged to you for the confidence you have placed in me; it certainly renders me less powerless in the assistance I may be able to render. I have a starting point, you see. Just at present there are two questions in my mind to which we must endeavor to find an answer. First, what has become of the girl Molly? I should know how to work her if I could lay hands on her. Second, what is the meaning of the association of Mr. Nisbet and Dr. Cooper? To their former association, when Mr. Nisbet and his stepdaughter were living in Lamb's Terrace, where the poor lady met her death, there is an absolutely plain answer. Mr. Nisbet wanted a death certificate from a doctor who was imperfectly acquainted with the facts, and he paid Dr. Cooper to supply it. This certificate being accepted at the inquest, and the body cremated, Mr. Nisbet was safe. In the absence of proof, of what practical value would mere suspicion be? He could snap his fingers at it. But the circumstance of his taking Dr. Cooper suddenly and unexpectedly from London, and of the doctor being in his house at this moment, puzzles me." "Mr. Nisbet requires his assistance again," I suggested. "That is the natural inference, and we have to discover the exact nature of this required assistance. If bold measures are necessary we must adopt them." "I am ready. Have you any theory as to Molly?" "I can think of more than one. The girl was young at the time of the lady's death; Barbara is by no means bad looking; Molly was pretty, I dare say; she was poor, she was ignorant; Mr. Nisbet may have taken a fancy to her----" I interrupted him. "No, Mr. Rivers, I cannot entertain the theory that Molly consented to become Mr. Nisbet's mistress." "I will not force it upon you," said he dryly, "but perhaps I am a better judge of human nature than yourself. However, we shall soon discover something; we shall not be kept long in the dark." We had little difficulty in finding the house inhabited by Mr. Nisbet, and its appearance deepened my apprehensions. In saying that we found the house I am not quite exact, for a high wall surrounded it, and only the gables could be seen. This wall was of surprising extent, and could have occupied not less than an acre of ground. It was of stone, and might have been built round a prison. We walked cautiously around it, keeping close in its shadow and prepared at any moment to stroll carelessly away in the event of an inmate issuing from either of the gates--one in the front, the other in the rear--which afforded ingress to it. Night had fallen, and there was no moon, so that we were comparatively safe from observation, but this did not make us less cautious in our movements. We were waging our silent battle with a wary foe, and to be taken unaware would be fatal to us. There was no other house near the building. At no great distance were towering ranges of rock and tree which intensified the gloom of the habitation. Retreating to a hillock we ascended it, and from that height perceived lights in some of the upper windows. "A pleasant residence," said Mr. Rivers, with a slight shiver. "One can imagine any deed of darkness being perpetrated within those walls. Hush! Don't move!" I saw the reason for the caution. The hill on which we stood faced the gate in the rear of the house, and as Mr. Rivers laid hold of me and whispered in my ear, this gate was slowly opened and a form issued from it. I could not at that distance distinguish whether it was the form of a man or a woman; what I could distinguish was that the figure paused a moment or two and seemed to peer within the grounds. Then, closing the gate with an appearance of caution, the figure came into the open, and limped away. "Step softly," whispered Mr. Rivers, and taking me by the hand we followed the figure, which we presently discerned to be that of an old woman, who walked as if she were lame. I stepped almost as softly as my companion, and we succeeded in approaching close to her without being observed. She was carrying something in her hands, covered with a white cloth. Night's shadows befriended us, and it was evident that the woman had no notion that she was being followed. Mr. Rivers did not speak, nor did I. We must have walked half a mile when the woman stopped before a wretched hut, which she entered without knocking. "We must see what she's up to," whispered Mr. Rivers. "She belongs to Mr. Nisbet's house, and has crept away in secret. It is my opinion we're in luck." Stealing round the hut we came to a window at the back over which there was no curtain, so that, although the glass was to some extent obscured by dust and mud, we could see what was passing within. On the ground lay a gaunt man, and by his side on a low stool sat a girl about twelve years of age, as nearly as I could judge. The girl had jumped up at the entrance of the old woman, but the man appeared to be too weak to raise himself. This was proved by the woman kneeling by him on one side and the girl kneeling by him on the other; by their united efforts they lifted him into a sitting posture, and then the woman removed the white cloth from the article she had carried from Mr. Nisbet's house; it was a large dish filled with food, and though she had come some distance the ascending steam proclaimed that it was still warm. The woman fed him with a spoon, and presently drew from a capacious pocket a bottle of red wine; he ate sparely, but he drank with avidity. When he had finished the girl partook of the food, and the eager way in which she ate reminded me of the night we found little Barbara in Lamb's Terrace. There was a pathos in the scene that touched me to the heart, but of course I could not hear what was said by the poor actors therein. We waited till the old woman left the hut; she took the empty dish and the white cloth with her. When she came out we followed her back to Mr. Nisbet's house, which she entered by the back gate, adopting similar precautions to those which had marked her departure from it. "A winning move," said Mr. Rivers in a tone of satisfaction as we retraced our steps to the Hôtel-Pension zur Tellsplatte. "In what way?" I asked, for though I was impressed by what I had witnessed, I did not at the moment see in what way it could be turned to our advantage. "The food and wine were stolen from Mr. Nisbet," replied Mr. Rivers, "and in that wretched hut we shall obtain the key to his house. We have done a good night's work." During our absence Ronald and Bob had not been idle. By promising François pecuniary assistance to enable him to reach the paradise of waiters, they had won him completely over, and he had disclosed everything he knew relating to Mr. Nisbet's domestic affairs, and to the estimation in which he was held. He was not in favor, it appeared; he kept himself aloof from everybody in the place, and lived the life of an eccentric and a recluse. Reputed to be rich, he had not been known to do a single act of kindness to the poor peasantry in the district. There had been an explosion in a mine, there had been a conflagration, a neighboring village had been inundated, and he did not contribute a franc to the relief of the sufferers. Some people declared that he possessed "the evil eye," and that he could "will" misfortune upon those who offended him. As for his establishment, it consisted of himself, a young female, who was said to be daft, and an old woman who acted as cook and general housekeeper. The old woman's name was Bernstein, the young woman's was not known. She had not been seen for years outside the walls of the house. When Mr. Nisbet went away Mme. Bernstein was left in charge of the establishment, and neither then nor at any other time was any person admitted inside the grounds. Food and wine were taken in at the gates, by the master himself when he was at home, by Mme. Bernstein when he was absent. This was the sum total of the information which had been elicited from François. After hearing this we related to Bob and Ronald our own adventure, and then we fell to discussing the next step to be taken, and Ronald urged that an endeavor should be made to obtain admission to the house. "It will be dangerous to attempt such a thing," said Bob, "while Mr. Nisbet and Dr. Cooper are there. François tells us that the master is sometimes seen out searching for herbs or specimens. If he continues the practice it is likely that Dr. Cooper will accompany him on these expeditions. Then will be the time." "My opinion is," I said, "that, before we attempt so bold a move, we shall win Mme. Bernstein over to our side." "I undertake to accomplish that," said Mr. Rivers, "and not later than to-morrow night. But first let us have François in. I should like to get something more out of him." François was summoned, and wine was ordered. When he brought the bottle in, Mr. Rivers held a conversation with him. Was he acquainted with Mme. Bernstein? No, he was not, but he had heard something of her brother. Ah, she had a brother? Yes, a poor fellow very near death's door, and without a sou in the world. She had a little niece also, the brother's child. Where did they live? He described the hut to which Mme. Bernstein had taken the food and wine. Was Mme. Bernstein kind to them? He did not know--he had not heard; nobody took any trouble about them; the child begged of passing tourists, but she got very little, not enough to keep body and soul together. François could tell us nothing more. Before we went to bed we decided to keep watch on Mme. Bernstein the next night, and to be guided by what occurred. Needless to say that Barbara was not present at this discussion. She was too young to be admitted fully into our confidence. We kept ourselves very quiet during the following day, and when night set in the four of us set out for Mr. Nisbet's house. Ronald insisted upon accompanying us, and we could not but submit. CHAPTER XXVII. A WORD WITH MME. BERNSTEIN. Nothing of importance happened on the way. We passed one or two stragglers who did not speak to us, and who, in the darkness of the night, could have seen very little of us; we, on our part, were more watchful, and though we exchanged but few words nothing escaped our attention. It behooved us to be thus careful, because there was the risk of our coming into contact with our common foes, Mr. Nisbet and Dr. Cooper. In silence we reached the gloomy wall which surrounded the building, and, marshaled by Mr. Rivers, took up our posts of observation. Rivers and I were together on the hill in the rear of the house, Ronald and his uncle were some dozen yards off. They were to keep their eyes on us, and to observe certain signals which had been arranged upon. Very nearly at the same moment as on the previous night, the gate was slowly opened, and Mme. Bernstein appeared, carrying a dish covered with a white cloth. She paused at the open gate, and peered this way and that, to make sure that she was not seen, and then she closed the gate softly, and proceeded in the direction of the hut. We followed her warily at a safe distance; she reached the hut and entered it, and gave the man and the child food and wine, Rivers and I watching them through the uncurtained window at the back of the hut. The meal finished, the old woman kissed the child, and issued from the hut. All her movements were in accordance with our anticipation, and this being so, a certain plan we had agreed upon was immediately acted upon. Ronald and his uncle remained behind, the intention being that they should make an endeavor to get into conversation with either the sick man or the child, or with both, and to extract from them some information of Mr. Nisbet's establishment which might assist our operations. Rivers and I played our part in the plan by following Mme. Bernstein. Midway between the hut and Mr. Nisbet's house Rivers nudged me, and we quickened our steps. Hearing the sound the old woman stopped, and we also stopped. After listening a moment or two she fancied she was deceived, and she hobbled on again, we following with rapid steps. Again she paused, and gave a scream as we came close to her. Putting his hand on her shoulder, Rivers said: "Do you speak English, Mme. Bernstein?" "Yes, a little," she replied, trembling in every limb. "Do not hurt me--I am an old woman; I have no money." "You speak English very well," said Rivers. "We will not harm you. It is only that we wish to have a word with you. We do not want money; we have money to give, if you would like to earn it. Do you understand?" "Yes, sir, I understand that you will not hurt an old woman, and that you have money to give." I ought here to explain that the English Mme. Bernstein spoke was by no means so clear and grammatical as I set it down, but I find myself unable to reproduce her peculiar method and idioms, and consider it best, therefore, to put what she said plainly before the reader. We understood each other, and that was the main point. "But it must be earned. Do not tremble so; we are not robbers; we are officers of the law. What have you under that cloth? A basin, empty. You took it from the house full. You can be punished for that, Mme. Bernstein. The master did not give you the food, he did not give you the wine. You stole them, Mme. Bernstein." Overcome with terror she fell upon her knees, and implored us to spare her; she had taken the food to save a little child from starvation; she had never done it before---- Rivers interrupted her. "You do it every night, madame." Which plunged her into deeper despair. Still keeping her sensible that she was in our power, and that we would have her punished if she did not do as we bade her, Rivers succeeded in pacifying her to some extent. "There are four of us," he said, when she rose from the ground; "two are here, two are with your brother and his child, who without our aid will starve if you are put in prison or can no longer rob your master of food. It is with you, madame; you can save or ruin them, you can save or ruin yourself." "What is it that I shall do?" she quavered. "Tell me, and I will do it." "That is as it should be," said Rivers, "and you shall be rewarded. We must know everything about the master you serve. We are here from England for that purpose, and he must not be told that you have spoken with us. You will swear it by the cross which is hanging from your neck." She lifted the black wooden cross to her lips, and kissed it. "I swear it, sir," she said. "He shall not be told; he shall not know. But if you keep me here now he will discover it without being told. He will be waiting for supper, and I shall not be there to serve it. He will come and look for me, and then it will be ruin for me and you. He is a hard man, a bad man, a wicked man, and I hate him." "That pleases me," said Rivers blithely. "Why do you remain in his service?" "Should I not starve if I went away? I get my food, and I save it and give it to my dying brother and the little child. That is something. Do not keep me here too long. Englishmen are rich; you have a watch. What hour is it?" "Half past ten," said Rivers. "At eleven they have supper. If I am not in the house----" "You shall be there. Let us walk on, Mme. Bernstein. In ten minutes we shall reach the gate, and he will not know. Does he go to bed late?" "Sometimes at twelve, sometimes at one; it is not certain." "At what hour last night?" "At twelve." "Keep watch, madame, to-night, and when he goes to his room and the house is quiet, you will come out to us, and we will talk." "Yes, I will come." "By the back gate, madame; we shall be on the hill. Do not forget--you shall be rewarded, And do not forget that you have sworn upon the cross. Here, to commence with, are two francs, to prove that we are in earnest, and are men of our word." She clutched the coins eagerly, and said in a whisper: "We are near the house--do not speak loud, or he will hear us. There is something strange and terrible. You shall be told of it. I will come when they sleep." We did not accompany her to the gate. She glided forward, opened it quietly, and disappeared. "Now, Mr. Emery," said Rivers, "can you find your way alone to the hut?" "Yes, it is a straight road." "Go, and bring your friends here. There is strength in numbers. Something strange and terrible, she said. We have not come a moment too soon. Hurry back quickly." I wasted no time, and soon reached the hut. Ronald and Bob were within; I heard them talking to the little girl. When I tapped at the door and called to them, they joined me immediately, and hearing that they were to return with me they spoke a few parting words to the child, and promised to call and see her again. I briefly related what had passed between ourselves and Mme. Bernstein, and asked if they had obtained any information. "None," replied Bob, "that is likely to assist us. Some general expressions of dislike toward Mme. Bernstein's employer, of whom they seem to stand in some sort of fear--that is all. Neither the man nor the child has ever been inside the house. But we made friends with them, and that might have served us with Mme. Bernstein if you had not already enlisted her. Everything seems to depend upon what will occur during the next twenty-four hours." We found Rivers lying on his back on the hill, with his hands clasped behind his head. "I have been watching the windows," he said, "and making a mental map of the house. All the bedrooms seem to be situated at the back; the ordinary living rooms are in front. See--there is a light in only one of the rooms; there was a light in that room last night. It burns steadily, and without flickering; the room is occupied, but no shadow has appeared on the blind, nor has the light been shifted. Someone is sleeping there, and sleeping undisturbed. If we stopped here till daylight we should probably find that light still burning. Afraid to sleep in the dark, denoting a nervous organization. Ah, observe. Two rooms have just been entered; each person, entering, carried in a candle with him; the lights shift and waver; there are shadows on the blinds. One is the shadow of Mr. Nisbet, the other the shadow of Dr. Cooper; their bedrooms adjoin. Rather restless those shadows. We have the advantage of them; we can see them, they cannot see us lying here in black darkness. I am in my element, and can work out theories. I have done the same in country places in England, and the theories I have worked out there have led to very useful conclusions. Isn't there a German or French story of a man who sold his shadow to the devil? I can imagine occasions when our friend Mr. Nisbet would gladly sell his, for shadows are sometimes criminating witnesses. Those men do not seem in a hurry to get to bed. One has gone into the other's room; the flaring of the candle shows that he has left his door open. The shadows of the two men are now in one room. They walk up and down in their slippers--of that you may be sure. There is something so secret and mysterious going on in the house--which might be a prison or a private lunatic asylum--that the principal conspirators are careful to make no noise. They have no wish to disturb the sleeper in the third room, which, by a stretch of the fancy, we might suppose to be occupied by a dead person. By the way, did Dr. Cooper have time to bring his slippers with him from London? I should say not; therefore he is wearing a pair of Mr. Nisbet's or is walking in his stocking feet. Now they stop, now they walk about again, and now--yes, now they go into the room which the first man left. Science has been busily at work of late years, but it has not yet discovered a means of bringing sound to our ears as this glass which I am holding brings the figures of those men near to my eyes. There is the telephone, but you cannot carry a telephone about with you in a little pocket case. I dare say the discovery will be made one of these days. Mr. Nisbet is a couple of inches taller than Dr. Cooper, and as they are now standing quite still I know which is one, and which the other; therefore I shall presently know which is Mr. Nisbet's bedroom, and which Dr. Cooper's. If we could only hear what they are saying to each other! Speaking in whispers, of course--again for the reason that they do not wish to disturb the sleeper in the third room. Mme. Bernstein will inform us who it is who sleeps there. What do you say--a man or a woman?" The question was addressed to us, and we expressed our inability to answer it. "I say a woman," continued Rivers, who was certainly in his element, as he had declared, "and until Mme. Bernstein favors us with her company we remain in ignorance as to who the woman is. Our little Barbara's sister? Perhaps. But Barbara describes her sister as being a lively young person, and no lively young person lies sleeping there. How do I arrive at that conclusion? Impossible to say. Mental cerebration, if you like. We work out plots as novelists do, or rather, they work out themselves. Concentration is the agent. The same process leads me to the conclusion that the conspirators yonder are walking and talking noiselessly because of their fear of being overheard. The same process leads me to the conclusion that they are quietly discussing an important and dangerous matter. How did Mr. Nisbet's stepdaughter meet her death? Asphyxiation caused by an escape of gas while sleeping in a bedroom almost hermetically sealed. But there is no gas in these parts, and their light is supplied by oil and candle. Therefore they are deprived of that means of causing death. What are they doing now? The shorter of the two, Dr. Cooper, holds something up to the light. The object is too small to be discerned at this distance, but I take it to be a vial. Not a wine bottle, nor a bottle containing brandy or whisky. A small vial. And now Mr. Nisbet hands his co-conspirator a wineglass; he holds that up also; the shadow is reflected on the blind, and you can see by the shape that it is not a tumbler. The vial in one hand, the wineglass--it may be a medicine glass--in the other, Dr. Cooper is pouring a few drops from the vial into the glass. He counts the drops; I can't see his lips move, but unless I am dreaming he is counting the drops. He puts down the vial, and Mr. Nisbet takes the glass from him. To drink? No. He dips his finger into the liquid, and puts that finger to his lips. He stands still a while; he is deliberating. Is it satisfactory, Mr. Nisbet? If it is, and you need a sleeping draught, drink it off, and wish your companion good-night. You do nothing of the kind. You come to the window; you draw aside the blind; you open the window." "We shall be seen," whispered Bob, in great alarm. "We are as safe," said Rivers calmly, "as if we wore caps that rendered us invisible, as in the fairy tale. As they stand side by side at the window, the position of the light enables me to see them clearly. They _are_ Mr. Nisbet and Dr. Cooper. Provoking! What is it that Mr. Nisbet has just done? Why did you move, you fool of a doctor? But I guess what he did. He emptied the glass out of the window. Of course, of course; that was it. They have been making a chemical experiment, testing a liquid--to what end? Mr. Nisbet peers into the dark grounds, he stares straight at the hill upon which we are lying. Don't stir a finger. It is curious that criminals almost invariably overlook some slight circumstance which supplies the clew to their conviction. It has been so in thousands of cases. The window is closed, the blind is pulled down. See the shadows of the men as they approach and retreat, growing to monstrous proportions, dwindling to nearly natural size. The shadows of Fate. I suppose by this time the conference is at an end. It is. They separate. Each is in his own room. Ah, I see which room is occupied by Mr. Nisbet, and which by Dr. Cooper. The doctor gets into bed first. Out goes his light. Sleep the sleep of the just, doctor, if you can. Mr. Nisbet lingers; his is the greater stake. He is the principal, his companion is the tool. Take care, the pair of you; the dogs are on your track. Mr. Nisbet puts out his light; all the windows are masked except the window of the third room. Good-night, good-night." These ingenious theories filled me with wonder, and I accepted them as if they were proved testimony; and I am positive, from the remarks made by Bob and Ronald, that they also accepted them as I did. Rivers chuckled, and said: "It is a fine art, and we become masters only by long study. Now for Mme. Bernstein. She will not keep us waiting long." She did not. In a few minutes the gate was opened, and the old woman appeared. CHAPTER XXVIII. MME. BERNSTEIN REVEALS. Rivers went forward to meet her, and taking her hand, led her to where we were standing. Dark as it was I saw that she was greatly agitated, and the increase of our party did not lessen her agitation. "You perceive," Rivers commenced, "that it is as I said. There are four of us, and we are determined to know the truth about your master and what is going on in that gloomy house, which, as I just remarked to my friends, resembles a prison." "I will tell you everything," said Mme. Bernstein, her voice shaking with fear. "Why should I not, when you have promised to reward me? I have done nothing wrong." "Do not speak so sharply to her," said Ronald to Rivers; "you frighten her." Then he turned to the old woman, and spoke to her in French, and his manner was so kind and his voice so gentle that she soon forgot her fears. "You shall be well rewarded," he said to her; "I promise you on the honor of a gentleman. We have left a little money with your brother and his pretty little girl, and to-morrow we will send a doctor to see him. If it were day instead of night you would know that I am blind, and you would trust me." "I trust you now, sir," said Mme. Bernstein. "But this gentleman"--indicating Rivers--"speaks to me as if I had committed a crime. I will answer you anything. It is because I am poor that I have served M. Nisbet, and if I have taken a little bit of food for my dying brother and the child I hope you will protect me from the anger of M. Nisbet. He is a hard man; he would have no mercy." "We will protect and befriend you," said Ronald. "Have no fear. My friends here do not understand French very well, so we will converse now in English. Express yourself as well as you can; we all wish to hear what you have to say, and we all are kindly disposed toward you. Mr. Rivers, you are so much more experienced than ourselves that the command must be left in your hands, but I beg you to moderate your tone when you address madame." "With all the pleasure in life," said Rivers cheerfully. "Bless your heart, madame, you need not be frightened of me; if I speak sharp it's only a way I've got. Don't you take any notice of it, but begin at the beginning, and go straight on. How long have you been in service here?" "Ever since M. Nisbet first came," replied Mme. Bernstein. "It is years ago--I don't know how many--and he bought the house, and wanted a woman to look after it. When he goes away to England or France I attend to everything." She stopped here, as if at a loss how to proceed. "We shall get to the bottom of things all the quicker," said Rivers, "if I ask you questions. Has there been any other person besides yourself in Mr. Nisbet's service?" "No one else--it is I alone who have served him." "Does he live here alone?" "Oh, no. When he first came he brought a lady with him." "And she is still in the house?" "Oh, yes; she is still in the house, poor lady!" Instinctively we all turned our eyes to the window which Rivers had declared to be the window of the room occupied by a lady--even Ronald's sightless eyes were turned in that direction. "That is her bedroom?" Rivers asked. "Yes, it is there she sleeps." "Hold hard a bit," he cried. "She is awake." The occupant of the room had moved the light, and we saw her shadow on the blind. We looked up in silence, expecting that something strange would occur. I cannot explain the cause of this impression, but in subsequent conversation with my companions they confessed that they had experienced the same feeling of expectation as myself. What did occur was this: The blind was pulled up, and the window opened, and by the window stood a female figure in a white nightdress, stretching out her arms toward us. It was not possible that she could see us, but her imploring attitude seemed like an appeal to us to save her from some terrible danger, and it powerfully affected me. I put my finger to my lips, to warn Bob and Rivers against uttering any exclamation of surprise, and I placed myself in such a position that Mme. Bernstein could not see what we saw. Presently the female's arms dropped to her side, and she sank upon a chair by the window, and sat there while Rivers continued his examination. "Why do you say 'poor lady'?" asked Rivers. "Is she suffering in any way?" "She is much to be pitied," replied Mme. Bernstein. "So young and beautiful as she is!" "But explain, madame. You speak in enigmas. Does your master oppress her? Is he cruel to her?" "I do not know. She does not complain, but I would not trust him with a child of mine." "Is she his child, then?" "Oh, no; but he has authority over her. He has never struck her, he has never spoken a harsh word to her; still I would not trust him." "We shall get at it presently, I suppose," said Rivers impatiently. "What is the lady's name?" "Mlle. Mersac." "Her Christian name?" "I have not heard it, all the years I have been in the house. There was no reason why I should hear it. Mlle. Mersac--is not that a sufficient name?" "It must content us for the present. If she is not his daughter she is doubtless some relation?" "It cannot be--he has himself declared that she is not. I ventured one day--it is now a long time ago--to ask him, and he answered me angrily, and bade me attend to my duties, and nothing more. He repented a little while afterward; and came to me and inquired why I had put the question to him. 'It was a thought, sir,' I said. 'Can you see any likeness between us?' he asked. I answered no, and there is no likeness. She is fair, he is dark; there is not the least resemblance between them." "May we say that she is afflicted?" "Sorely afflicted. She has no memory, she seems to have no mind. From one day to another she cannot recollect. Each day is new to her; she has no memory. Even her own name is strange to her. When my master is here I see her only in his presence, and am not allowed to speak to her. When he is absent I see more of her; it is necessary; she has no one else to attend to her. But even then she utters but a very few words. Once only did we have a conversation while the master was away. It was against his commands, but I could not help it. He gives his orders what I shall do during his absence, and I am to do those things, and nothing more. To give her her meals, to give her her medicine, not to allow her to pass the gates. For years she has not been outside those walls." "You are wandering, madame. Once you had a conversation with her. Inform us what was said." "I pitied her, and asked her whether she had no friends she wished to see. 'Friends!' she said, and looked at me wonderingly. 'The world is dead!' I could have shed tears, there was such misery in her voice. I addressed her by her name. 'Mersac!' she exclaimed. 'Who is Mlle. Mersac?' 'But, mademoiselle,' I said, 'it is yourself.' 'Are you sure of that?' she asked. 'Why, yes,' I answered, 'it is certain.' She shuddered and said, 'I had dreams, I think, when I was a child, but I am an old woman now.' 'Mademoiselle,' I cried, 'you are young, you are beautiful!' 'It is you who are dreaming,' she said, 'I am an old woman. The world is dead. This house is my tomb!' That is all that passed; she would not speak another word. If I had dared, if I had not been poor and had known what to do and how it was to be done, I would have tried to find her friends, for what hope of recovery is there for her in such a place as this? For me who have not long to live---I am seventy-five--it does not matter. I have lived here all my life, and I shall die here; there is no other place for me to die in, and I am content that it should be so. But even I had my bright years when I was a young woman. I had a lover, I had a husband, I had children; they are all dead now, and but for my dying brother and his little girl I am alone. I was not so beautiful as mademoiselle; I was not a lady as she is. That is plainly to be seen. At her time of life she should be bright and happy; she should have a lover; she should have friends, companions. They might wake her up, for though she is not dead she might as well be." The old woman spoke very feelingly, and I patted her on the shoulder. "Thank you," she said, as though I had bestowed a gift upon her. "She is a French lady?" questioned Rivers. "Oh, no; she is English." "English! But her name is French." "It may not be hers. She is perhaps sent here to be forgotten. It is sad, very sad!" "Apart from this loss of memory, from this forgetfulness of herself, is she in health?" "She is strong, she is well otherwise. It is only her mind that is gone. She gripped my hand once; it was the grip of a strong young girl. She is lithe, she is well formed. If I had been like her when I was her age I should have been proud. I brought some flowers to the house one day. 'Who are these for?' my master asked. 'I thought mademoiselle would like them,' I answered. He frowned, and taking them in his hands crushed them and threw them to the ground. 'That is not part of your duties,' he said. I brought no more flowers. There are some strange things, some things I cannot understand. Do you come to help the poor lady? Are you related to her?" "We are not related to her, but we will help her if it is in our power." "Heaven will reward you for it." "What do you mean by saying there are strange things, things you cannot understand?" "For one--why does the master say she will not live, when, but for her loss of memory, she is strong and well?" "Oh, he says that, does he?" "Yes, and he has brought a friend with him now, a celebrated doctor, because, as I heard him say, she is sinking. What does that mean?" "Ah," said Rivers, in a significant tone which we understood, "what does that mean, indeed? It means mischief, Mme. Bernstein." "It is what I think. Now I have opened my heart I do not care what happens to me. This celebrated doctor that he has brought from England with him is no better than my master is. They are a pair. But what can she do against them alone?" "She is no longer alone, madame," said Ronald, with a strange earnestness in his voice. "The lady is beautiful, you say. Very fair?" "As fair as a lily, sir." "You can tell me the color of her eyes." "They are blue as a summer sky, and there is sometimes a light as sweet in them." "What would be her age, in your opinion, madame?" "Not more than twenty-four, and though she suffers so, she sometimes looks like a maid of eighteen." "When your master is absent he leaves medicine for her to take? He places this medicine in your charge? Is it a liquid?" "It is a liquid." "And its color, madame?" "White." "Is it clear? Has it a sediment?" "It is perfectly clear, like water?" "How often does she take it?" "Once every day, in the evening." "Does she take it willingly?" "Quite willingly." There was a brief silence here, and I observed Ronald pass his hands across his eyes. It was he who was asking these questions, and Rivers did not interpose. "Mme. Bernstein, did you ever taste this medicine?" "Ah, sir, you make me remember what I had forgotten. I am old; forgive me. It was this, also, that was in my mind when I said there were strange things I could not understand. It happened two years ago. Mademoiselle had left nearly half the dose in the glass, and had gone to bed. I took it up and tasted it; it was as water in my mouth, and--I do not know why--I drank what remained. 'It is not likely to harm me,' I thought, 'for it does not harm mademoiselle.' I went to bed and slept soundly. In the morning when I awoke it was with a strange feeling. I had some things to do; I could not remember what they were. I dressed myself and sat in my chair as helpless as a babe. The clock struck more than once, and still I sat there, trying to think what it was I had to do. At last the clock struck twelve, and I started to my feet, as though I had just woke out of a waking sleep, and went about my work as usual." Ronald did not continue his questions; his attention seemed to be drawn to another matter; his head was bent forward, in the attitude of listening. I do not recollect what it was that Rivers said at this point, but he had spoken a few words when Ronald cried: "Be silent!" His voice was agitated, and the same feeling of expectation stole upon me as I had experienced before the female in her white nightdress opened her bedroom window and stretched out her arms toward us. "Mme. Bernstein," said Ronald then, "the young lady we have been speaking of is a musician." "Yes, sir." "She plays in the night sometimes." "I have heard her, sir, on two or three occasions." "The instrument she plays on is the zither." "Yes, sir." "She is playing at the present moment." "If you say so, sir. My hearing is not so good as yours." "It is Beatrice who is playing," said Ronald, and his tone now was very quiet. "I knew she was not dead, and that we should meet again." CHAPTER XXIX. DR. COOPER IS IMPRESSED. These startling words caused us to throw aside the restraint we had placed upon our movements. We darted forward to the gate, from which spot we could just catch the faint sounds of music. The truth burst upon me like a flash of light. The mystery of Beatrice's supposed death was made clear to me, and the unspeakable villainy of which Mr. Nisbet was guilty was revealed. But alas for poor Barbara, who was eagerly waiting to embrace her sister Molly! Mme. Bernstein joined us at the gate, and cautioned us to be careful not to speak aloud. We removed to a safe distance, and were about to discuss our plans and decide upon our course of action when Ronald settled the matter for us. "Mme. Bernstein," he said, addressing her, "the lady is a dear friend of mine; she was to have been my wife. A foul wrong has been done to her, and Providence has directed our steps here to save her. We must enter that ill-fated house to-night." "To-night!" she exclaimed. "Now--this moment," said Ronald, with decision. "But the danger----" "We are four men to two," said Ronald. "If I place my hands on one of the monsters I will account for him, blind as I am. We are armed, and no danger threatens us. An innocent lady's life is in peril; she lies at the mercy of wretches who have no heart or conscience, and a moment's delay may be fatal. You shall be well paid for the service, madame----" "It is not that I shall be well paid," she interrupted. "I have a heart, I have a conscience. It is because the master is a dangerous man. But you shall have your way; the Just God will help you. Tread softly; make no noise." "Mr. Elsdale is right," whispered Rivers to me as we followed Mme. Bernstein. "Strike the iron while it's hot. There's a surprise in store for two scoundrels to-night." We succeeded in making our entrance without awaking the enemy. "What now shall be done?" asked Mme. Bernstein. Ronald answered her. "Mlle. Mersac--it is not her name, but that matters little--has no aversion to you, madame?" "None, none," she replied eagerly. "You will go to her room, and remain with her till you hear from us. If she is awake, encourage her to sleep. She must know nothing till daylight. Should it be needed call to us for assistance." "Yes, yes." "You will show us the rooms in which your master and his friend from London sleep, and you will then leave us." Ronald turned to us. "I and my uncle will keep watch outside Mr. Nisbet's door; if he comes out to us I shall know how to deal with him. You, Mr. Rivers and Mr. Emery, will introduce yourselves to Dr. Cooper, and endeavor to force a confession from him. If he will not speak--well, you are a match for him. Bind him, so that he shall be unable to move; then join us, and we will make Mr. Nisbet secure. He must administer no more stupefying drugs to his stepdaughter; his power over her is at an end. Have you any objection to my plan, Mr. Rivers?" "None. It is the best that can be adopted. Let us set about it." With noiseless footsteps we ascended the stairs to the sleeping apartments, Mme. Bernstein leading the way. She pointed out the rooms to us. "That is the master's; that is his friend's." Then she left us, and went to Beatrice's room. Bob and Ronald took their station outside Mr. Nisbet's door and I observed that Bob held his revolver in his hand. No indication reached us that we had disturbed the inmates. "It is our turn, now," Rivers whispered to me. "I think I know how to manage our customer." He tried the door, and finding it locked, smiled as he said, "Locks himself in. Doesn't trust his host. A good sign." He did not knock, but kept fumbling at the handle, in order to attract Dr. Cooper's attention. Presently succeeding, we heard the doctor get out of bed. "Who is there?" he asked softly, his ear at the door. "Let me in," Rivers replied, in a whisper. "I have something to say to you. Why do you lock your door?" Had Rivers spoken above a whisper Dr. Cooper would have detected him, but whispers are very much alike, and it is not easy to distinguish a man's voice by them. "Wait a moment," said Dr. Cooper from within. "I will strike a light." This accomplished, he opened the door, which, as we glided in, Rivers quickly closed and locked. Dr. Cooper had retreated from the door, and stood, holding the candle above his head. With an exclamation of alarm he let the candle slip from his hand, and we were in darkness. "What a clumsy fellow you are!" exclaimed Rivers in a jocose tone. "Light it again, Mr. Emery. I have got Dr. Cooper quite safe." And I saw, when I had picked up the candle and lighted it, Dr. Cooper standing quite still, with his arms pinned to his sides from behind by Rivers. I placed the candle out of the doctor's reach, and Rivers released him. Dr. Cooper was in his nightshirt, and presented anything but a pleasant picture. Rivers, on the contrary, had an airy lightness about him which was new to me. His eyes shone, and he rubbed his hands together, as if he were taking part in a peculiarly agreeable function. On a table by the bedside were a glass and a bottle of whisky, half empty. Rivers put the bottle to his nose. "Scotch," he said. "I always drink Scotch myself." "Who are you?" Dr. Cooper managed to say. "What do you want?" "All in good time, doctor," replied Rivers. "It's no good commencing in the middle of the game. You haven't the pleasure of my acquaintance yet, but you know this gentleman." "I have seen him once before," said Dr. Cooper, with a troubled glance at me. "And I am positive you must have enjoyed his society. He proves that he enjoyed yours by his anxiety to renew the intimacy. He is a private gentleman, I am a private detective, and we have come a long way to see you. But you will catch cold standing there with only your shirt on. Will you get into your clothes or into bed before we have our chat. You would like to dress? You shall. Softly, softly. I will hand you your clothes, taking the precaution to empty your pockets first." "By what right----" "Steady does it, doctor. If you talk of rights we shall talk of wrongs. That's a sensible man. On go the trousers, on goes the waistcoat, on goes the coat, and we're ready for business. Now, how shall it be? Friends or foes? You don't answer. Very good. We'll give you time. Take a chair, and make yourself comfortable. No, doctor, no; don't take your whisky neat; as an experienced toper myself I insist upon putting a little water into it. And we'll pour half the spirit back into the bottle. Moderation and economy--that's the order of the day. You can't make up your mind to speak. Very well; we'll see if we can loosen your tongue. _I_ intend to make a clean breast of it, and you may feel disposed presently to follow a good example. Give me your best attention, I am going to open the case, and if I make mistakes I'm open to correction. Some few years ago there lived in the north of London a gentleman--we'll be polite, if nothing else--a gentleman and his stepdaughter, name of the gentleman Nisbet, name of the stepdaughter Beatrice. The house they inhabited was in Lamb's Terrace, and a gentleman of means could not have selected a more desolate locality to reside in. Miss Beatrice's mother was dead, and in her will she appointed her second husband--she couldn't very well appoint her first, doctor--guardian to her child, with a handsome provision for the maintenance and education of the young lady. The bulk of her fortune she left to her daughter, who was to come into possession of it when she was of age. It was a large fortune, some fifty or sixty thousand pounds, I believe, and I wish such a bit of luck had fallen to my share, but we can't all be born with silver spoons in our mouths, can we, doctor? That this fortune should have been left to the lady instead of the gentleman annoyed and angered him, and he determined to have the fingering of it. Now, how could that be managed? There was only one way, according to his thinking, and that was, to get rid of the lady, because it was set down in the will that, in the event of the young lady's death before she came of age, the money should revert to him. He laid his plans artfully, but there was a flaw in them, as you will presently confess. I don't pretend to understand how it was that he set about compassing his desire in the crooked way he did. Perhaps he found the young lady hard to manage; because he had some sort of sneaking feeling for her, perhaps he thought it would not be half so bad if he got rid of someone else in her place; and so contrived that it should be believed it was his own stepdaughter who was dead, instead of a poor, friendless young girl of her own age and build." Dr. Cooper shifted uneasily in his chair, and an expression of amazement stole into his face. "I see that I am interesting you. This poor friendless girl was in his service in Lamb's Terrace at the time, her name, Molly. So what did this Nisbet do but send his stepdaughter from the house, and take a ticket for her to some part of the Continent, precise place unknown, but doubtless where she was pretty well out of the world. He was to follow her, and they were to live in foreign parts. Meanwhile the poor girl Molly was left in the London house, and on the morning of his intended departure was found dead, not in her own bed, but in the young lady's, with the young lady's clothes on and about her. The cause of death was said to be asphyxiation by an escape of gas in the young lady's bedroom. The Nisbets kept no society in London, and had no friends or acquaintances, so there was no one to dispute his statement that it was his stepdaughter who was dead. Now, he knew, that an inquest would have to be held, and that a certificate of the cause of death would have to be produced, so what does he do but go to a miserable wretch of a doctor or apothecary living or starving--the latter, I suspect--in the neighborhood of Lamb's Terrace, and by plausible words and bribe induce him to give this necessary death certificate. Name of doctor, Cooper. Fire away, doctor, if you've anything to say." "It has been done again and again," said Dr. Cooper, sucking his parched lips. "But I can't speak till I've had a drink." "Here it is," said Rivers, mixing a glass, sparing with the whisky and liberal with the water, and handing it to the wretched man. "Don't swallow it all at once; moisten your lips with it now and then." "It has been done again and again," repeated Dr. Cooper. "A doctor is called in who has not attended the patient; he sees that the cause of death is unmistakable, and he gives the certificate. It is not a crime." "I am not so sure of that," said Rivers, in a dry tone. "Anyway it is too late now to prove the true cause of poor Molly's, death, for the body has been cremated." "It was not a case of illness," continued Dr. Cooper; "no doctor had been in the house to see the girl before that morning, and I only did what any other doctor would have done." "You did," corrected Rivers, "what no respectable doctor would dream of doing." "I was in debt," pursued Dr. Cooper, "I was in trouble on all sides, I had a large family to support, and no food to give them. He came to me, and I was glad to earn a pound or two. I had never seen him before that morning, I had never even heard of him. What is this story you are telling me of another girl being put into his daughter's bed? It is false; I do not believe it." "It is true," I said, "and it can be proved, for the young lady lives." "May I drop dead off this chair if I knew it!" cried Dr. Cooper, with trembling outstretched hands. "How was I to know it when I had never seen the lady, when I had never seen the girl, when I had never seen him before that morning?" Notwithstanding the feeling of loathing with which he inspired me, I had no doubt that he was speaking the truth, and that he was not implicated in the conspiracy. He presented a pitiable and degrading spectacle as he sat trembling and writhing in his chair. "I will go on to the end," said Rivers, "and you will find that you have something else to explain. The inquest was held, and you gave false evidence at it." "You can't prove that it was false," said Dr. Cooper. "There is no body to exhume, and there is no one to give evidence against me. You may be right in the other parts of the story, but you will never be able to prove yourself right in this. I know sufficient of the law to know that no crime can be brought home to me for which I can be made to suffer." "Perhaps you do know the law," said Rivers dryly, and I fancied that he felt himself at a disadvantage here, "and perhaps you don't. One thing is certain. You may escape, but there is no possibility of escape for the infernal scoundrel you have served, and who has brought you over from London to assist him in some other diabolical scheme." "Stop a minute," exclaimed Dr. Cooper, bending forward and fixing his bloodshot eyes on Rivers' face. "Didn't I see you on the boat?" "It is more than probable," answered Rivers, with a sly chuckle, "for I was there." "You followed us?" "Every step of the way. If you had looked for me you would have seen me on the train. What do you say now? Are we friends or foes?" "Friends," cried Dr. Cooper eagerly. "Friends. I am on your side. I will conceal nothing." Was it my fancy that there was a movement in the wall between the room we were in and that occupied by Mr. Nisbet? It must have been, I thought, for upon looking more closely I saw nothing to confirm the fancy, and I ascribed it to the fever and excitement of the scene of which I was a witness. "You are wise," said Rivers, "though I take it upon myself to declare that, with or without your assistance, we can bring his guilt home to him. There are others in the house as well as ourselves. Two of our friends are at this moment stationed outside Mr. Nisbet's door. He is doomed, if ever man was. If he knows a prayer it is time for him to say it." CHAPTER XXX. MR. NISBET TAKES A DECIDED STEP. "The evidence, then, you gave at the inquest," continued Rivers, "whether false or true (you see I am not disposed to be hard on you), was conclusive, and doubtless you were well paid for it. In the eyes of the law Mr. Nisbet's stepdaughter was dead, and he came into her fortune. The simplicity of the whole thing would be amusing if it were not tragic. But his task was not yet finished. He had committed an error of judgment in killing the wrong woman; the lady whom he had robbed of her fortune still lived, and it was imperative that he should get rid of her. He must have been in fear of detection, or he would have adopted some violent and summary measures to compass his objects. Being fearful of consequences he determined to kill her slowly, and it was also necessary that he should destroy her memory, that he should make her mind a blank, for if by any chance the news of the tragedy which had taken place in Lamb's Terrace reached her knowledge the game would be lost. According to the way I reason it out he hoped that the drugs he administered to her would cause her to die a presumably natural death, but the lady was obstinate, and refused to die as he wished. At length, weary of waiting, he calls you in to assist him." "You are on the wrong track," said Dr. Cooper. "I have never seen the lady." "You are in your right senses, I presume," said Rivers. "The lady happens to be in this house." "In this house?" "Do you wish us to believe you have not seen her?" "On my honor, I have not seen her." At this reference to his honor a queer smile crossed Rivers' lips. "There is a female here, as I was given to understand by Mr. Nisbet, one of his domestics, who was indisposed. But I have seen no one except Mr. Nisbet and an old woman who cooks for him, and with whom I have not exchanged a single word. Mr. Nisbet informed me that he wanted my assistance in certain chemical experiments he intended to make in Switzerland, and I consented to accompany him. It was a sudden proposition, and I had to make up my mind on the spur of the moment. When I first made his acquaintance he promised to assist me and set me up in a good way of business, but after the inquest I lost sight of him, and his promises were not fulfilled. Coming upon me suddenly a week ago in London, he said if I would assist him that he would fulfill his old promises. I would have come with him without this assurance. I was doing no business in London, and I was in debt; I have always been in debt everywhere; I am the most unfortunate wretch in existence. Now you have the truth of it." "What were you and Mr. Nisbet doing to-night before you went to bed?" "What do you mean?" "It is a plain question. You and he were together in this room. You poured some drops from a vial into a glass. Mr. Nisbet took the glass from you, dipped his finger into it, and tasted the stuff; then he threw the contents of the glass out of the window." "You know everything," gasped Dr. Cooper, falling back in his chair in consternation. "You are not far out. What were you doing? What was in the vial?" "A deadly poison. The drops I poured into the glass would put an end to a man's life in a few seconds, and it would be next to impossible to discover the cause of death." "An interesting experiment. If it would put an end to a man's life it would put an end to a woman's. Are you a double-dyed knave, or an egregious fool? Do you not see the crime your accomplice was meditating?" "I am not his accomplice," cried Dr. Cooper in a violent tone. "He told me he wanted to try it upon some animals." "A likely story. This deadly poison was to be administered to his stepdaughter. He paved the way by informing the old woman in this house that the young lady is sinking fast. He is caught in his own trap. Where is the vial?" "Mr. Nisbet has it." At this moment I saw confirmed the fancy I had entertained of a movement in the wall between the bedrooms. A panel was softly and noiselessly pushed, and Mr. Nisbet's face appeared. It was of an ashen whiteness; he must have overheard every word of the conversation. As his eyes met mine he swiftly retreated; the panel closed, and then came the sound of the snap of a lock. "What was that?" cried Rivers, starting up. I told him hurriedly what I had seen, and he went to the wall and examined it. "It is a cunning contrivance," he said, "and is hidden somewhere in these wide headings." He pushed against the wall without effect. "You, too," he added grimly to Dr. Cooper, "might never have left the house alive. Let us finish the night's work. You will come out with us. Leave the door open, and set that chair against it, in case he slips in here, and tries to make his escape. We will take the law into our own hands. I never travel without the darbies." He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and put them back with a satisfied smile. We joined Ronald and Bob in the passage, and questioned them. Mr. Nisbet had made no attempt to open his door, but Bob had peeped through the keyhole a few minutes after he had taken up his station, being attracted by the glimmering of a light in the room, which he accepted as a proof that Mr. Nisbet was awake. By means of this light he had obtained a partial view of the room, but before he could catch sight of Mr. Nisbet the keyhole was masked from within, and he could see nothing more. "Mr. Nisbet!" Rivers called out as he rapped smartly at the door. We listened for an answer, but received none, and Rivers repeated his summons several times in vain. No movement within the room reached our ears. We did not make more noise than was absolutely necessary, but it brought Mme. Bernstein out, to whom Ronald explained what we were doing, and hoped we were not alarming Beatrice. "Oh, no," said Mme. Bernstein, "she is sleeping like an angel." Did she know her lover was near her, I thought, and that she was saved from the dread peril with which she had been threatened? The mysterious adventure which had led up to the present strange scene in a foreign land warranted such a thought. Little, indeed, do we know of the unseen world by which we are surrounded, little do we understand of the occult influences which direct the most pregnant actions of our lives. Often during the past twenty-four hours had I looked toward the ground in the anticipation of seeing the spectral figure which had prompted every step I had taken in this mystery, but I had seen nothing of it, and I was tempted to believe, its mission being accomplished, that it had left me forever. Though a more fitting place might be found to mention it, I may state here that my impression was correct. From that day to this, when in my London home I am engaged in writing the particulars of the mysterious crime which, through the agency of the supernatural visitation, I was the means of bringing to light, I have never set eyes on the supernatural apparition. I return now to my companions, who, in the silence of Mr. Nisbet, were debating what it was best to do. If we burst open the door of his bedroom we should awake Beatrice, and the shock might produce serious consequences. "He may have escaped by the window," suggested Bob. Rivers shook his head. "He could not do so without breaking his limbs. This floor is some distance from the ground, and a dead straight wall stretches down the back of the house." "There may be other panels in the walls of his room opening in other directions." "That is more likely. It is stupid to wait here and do nothing. I have picked a lock before to-night. Here goes." Down he plumped on his knees, and set to work with his own knife and ours which we handed him. One or another of us held a candle to the keyhole while he worked. It was a long job and a tough job, and he was at it for thirty or forty minutes, but he managed it at last. "Be prepared for a rush," he said, in a tone of warning, as he slowly pushed the door open. No such experience awaited us. The door was wide open, and we stood together on the threshold. "He has left the candle alight, at all events," said Rivers. "Follow me, and look out." We entered the room close upon each other's heels. Leaning back in an armchair by the table was Mr. Nisbet. His eyes were closed, and we were face to face with the murderer. His features were perfectly calm and composed. "How can he sleep so peacefully at such a moment as this?" whispered Bob. "Yes," said Rivers, stepping forward, "he sleeps peacefully." Dr. Cooper also stepped forward, and put his ear to Mr. Nisbet's mouth, and his hand to his heart. "Dead?" asked Rivers. "Dead," replied Dr. Cooper. Rivers lifted from the carpet an empty vial which had fallen from the dead man's hand, and held it up to the doctor with a questioning look. Dr. Cooper nodded. * * * * * * * But little more remains to be told. Beatrice was taken back to England, and under medical care recovered her memory. But she recollects very little of the years she passed in peril of her life. The chief part of her fortune was saved, and she and Ronald are married. Barbara is in their service. The poor child suffered much when the truth was revealed to her, but time healed her sorrow, and she has a happy home. Dr. Cooper disappeared from London, and none of us knew, or cared to know, what became of him. Ronald provided for Mme. Bernstein. My good wife and I live in our old home. We never intend to move. Nothing in the world could tempt Maria to enter an empty house. Between ourselves and Mr. and Mrs. Elsdale exists a firm friendship, and we, seldom without Bob, are frequently together; but we never refer to the strange incidents which have ended so happily. THE END. 
16538	----	[Transcriber's Note: The Author uses lines of spaced periods to mark the passing of time, this has been preserved in this edition.] THE ALLEGED HAUNTING OF B---- HOUSE [Illustration: ATTICS] [Illustration: SECOND FLOOR] [Illustration: GROUND FLOOR L. Lift. A. Iron gate in Area.] [Illustration: BASEMENT] THE ALLEGED HAUNTING OF B---- HOUSE INCLUDING A JOURNAL KEPT DURING THE TENANCY OF COLONEL LEMESURIER TAYLOR EDITED BY A. GOODRICH-FREER (MISS X) AND JOHN, MARQUESS OF BUTE, K.T. LONDON GEORGE REDWAY 1899 "I visited B---- representing that Society [S.P.R.], ... and decided that there was no such evidence as could justify us in giving the results of the inquiry a place in our _Proceedings_."--_The Times_, June 10, 1897. FREDERIC W.H. MYERS, _Hon. Sec. of the Society for Psychical Research_. _Compare pages 189 et seq._ * * * * * THE ALLEGED HAUNTING OF B---- HOUSE It was in 1892 that Lord Bute first heard of the matter. It was not, as stated by _The Times_ correspondent in that journal for June 8, 1897, in or from London, but at Falkland, in Fifeshire, and in the following manner:-- There is no public chapel at Falkland, and the private chapel in the house is attended by a variety of priests, who usually come only from Saturday to Monday. Lord Bute's diary for the second week in August 1892 contains the following entries:-- "_Saturday, August 6th._--Father H----, S.J., came. "_Sunday, August 7th._--In afternoon with Father H---- and John [Lord Dumfries] to Palace, and then with him to the Gruoch's Den. He gives us a long account of the psychical disturbances at B----; noises between his bed and the ceiling, like continuous explosion of petards, so that he could not hear himself speak, &c. &c. "[Mr. Huggins afterwards recommended the use of a phonograph for these noises, in order to ascertain absolutely whether they are objective or subjective, and I wrote so to S---- of B----.] "_Monday, August 8th._--Father H---- went away. "_Tuesday, August 9th._--Mr. Huggins [now Sir William Huggins], outgoing President of the British Association, and Mrs. Huggins came. "_Saturday, August 13th._--Father H---- came. "_Sunday, August 14th._--In afternoon with the children, &c., to the Palace, leaving Mr. Huggins as much as possible alone with Father H---- (both being with us), in order to interrogate him about the psychical noises he heard recently at B----, when there, to give a Retreat to some nuns. "_Monday, August 15th._--Father H---- went away after luncheon." Lord Bute recalls that Father H---- told him that he had been at B---- for the purpose of giving a Retreat [a series of sermons and meditations] to some nuns, who were charitably allowed by Mr. S---- to take a sort of holiday, at a house called B---- Cottage, which had been originally built and occupied by the late Major S----, when he first took up his residence at B----, which at the time was let. Father H---- told Lord Bute that in consequence of the disturbance his room had been several times changed, and he expressed surprise that the sounds did not appear to be heard by anybody except himself. He also said that he had spoken of the matter to Mr. S----, who expressed an idea that the disturbances might be caused by his uncle, the late Major S----, who was trying to attract attention in order that prayers might be offered for the repose of his soul. The sounds occurred during full daylight, and in a clear open space between his bed and the ceiling. He did not know to what to compare them, but as he said they were explosive in sound, Lord Bute suggested that they might be compared to the sounds made by petards, which are commonly used in Italy for firing _feux de joie_. Father H---- answered, "Yes perhaps, if they were continuous enough." He said that the sound which alarmed him more than any other was as of a large animal throwing itself violently against the bottom of his door, outside. A third noise which he had heard was of ordinary raps, of the kind called "spirit-raps." He mentioned a fourth sound, the nature of which Lord Bute does not remember with the same certainty as the others, but believes it was a shriek or scream. Such a sound is described by other witnesses during the subsequent occupation of the house by the H---- family. The fact that the sounds appear to have been inaudible to every one except Father H---- is a strong argument in favour of their subjective, or hallucinatory, character. It will be found that this was very often the case with the peculiar sounds recorded at B----, and even when they were heard by several persons at the same time, there does not appear to be any ground for refusing to recognise them as collective hallucinations. Lord Bute's diary and recollections have been here quoted, not as differing from, but only as being antecedent to, the following account, which has been furnished by Father H---- himself:-- "I went to B---- on Thursday, July 14th, 1892, and I left it on Saturday, July 23rd. So I slept at B---- for nine nights, or rather one night, because I was disturbed by very queer and extraordinary noises every night except the last, which I spent in Mr. S----'s dressing-room. At first I occupied the room to the extreme right of the landing [No. 8],[A] then my things were removed to another room [No. 3] (it seems to me at this distance of time that _this_ room faced the principal staircase, or was a little to the left of it). In both these rooms I heard the loud and inexplicable noises every night, but on two or three nights, in addition to these, another noise affrighted me--a sound of somebody or something falling against the door outside. It seemed, at the time, as if a calf or big dog would make such a noise. Why those particular animals came into my head I cannot tell. But in attempting to describe these indescribable phenomena, I notice now I always do say it was like a calf or big dog falling against the door. Why did I not hear the noises on the ninth night? Were there none where I was? These are questions the answers to which are not apparent. It may be there _were_ noises, but I slept too soundly to hear them. One of the oddest things in my case, in connection with the house, is that it appeared to me somehow that (1) Somebody was relieved by my departure; (2) that nothing could induce me to pass another night there, at all events alone, and in other respects I do not think I am a coward." For the benefit of those who are not aware of the fact, it may be as well to state that the class of people known as spiritualists, hold that when raps are heard, it is the best thing for the hearer to say aloud, "If you are intelligent, will you please to rap three times?" and if this is done, to ask the intelligence to rap three times for _yes_, once for _no_, and twice for _doubtful_. It is obvious that considerable conversation can be carried on by such a code, and where it is inadequate, as, for instance, in obtaining proper names, it is usual to propose to repeat the alphabet slowly, asking the intelligence to rap once when the proper letter is reached. This simple method was entirely unknown to Father H----. He had done nothing but throw holy water about his rooms, and repeat the prayer _Visita quæsumus_, which invokes the Divine protection of a house and its inhabitants against all the snares of the Enemy, and which, therefore, in no way concerned any person or thing which is not associated with the powers of darkness. It was natural that no result should be produced. Sir W. Huggins told Lord Bute, as the result of his examination of Father H----, that he felt absolutely certain that what the latter had experienced was not the outcome of morbid hallucination, but that it was possible that the sounds themselves might be hallucinatory or subjective. To ascertain whether this were so, or whether they had any physical cause, he suggested the use of a phonograph, as this would at least show whether the sounds were accompanied by atmospheric waves. Lord Bute happened to know Mr. S---- slightly, having met him accidentally while travelling abroad. He accordingly wrote to him, and communicated Sir William Huggins's suggestion. Mr. S----, after a delay of some days, refused absolutely to allow any scientific investigation to be made, a refusal remarkably coincident with the recent refusal of his son, the present proprietor, to allow any similar investigation with seismographical instruments. It would seem a legitimate conclusion that neither father nor son doubted that the sounds are of a psychical character. As regards the present proprietor, such a conclusion renders it obvious that we must understand in some peculiar sense the letter published in _The Times_, dated June 10, 1897, in which he says, "As to the stories contained in the article [_i.e._ of the anonymous _Times_ correspondent], they are without foundation." These words must, however, be, in any case, accepted in a special sense, considering the part taken by members of his own family, as well as by tenants and agents, in attesting the stories in question. Lord Bute states that Father H---- did not, upon the occasion of his visit to Falkland, say anything as to having seen the brown wooden crucifix (see pp. 132, 142, 154), but after this apparition had been seen by two other persons separately, Lord Bute wrote to Father H---- to inquire whether he could remember anything of the sort. His reply was as follows:-- "When you mention the brown wooden crucifix, you awaken a new memory in me. I now seem to live some of those hours over again, and I recollect that between waking and sleeping there appeared before my eyes--somewhere on the wall--a crucifix, some eighteen inches, I should say, long, and, _I think_, of _brown_ wood. "My own crucifix is of black metal, and just the length of this page (seven inches); and though I usually have it with me in my bag, I cannot for certain say that it was in my bag at B----." The following further communication from Father H---- carries the record further back:-- "In August 1893 it was that I met, quite by accident, a person who knew something about B---- House and its strange noises. "Though, on my leaving his house, Mr. S---- begged me not 'to give the house a bad name,' I did not understand by this that, as a point of honour, I should refrain from ever mentioning the subject. I respected his request to the extent of not alluding indiscriminately to the noises that disturbed my nights there. But I did speak to several people about them, and they had so impatiently and incredulously heard my statements, that I at last refused to repeat them, even when pressingly requested to do so. It was, therefore, quite a surprise to find myself talking about B---- House, or rather, listening with rapt attention to another talking about the place. "Miss Y----, I think her name was, kept house for a priest at----. One evening, while on a visit there, I found her knitting as I passed the kitchen door, and bidding her the time of day, I discovered from a remark she made that she had in former days filled more important posts. She soon settled down when she found me an attentive listener to a somewhat detailed account of by no means a short life. "'Had she been in Scotland?' 'Yes, sir; and in a very beautiful part of Scotland, in P----shire.' 'Indeed!' In short she told me that she had been, twelve years ago, governess in the S---- family at B---- House. (I need not say that I was now intensely interested.) 'Why did she leave?' 'Well, sir, so many people complained of queer noises in the house, that I got alarmed and left.' I asked her had she seen anything? She said No, and the noises were only heard in certain rooms, and the servants inhabited quite a different part of the house. When I closely questioned her she located the queer noises precisely in the two rooms I had successively occupied. She did not learn from me that I had ever been there. Pressed for a concrete case of fright and abrupt leavetaking (I _think_), she told me two military officers had 'left next morning.' "In conclusion, as against all the above, my own, and this good woman's account, I must set it down that, before I left the house, two young ladies, relatives of the family, occupied the rooms in question, and certainly, to my surprise, did not seem at breakfast as if they had spent an unquiet night." Inquiry shows that Miss Y----'s residence at B---- must have been about the years 1878-80. The earliest witnesses in chronological sequence would be the S---- family themselves; but though much information has been contributed by them to various persons interested in B---- House during the tenancy both of Mr. H---- and Colonel Taylor, the present Editors are unwilling to make use of it without permission. A statement in _The Times_ article, of the character of which the reader can here judge for himself, elicited the following letter from Mrs. S----, which is to be found in the issue of that journal for June 18, 1897:-- "May I ask of your courtesy to insert this in the next issue of your paper. Seeing myself dragged into publicity in _The Times_ of June 8, as 'having made admissions under pressure of cross-examination,' I beg to state that I as well as the rest of my family had not the remotest idea that our home was let to other than ordinary tenants. In my intercourse with them I spoke as one lady to another, never imagining that my private conversations were going to be used for purposes carefully concealed from me--a deceit which I deeply resent." It will be observed that Mrs. S---- here leaves no doubt as to the nature of the information with which she was so good as to favour Miss Freer, but, notwithstanding this fact, and the language which Mrs. S---- has considered it right to use--or, at least, to sign--with regard to Miss Freer, Miss Freer prefers to continue to treat Mrs. S----'s statements as confidential, and blanks will accordingly be found in the Journal under the dates on which such conversations occurred. Miss Freer extends the same regard for a privacy, which the S---- family have themselves violated, to communications made by other members. There have, however, been several witnesses unconnected with them, some of whom are referred to in the Journal. Not only the villagers and persons in the immediate neighbourhood, but many accidentally met with in visits to show-places and in excursions for twenty miles round B----, were ready to pour out traditions and experiences which are not here quoted, as, though often suggestive, not always evidential. The Rev. P. H----, already referred to, quotes a witness who testifies to processions of monks or nuns having been seen by Mr. S---- from a window, and of a married couple who, "relating the events of the night, declared they could not hear each other's voices for the noise overhead between them and the ceiling," which was especially interesting to him, as corroborative of his own experience. A former servant at B---- has voluntarily related, at great length, the story of the alleged hauntings, which shows that they have occurred at intervals during the past twenty years. He is of opinion that as the earlier hauntings were ascribed to the late Major S----, so their revival may be referred to the late proprietor; but his reasons, as well as his narrative, are of a nature which might cause annoyance to the S---- family, and are therefore withheld. Dr. Menzies, a correspondent of _The Times_, June 10th, who speaks of himself as an old friend of Major S----, refers to a still earlier haunting--a tradition current at the time of the Major's succession in 1844. * * * * * In August 1896, B---- House, with the shooting attached, was let by Captain S----, the present proprietor, for a year to a wealthy family of Spanish origin. Their experience was of such a nature that they abandoned the house at the end of seven weeks, thus forfeiting the greater part of their rent, which had been paid in advance. The evidence of Mr. H---- himself, of his butler, and of several guests, will be found in due chronological sequence. * * * * * When Colonel Taylor, one of the fundamental members of the London Spiritualist Alliance, a distinguished member of the S.P.R., whose name is associated both in this country and in America with the investigation of haunted houses, offered to take a lease of B---- House, after the lease had been resigned by Mr. H----, the proprietor made no objection whatever. Indeed, the only allusion made to the haunting was the expression of a hope on the part of Captain S----'s agents in Edinburgh, that Colonel Taylor would not make it a subject of complaint, as had been done by Mr. H----, in reply to which they were informed that Colonel Taylor was thoroughly well aware of what had happened during Mr. H----'s tenancy, and would undertake to make no complaint on the subject. Captain S---- having thus thrown the house into the open market, and let it to the well-known expert, with no reference whatever to the subject of haunting, except that it should not be made a ground of complaint, it is obvious that he deprived himself of any right to complain as to observations upon the subject of local hallucination, any more than of observation upon the habits of squirrels or other local features. Nor had he any more right to complain upon this ground, as vendor of the lease, than any other vendor of articles exposed for public sale, such as a hatter, who after selling a hat to Lord Salisbury, might complain that he had been induced to provide headgear for a Conservative. At the same time, both Colonel Taylor and his friends were well aware, from a vexatious experience, that phenomena of the kind found at B---- are very often associated with private matters, which the members of a family concerned might object to see published, just as they might object to the publication of the results of an examination of some object--say, old medicine-bottles--found in the house let by them to a strange tenant. Acting upon this knowledge, it has been the general rule of the Society for Psychical Research to publish the cases investigated by it under avowedly false names, as private cases are published in medical and other scientific journals. Out of a courteous anxiety that nothing should occur which could in any way annoy any member of the S---- family, no one was admitted to the house for the purpose of observing the phenomena, except on the definite understanding that they were to regard everything as confidential, and it was always intended that any publication on the subject was to be made with all names and geographical indications avowedly fictitious. As certain points of Gaelic orthography were found to be involved, it was decided to mention the house as standing in a bi-lingual district upon the borders of Wales, and Lord Bute arranged with Sir William Lewis to have these linguistic points represented by Welsh instead of Gaelic. The affairs of the inquiry, and of any phenomena which might occur, were thus protected, it was believed, by a confidence even more absolute than that usually observed in such affairs of a household as to which honour dictates that a guest should be silent. The appreciation with which the S---- family responded to this courteous and careful consideration for their possible feelings, was made manifest to the world by the tone which they adopted when, immediately on the appearance of the anonymous article in _The Times_, they rushed into the newspapers, and published everything concerning themselves, their family property, predecessors, and tenants, with all the proper names at full length. After that outburst it has, of course, been rendered impossible to keep the identity of the place and people any longer secret. Out of deference to other members of the family who did not take part in this, the matter in the present volume remains in as private a form as the newspaper correspondence now leaves possible. The names given in full are those mostly very indirectly concerned; other names, including that of the house, are given under the real initials, with the exception of a few of the less prominent, when the real initials would create confusion; and in these latter cases they are taken from letters of the alphabet not already used, and are placed in inverted commas; _e.g._ the real initial of a Mr. S---- is changed, in order to avoid confusion with the name of the S---- family themselves, the proprietors of B----. The contents of the book are, except in one respect, arranged upon the simple chronological system. They commence with a short sketch of the history of the S---- family, based in its earlier part upon Douglas's "Baronage of Scotland"; and all information which the writers possess as to the phenomena which have occurred since the death of Major S---- in 1876, except that supplied by the S---- family, is set forth in succession. The family of S---- date from the earlier part of the middle of the fifteenth century, and were settled upon the river T---- within that century, while they have possessed B---- at least since the earlier half of the century following. A stone, carved with their arms, belonging to the old mansion-house, is built into the wall, and dated 1579. The present house is modern, and does not even occupy the site of the older one. The particular proprietor whose arms are so represented, Patrick S----, married Elizabeth B----, who survived him and married a second time. James S----, his son, in 1586, married Mary C----, and after her death, in 1597, Elizabeth R----. Robert S----, his son by his first marriage, married Margaret C----. John S----, son of Robert, was killed by the Cromwellians, leaving no issue, and was succeeded by his brother, Patrick S----, who married Elizabeth L----. It is not obvious when they adopted the principles of the Reformation, but it is to be remarked that this Patrick stood high in the favour of James II. (and VII.). Charles S----, son of the foregoing, married Anne D----, and was succeeded by his third son, another Charles, who married Grizell M----, and died in 1764. Robert S----, his son, married Isabel H----. Charles S----, his eldest son, died unmarried in 1783. H---- S----, second son of R---- S----, married Louisa M----, died in 1834, and had issue--Robert, two other sons, and six daughters. Robert S----, born January 1806, in 1825 entered the military service of the East India Company, from which he retired with the rank of Major in 1850, _i.e._ sixteen years after succeeding to the property. He died in April 1876. His two brothers both died unmarried, and of his six sisters, three married, and a fourth, Isabella, entered a nunnery. She there professed under the name of "Frances Helen" in 1850, the year of her brother's return from India, and died February 23, 1880, aged sixty-six. Major S----, by his will dated June 8, 1853, bequeathed B---- to the representatives of his married sister Mary, and on his death was accordingly succeeded by her second (but eldest surviving) son, John, who on succeeding assumed the name of S----. Major S---- was a Protestant, but this John was a Roman Catholic, like his aunt Isabella. His eldest brother died without issue in 1867, but he had a younger brother, married, with issue, and two sisters, Louisa and Mary, whom Major S----, by a codicil of December 14, 1868, carefully excluded from all benefit under his will. The register of the parish of L----, in which B---- House is situated, mentions under the date July 14, 1873, the death of Sarah N----, housekeeper of B---- House (single), aged twenty-seven years, daughter of John N----, farmer, and Helen R----. (In Scottish legal documents married women are described by their maiden name.) It is said that her last illness was very short, lasting only three days. Mrs. S---- had the great charity to attend her on her deathbed. It is mentioned in the register, that the official intimation of Sarah N----'s death was given, not by her parents nor by Major S----, but by her uncle, Neil N----. Major S---- seems to have been somewhat eccentric, and was very fond of dogs, of which he kept a considerable number. He had very strong views upon psychical subjects. He was a believer in spirit-return, and many witnesses have attested that he frequently spoke of his own return after death. Among these psychic beliefs were two relating to animals; and as they are of a kind not very commonly discussed even among spiritualists, and enter, to some extent, into the following narrative, it is convenient here to state them at length. It is very commonly held that the soul or living personality of man, which will survive the change called by us "death," is capable of entering living bodies and making use of their organs. The form in which this belief is most commonly met with, is that of the alleged inspiration of trance mediums by the souls of the dead. Such a case is that of Mrs. Piper, said to have been animated by the soul of Dr. Phinuit and other personalities now disincarnated. It has naturally been argued that if it is possible for the disembodied spirit to occupy and animate the body of a human being, it would, _a fortiori_, be easy for it to do the same with the body of a beast, where the resistance of will would presumably be less. This idea, coupled with the belief that the soul can be separated from the body during life, so producing a kind of temporary death, while leaving the body in such a state that it is capable of being again inhabited and animated, lies at the bottom of the numerous statements as to sorcerers and sorceresses changing themselves into hares, wolves, or cats, which are to be found in the records of witch trials. That this was possible, at least after death, was evidently a strong belief upon the part of Major S----. We are informed that he frequently intimated his intention of entering the body of a particular black spaniel which he possessed, and so strong a belief was attached to his words, that after his death all his dogs, including the spaniel in question, were shot, apparently in order to render impossible any such action upon his part. The policy of the measure adopted was short-sighted. If the Major had thoroughly succeeded in animating the body of the living spaniel, the physical resources at his disposal would have been too limited to have enabled him to give much trouble. As it is, a series of witnesses attest apparitions of this spaniel, and of at least one other dog, which may naturally be regarded as much more disturbing. The second point is possibly the same as the last, but it appears to be more probably based upon the belief held by Major S----, in common with a large number of those who have made a serious study of apparitions--and certainly a large number of the members of the S.P.R.--that such apparitions are really hallucinations or false impressions upon the senses, created, so far as originated by any external cause, by other minds either in the body or out of the body, which are themselves invisible in the ordinary and physical sense of the term, and really acting through some means at present very imperfectly known. Such an opinion of course reserves the question of the possible action of unseen forces upon what is commonly called matter involved in 'spirit'-photography, materialisation, levitation, the passage of matter through matter, and other forms of _apport_, although such a distinction, if logically carried out, becomes somewhat tenuous in face of the generally accepted fact that all mental processes are accompanied by physical processes in the brain. In the following pages will be found instances of the phenomenon of the apparent removal of bed-clothing, which raise a question as to the propriety of regarding as exhaustive an explanation based solely upon the hypothesis of subjective hallucination which otherwise would appear to be generally applicable. It would stand to reason that if such an intelligence can produce an hallucination of the appearance of the human figure, it would be at least equally easy for it to produce an hallucination of the appearance of a beast. A belief to this effect seems to be the explanation of the fact mentioned in a letter to _The Times_ of June 10, 1897, by Dr. Menzies, who refers to Major S---- as "an old and dear friend." He writes, "I have no doubt that he created much scandal by saying to his gardener that he had better take care to keep up the garden properly, for when he was gone his soul would go into a mole and haunt the garden and him too." This theory of the possibility of producing by mental force the hallucination audible or visual of a beast, may also be the explanation, not only of the apparition of the large dog which has been seen, as well as that of a spaniel, but also of the phenomenon, attested by several witnesses, of their having heard the sound as of a large dog throwing itself from the outside against the lower part of their doors. Major S---- died, as already stated, in 1876, and was buried beside Sarah N---- and, it is said, an old Indian manservant. The grave is in the middle of the parish churchyard. No monument marks their resting-place, but a high enclosure, which surrounds it, is a prominent object. The whole of his dogs, fourteen in number, including the spaniel already mentioned, were killed after his death. * * * * * The S.P.R. some years ago published a census of hallucinations based upon the interrogation of seventeen thousand persons, who were not only taken casually, but from whom those were excluded whose replies were foreseen. From the analysis of these statistics, it appears that the great majority of these phantasms are figures of people who were living and continue to live, although research seems to point to the fact that their bodies are either always, or very often, in a state of apparent unconsciousness at the moment of the phenomenon. Among the minority, _i.e._ of apparitions of the dead, the frequency seems to be in inverse proportion to the time which has elapsed since death. Those which appear at the moment of death are very frequent, whereas, on the other hand, those of persons who have been very long dead are almost unknown; _e.g._ the apparition seen by Lady Galway a few years ago at Rufford Abbey, where the form represented a person who must have been dead for about three hundred years, belongs to a class of which examples are very few. A haunted house (or any other locality) is merely a place where experience shows that hallucinations are more or less localised, and the only especially interesting question about it is, why the hallucinations should be localised at a particular place, and what causes them there. Such Phantasms of the Living have been discussed in the monumental work of Mr. Myers and the late Mr. E. Gurney. They need be no further remarked upon here, than to observe that the following pages contain at least one example, viz. that of the apparition of the Rev. P. H----. (See p. 119.) It is very difficult to judge of the forces which may act in the conditions of what we are accustomed to call "another world," but a plausible explanation might be found in the Divine Word, "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." The thoughts and affections appear to dwell for a time where they have been already fixed during life, but changes here, including the gradual reunion on the other side, of all those who are loved with those who love them, the advancing dissociation of the mind with things here, and, no doubt, the evolution of a different life under different conditions, seem gradually to efface the ties of earthly memory, connecting the feelings with particular spots on earth. Such thoughts not infrequently include repentance, a desire for the remedy of acts of injustice, and an eagerness for the compassion and sympathetic prayers of those whom we call the living. It is natural, therefore, to suppose that haunting, such as that met with at B----, would be connected with persons who had died within some such period as a century at the outside. Now the number of the members of the S---- family and others, whose thoughts, memories, feelings, and affections may presumably have dwelt largely at B----, and who have died within the last hundred years, is very considerable; but--saving the tradition referred to by Dr. Menzies (see p. 22), only to be dismissed--there seems to have been no idea of the place being haunted before the deaths of Sarah N---- and of Major S----, whereas since that time the peculiar phenomena have been constantly attested. John S----, his successor, was, as stated, the second son of Major S----'s sister Mary, and assumed the name of S---- upon succeeding to the property. He was a Roman Catholic; he was married, and had several children, of whom the eldest son is the present proprietor. One of the younger sons is a Jesuit, but not yet a priest. In January 1895 Mr. S---- went to London on family business, and was there killed by being run over by a cab in the street. It was stated on the authority of three persons, not counting members of his own family, that on the morning on which he left B---- for the last time, while he was talking to the agent in his business-room, there were raps so violent as to interfere with conversation. The earliest written notice of this circumstance, so far as can be discovered, is the following entry in Lord Bute's journal for January 17, 1896:-- "I hear that the morning the late S---- of B---- left home for the last time, spirits came and rapped to him in his room--doubtless to warn him--so that his death was really owing to the cruel superstition which had prevented him allowing them to be communicated with." Lord Bute's informant appears to have been the Rev. Sir David Hunter Blair, as the journal mentions his arrival at Falkland on that day, and none of the other guests in the house were people who were likely to have heard anything about it. Mr. S---- was succeeded by his eldest son, Captain S----, who showed no hesitation in throwing the house into the public market, with its 4400 acres of shooting. The alleged haunting was not mentioned beforehand to the first tenant, as it afterwards was to Colonel Taylor. This tenant was Mr. J.R. H---- of K---- Court, C----, in G----shire, and the following is the account of experiences during his visit, as given by his butler:-- ON THE TRAIL OF A GHOST _To the Editor of "The Times"_ "SIR,--In your issue of the 8th, under the above heading, 'A Correspondent' tries at some length to describe what he calls a most impudent imposture. I having lived at B---- for three months in the autumn of last year as butler to the house, I thought perhaps my experience of the ghost of B---- might be of interest to many of your readers, and as the story has now become public property, I shall not be doing any one an injury by telling what I know of the mystery. "On July 15, 1896, I was sent by Mr. H----, with two maidservants, to take charge of B---- from Mr. S----'s agents. I was there three days before the arrival of any one of the family, and during that time I heard nothing to disturb me in any way; but on the morning after the arrival of two of the family, Master and Miss H----, they came down with long faces, giving accounts of ghostly noises they had heard during the night, but I tried to dissuade them from such nonsense, as I then considered it to be; but on the following two or three nights the same kind of noises were heard by them, and also by the maidservants, who slept in the rooms above, and they all became positively frightened. I heard nothing whatever, though the noises, as they described them, would have been enough to wake any one much farther away than where I slept, for the noises they heard were made immediately over my room. I suggested the hot-water pipes or the twigs of ivy knocking against the windows, but no--nothing would persuade them but that the house was haunted; but as the noises continued to be heard nightly, I suggested that I should sit up alone, and without a light, outside their bedroom doors, where the footsteps and other rustling noises were heard. I think one other member of the family, or two young gentlemen, had arrived at this time, and they had also heard the noises. I told them of my intention to sit up alone, for as one of them had a revolver I did not want to run the risk of being shot for a ghost. However, I took my post on the landing at 11.30 and kept watch, I am certain, until half-past one; then I must have fallen asleep, for about two o'clock Master H----, hearing the knocking as usual, came out of his room to hear if I had seen or heard anything, but found me fast asleep on the floor, which gave him a greater fright than the knocking, for he supposed for the moment that I had been slain by the ghost. "This kind of thing went on nightly, and for three weeks I heard nothing, although nearly every one in the house heard these noises except myself; but my turn had yet to come, although I firmly held the opinion during that time that it was the hot-water pipes, and I only laughed at the others for their absurd nonsense, as I then considered it to be; but my first experience was that of being awakened three successive nights, or rather mornings, at about 3.30. I heard nothing, but seemed to be wide awake in an instant, as though some one had touched me. I would stay awake for some little time and then go to sleep again; but on the fourth night, on being awakened as before, and lying awake for perhaps two minutes, I heard tremendous thumping just outside my door. I jumped out of bed quickly, and opened my door, and called out in a loud voice, 'Who is there?' but got no answer. I ascended the stairs and listened for a few minutes, but heard no further knocking. I then went back to my room, but did not sleep again that morning. "I may mention that my room was the one described by 'A Correspondent' as the butler's room under No. 3, the room where most noises were heard, and the staircase was the service one, and as there is a door at the top, if any one had come there to make the noise I should certainly have heard them beating a retreat. "The same thing happened with variations almost nightly for the succeeding two months that I was there, and every visitor that came to the house was disturbed in the same manner. One gentleman (a colonel) told me he was awakened on several occasions with the feeling that some one was pulling the bedclothes off him; sometimes heavy footsteps were heard, at others like the rustling of a lady's dress; and sometimes groans were heard, but nearly always accompanied with heavy knocking; sometimes the whole house would be aroused. One night I remember five gentlemen meeting at the top of the stairs in their night-suits, some with sticks or pokers, one had a revolver, vowing vengeance on the disturbers of their sleep. During the two months after I first heard the noises I kept watch altogether about twelve times in various parts of the house, mostly unknown to others (at the time), and have heard the noises in the wing as well as other parts. "When watching I always experienced a peculiar sensation a few minutes before hearing any noise. I can only describe it as like suddenly entering an ice-house, and a feeling that some one was present and about to speak to me. On three different nights I was awakened by my bedclothes being pulled off my feet. But the worst night I had at B---- was one night about the second week in September, and I shall never forget it as long as I live. I had been keeping watch with two gentlemen--one a visitor, the other one of the house. We were sitting in room No. 2, and heard the noises that I have described about half-past two. Both gentlemen were very much alarmed; but we searched everywhere, but could not find any trace of the ghost or cause of the noises, although they came this time from an unoccupied room. (I may mention that the noises were never heard in the daytime, as stated by 'A Correspondent,' but always between twelve, midnight, and four in the morning, generally between two and four o'clock.) After a thorough search the two gentlemen went to bed sadder, but not wiser men, for we had discovered nothing. I then went to my room, but not to bed, for I was not satisfied, and decided to continue the watch alone. So I seated myself on the service stairs, close to where the water-pipes passed up the wall, so as to decide once and for all if the sounds came in any way from the water-pipes. "I had not long to wait (about twenty minutes) when the knocking recommenced from the same direction as before, but much louder than before, followed, after a very short interval, by two distinct groans, which certainly made me feel very uncomfortable, for it sounded like some one being stabbed and then falling to the floor. That was enough for me. I went and asked the two gentlemen who had just gone to bed if they had heard anything. One said he had heard five knocks and two groans, the same as I had; while the other (whose room was much nearer to where the sounds came from) said he had heard nothing. I then retired to my bed, but not to sleep, for I had not been in bed three minutes before I experienced the sensation as before, but instead of being followed by knocking, my bedclothes were lifted up and let fall again--first at the foot of my bed, but gradually coming towards my head. I held the clothes around my neck with my hands, but they were gently lifted in spite of my efforts to hold them. I then reached around me with my hand, but could feel nothing. This was immediately followed by my being fanned as though some bird was flying around my head, and I could distinctly hear and feel something breathing on me. I then tried to reach some matches that were on a chair by my bedside, but my hand was held back as if by some invisible power. Then the thing seemed to retire to the foot of my bed. Then I suddenly found the foot of my bed lifted up and carried around towards the window for about three or four feet, then replaced to its former position. All this did not take, I should think, more than two or three minutes, although at the time it seemed hours to me. Just then the clock struck four, and, being tired out with my long night's watching, I fell asleep. This, Mr. Editor, is some of my experiences while at B----. "As to 'A Correspondent's' interviews with local people:-- "As to the old caretaker, she is an old woman, very deaf, and she always occupied a room on the ground floor, where, during the three months that I was there, nothing whatever was heard, as my two footmen slept there, and they did not hear any noises. As to the intelligent gardener, if it is the same one that was there when I was there, he, surely, has not forgotten the night he spent with me in my room; he was nearly frightened out of his wits, and declared he would not spend another night in my room for any money--a fact that the factor or steward and others well know. "There are many other incidents in my experience with the mystery of B----, but I hope this is sufficient for the purpose I intend it--namely, for the truth to be known, for I have no other motive in writing this letter; for I have left the service of the house some months now. But as to your correspondent's statement that some of the house were doing it, it is simply absurd; for in turn they were all away from B---- for a week or fortnight, and still these noises were heard. Another thing; is it possible for any one to keep up a joke like that for three months? or, if any one had been doing it, I should certainly have caught them; and I can assure you that the house were very much annoyed with it, not only for themselves, but for their visitors, for I have sat up all night with some of them, who were afraid to go to their beds: and I think that if 'A Correspondent' had stayed as long in B---- as I did, and had had some of my experiences, he would have a very different tale to tell, although up to my going to B---- I would laugh at any one who told me there were such things as ghosts; and even now I am not quite convinced; but of one thing I am certain--that is, that there is something supernatural in the noises and things that I heard and experienced at B----. Thanking you, dear sir, in anticipation of your inserting this letter, I remain your obedient servant, "HAROLD SANDERS. "CHIDCOCK, NEAR BRIDPORT, DORSET." The passage in _The Times_ article is as follows:-- "An intelligent gardener whom I questioned told me that he had kept watch in the house on two separate occasions, abstaining from sleep until daylight appeared at seven o'clock, but without hearing a sound. A caretaker, who had spent months in the house, and who had to keep a stove alight all night, never heard a sound, probably because there was no one to make any." The gardener's evidence on this point will be found on p. 218. Without admitting, for one moment, the theory that a servant's evidence may not be of equal value with that of the so-called educated classes, it was thought desirable, before admitting that of Sanders, to make some inquiries as to his character, intelligence, and capacity for observation. His employer spoke well of him, and Colonel Taylor had the advantage of a personal interview with him, which he thus describes:-- "_July 18th, 1897._--I went to Coventry yesterday, and saw Sanders the butler. He is a slight, dark young man, and, as far as I could judge, quite honest and serious over the B---- affair. He assured me that he had written the letter to _The Times_ without any advice or assistance, and that all he wrote was absolutely true. I gathered from him, indirectly, that before his B---- experience he knew nothing of ghosts, spiritualism, or any occult matter, and does not now. He was much astonished when I told him that the feeling which he describes as like walking into an ice-house was a common one under the circumstances. He said he omitted in his letter many small personal matters, such as the following:-- During the manifestation in his room, when his bed was shifted, and when he felt as if some one was making 'passes' over him, and breathing in his face, he made the sign of the Cross, on which the 'influence' receded from him, but approached again almost at once. After repeating this a few times with the same result, he crossed his arms over his chest, and holding the bedclothes close up to his chin, went to sleep. He was at no time afraid. He said things were more active during the stay of Father 'I.' than at any other time, and that one of the young H----s had seen a veiled lady pass through his room." The following paragraph in the letter of _The Times_ correspondent called forth the subjoined letter from Mr. H---- himself, the tenant of B----:-- "The only mystery in the matter seems to be the mode in which a prosaic and ordinary dwelling was endowed with so evil a reputation. I was assured in London that it had had this reputation for twenty or thirty years. The family lawyer in P---- asserted most positively that there had never been a whisper of such a thing until the house was let for last year's shooting season to a family, whom I may call the H----s. I was told the same thing in equally positive terms by the minister of the parish, a level-headed man from B----shire, who has lived in the place for twenty years. He told me that some of the younger members of the H---- family had indulged in practical jokes, and boasted of them. One of their pranks was to drop or throw a weight upon the floor, and to draw it back by means of a string. Another seems to have been to thump on bedroom doors with a boot-heel, the unmistakable marks of which remain to this day, and were pointed out to me by our hostess. If there are really any noises not referable to ordinary domestic causes, it is not improbable that these practical jokers made a confidant of some one about the estate, who amuses himself by occasionally--it is only occasionally that the more remarkable noises are said to be heard--repeating their tricks. The steward or factor on the estate concurs with the lawyer and the minister in denying that the house had any reputation for being haunted before the advent of the H---- family. Yet he is a Highlander, and not without superstition; for he gave it as his opinion that _if_ there was anything in these noises, they must be due to Black Art. Asked what Black Art might be, he said he could not tell, but he had often heard about it, and had been told that when once set going it would go on without the assistance of its authors. He was quite clear, however that if there is Black Art, it came in with the H---- family." Mr. H----'s rejoinder, which appeared in _The Times_, was dated June 10th:-- _To the Editor of "The Times"_ "SIR,--I must ask you to be good enough to publish, on behalf of the tenant of B----, a few remarks on the article that appeared in your paper of the 8th inst. with the heading 'On the Trail of a Ghost.' The writer of that article finds a very easy solution to the mystery by attacking a private family who happened to be tenants of B---- for a short time, and making them a 'scapegoat' for his argument. I do not quite understand if your correspondent pretends to assert that the place had not the reputation of being haunted previous to my tenancy for three months last year; probably he does not charge me with originating such reports, as he mentions a story of the visit of a Catholic Archbishop to the house to exorcise the ghost. This must have happened some time ago, and proves that the house was then supposed to be haunted. What your correspondent does state as a fact is, that the younger members of my family played practical jokes, which have given rise to Lord Bute's investigations. My object in writing to you is to deny most emphatically this statement. The principal proof that is brought forward to corroborate this slander is, that the doors are marked by the blows struck to produce the noises heard. Surely no one could be frightened after the cause and reason of the noises were once ascertained by the boot-marks! But there were no such marks on the doors when we left B----. Some of our guests were with us until very shortly before my family left, and can testify to this, for the good reason that in the endeavour to localise the extraordinary noises, all doors and other parts of the house were constantly examined up to the very last. When I went to B---- at the beginning of August, my family had already been there a few days, and at once they told me they had found out the house was supposed to be haunted, and that they had heard most unaccountable noises. I had the greatest difficulty to persuade all my people to stay in the place, and after all, we left Scotland about the end of September, two months earlier than usual. I personally did not give any importance to the rumours that B---- House is haunted, and attributed the very remarkable noises heard to the hot-water pipes and the peculiar way in which the house is built. In fact, I have to confess I cannot believe in ghosts, and, consequently, I did my best to persuade everybody that B---- was not haunted, but I am afraid I was not always successful. I hope you will forgive me for taking up so much valuable space in your paper, but I had to do so in self-defence against a false accusation.--Yours faithfully, H----." It is believed that, in consequence of this letter, Mr. H---- was threatened with legal proceedings, which, however, have not yet been initiated. The following is the account given of the same period by Miss "B.," a lady of some position in the literary world:-- "... We arrived there on Wednesday the 25th August, the house being then tenanted by Mr. J.R. H---- of K---- Court, C----, G----shire. The household consisted of Mr. and Mrs. H----, three sons, Miss H----, my sister and I, and two other guests, Colonel A---- and Major B----. "We had rooms in the wing on the ground floor of the house, opening off the main hall, divided from the rest of the house by a long passage, and shut off by a swing-door. Our rooms opened off each other, and the inner room opened off a little sitting-room, which had a door with glass panels leading into the passage. The only other person who slept in that wing of the house was Mr. Willie H----, whose room was exactly opposite the door of our room. "We heard a great deal of discussion about the 'ghost' when we arrived, and so that night my sister made me sleep in the inner room with her. We heard nothing that night. The next night I slept in the outer room, and neither of us heard anything. The third night, my sister being still a little nervous, I slept in the inner room with her. The door of the outer room was locked, the door between the rooms was locked, and there was a wardrobe placed against the door leading into the sitting-room. We both, having taken these precautions, fell sound asleep. "I wakened suddenly in the middle of the night, and noticed how quiet the house was. Then I heard the clock strike two, and a few minutes later there came a crashing, _vibrating_ batter against the door of the outer room. My sister was sleeping very soundly, but she started up in a moment at the noise, wide awake. "'Some one must have done that,' she said; 'such a noise could never have been made by a ghost!' "But neither of us had the courage to go out into the passage! The noise lasted, I should say, for only two or three _seconds_, and ceased as suddenly as it had begun. We lay awake till the light came in, but the house was quite quiet. I may mention, as against the 'supernatural' origin of the sound, that it came against the outer door, did not pass in to the inner one, and avoided the glass-panelled door of the sitting-room, which would certainly have been shivered by the application of force sufficient to produce such noise. Another very curious thing was, that on the nights when it came to our door (_we_ only heard it once, but other visitors heard it often) Willie H---- heard nothing; whereas on the nights when he was disturbed, we heard nothing, yet the rooms were close together. "The following night my sister and Miss H---- and two of her brothers sat up all night in the morning-room, which opened off the main hall. We sat with the door open and in the dark, but neither heard or saw anything; the house was absolutely still. "The next night my sister and I stayed in Miss H----'s room, watching with her. It was on the third storey of the house, and on a line with the specially haunted room, then occupied by Colonel A----. Two of the men sat up downstairs. "After 2.30 Mr. Eustace H---- came and told his sister we need not sit up later, as everything was so quiet, and the noises seldom came after that hour. He went to his room then, but his door was scarcely closed when we all heard a loud knocking at Colonel A----'s door. We ran out, without waiting a moment, into the passage, where the lamps were still burning brightly, but it was absolutely empty and quiet. We heard it several times that night in distant parts of the house, and once we heard a scream, which seemed to come from overhead. We stayed six days in the house after this, but heard nothing more ourselves, though every one else in the house was disturbed nightly." The Major B---- mentioned in the above statement has been good enough to furnish the following note as to his personal impressions:-- "On 22nd August 1896 I arrived at B----, and remained there until the 2nd September. During this period I slept in the room on the first floor, which is at the end of a short corridor running from the top of the back stairs to my room [No. 1]. "Colonel A---- occupied the room next to me [No. 3]. It was a double room, connected by a door, and was situated just at the top of the back stair. "August 24th, about 3.30 A.M., I heard very loud knocking, apparently on Colonel A----'s door, about nine raps in all--three raps quickly, one after the other, then three more the same, and three more the same. It was as if some one was hitting the door with his fist as hard as he could hit. I left my room at once, but could find nothing to account for the noise. It was broad daylight at the time. I heard the same noises on the 28th and 30th August at about the same hour, viz. between 3 and 4 A.M." The following, which adds somewhat to the above, was contained in a private letter written in January 1897 from Major B---- to the Hon. E---- F----:-- "Between two and four in the morning there used to be noises on the door (of Colonel A----'s room), as if a very strong man were hitting the panels as hard as ever he could hit, three times in quick succession--a pause, and then three times again in quick succession, and perhaps another go. It was so loud that I thought it was on the door of his dressing-room, but he said he thought it was on his bedroom door. One theory is, that it was the hot water in the pipes getting cold, which, I am told, would make a loud throbbing noise. I tripped out pretty quick the first time I heard it, but could see nothing. Of course it is broad daylight in Scotland then. "The same banging was, I believe, heard on one of the bedroom doors down the passage, in the wing on the ground floor, and on investigation I found there were hot-water pipes just outside that door as well. There were yarns innumerable while I was there about shrieks and footsteps heard, and bedclothes torn off. But I did not experience these.... I don't think the noises were done by a practical joker, as there were too many people on the alert...." The Hon. E---- F---- wrote to Miss Freer on March 4th:-- "... [Major] B---- is now in London, and I have seen him twice. He says (1) the hot-water pipe theory is not his own, but was suggested by an engineer friend. He should not himself have thought that hot-water pipes could make so big a noise. Besides, Colonel A---- described the noise as a banging either against the door itself, or against the door of the wardrobe inside the room.... (2) He, B----, heard the noise himself several times and bolted out into the passage at once, but saw nothing. The noise sounded like a very loud banging at A----'s door.... (3) He confirms the story about A---- being unable to sleep, and says he used to go to sleep on the moor in consequence." During Colonel Taylor's tenancy similar noises were heard, both when the water was totally cut off and when, from some defect in the apparatus, it never reached a high temperature. The Colonel A---- referred to, corroborates this account, as follows, in a letter to Major B----: "MY DEAR B----, You write asking me about B---- House and its spook. Well, I never _saw_ anything, and what I heard was what you heard, a terrific banging at one's bedroom door, generally about from 2 to 3 A.M., about two nights out of three. Of course there were other yarns of things heard, &c., but I personally never heard or experienced anything else than this banging at the door, which I never could account for...." Before passing from the subject of Colonel A----, it is as well to mention that after leaving B---- he went to stay at another country house, and the butler there spoke to him of the haunting of B----, where he himself was a servant some years before. This butler was asked for further information, but sent only the following reply:-- "Your note to hand regarding B----. I am afraid what I saw or heard would be of little value to your book, therefore I would rather say nothing." It will be observed that, so far from denying the facts, he admits that he saw and heard certain things, which he refuses to describe; but as this evidence is circumstantial rather than direct, it is inserted here rather than in the place to which, chronologically, it would, if fuller, properly have belonged. Mr. and Mrs. "G." were also guests at B---- during the occupation of the H----s. Mrs. "G." published an account of her experiences in a magazine article, of course with fictitious names; but she affirms that she has in no sense "written up" the story, which, indeed, is entirely corroborated by other evidence:-- "_October 9th, 1896._--Some friends of mine took the place this year for the shooting, and, relying on the glowing description they had received, took it on trust, and in July last took possession of it without having previously seen it. For a few days all went well; the family established themselves in the old part of the house, leaving a new wing for their guests. The haunted room (for so I may justly call it) was inhabited by two or three persons in succession, who were so alarmed and disturbed by the violent knockings, shrieks, and groans which they heard every night, and which were also heard by many others along the same corridor, that they refused to sleep there after the first few nights. Those who serve under her Majesty's colours are proverbially brave; they will gladly die for their country, with sword in hand and face to the foe. For this reason a distinguished officer [Colonel A----, above quoted] was the next occupant of the haunted chamber, and was told nothing of its antecedents. The morning after his arrival he came down refreshed, and keen for the day's sport. I may here mention, no one is ever disturbed the first night of their stay. During the succeeding nights, however, he was continually roused from his slumbers by the most terrific noises, and want of sleep would cause him to become drowsy when out shooting on the moor, and would tempt him to make a bed of the purple heather and fragrant myrtle. "A friend of mine, a man of great nerve and courage, next inhabited the room, and went through the same experiences. He took every possible means to discover the cause of the sounds, and failed in accounting for them in any way. He said the blows on the door were so violent he often looked, expecting to see it shattered to atoms. Since he left no one has been put into this room, but the noises continue, and are heard throughout the house. Even the dogs cannot be coaxed into this room, and if forced into it, they crouch with marked signs of fear. "The disturbances take place between 12 and 4.30, and never at any other time. A young lady, of by no means timid disposition, and possessed of great presence of mind, has often heard the swing-door pushed open and footsteps coming along the corridor, pausing at the door. She has frequently looked out and seen nothing. The footsteps she has also heard in her room, and going round her bed. Many persons have had the same experiences, and many have heard the wild unearthly shriek which has rung through the house in the stillness of the night. "I will now give my own experience. I arrived with my husband and daughter on September 17, having been duly warned by my friends of the nocturnal disturbances. We were put in rooms adjoining, at the end of the new wing. I kept a light in my room, but the first night all was still. Next night, about 2 A.M., a succession of thundering knocks came from the end of our passage, re-echoing through the house, where it was heard by many others. About half-an-hour afterwards my husband heard a piercing shriek; then all was still, save for the hooting of the owls in the neighbouring trees. When the grey dawn stole in it was welcome; so was the cheery sound of the bagpipes, as the kilted piper took his daily round in the early morning. The next night and succeeding ones we heard loud single knocks at different doors along our passage. The last night but one before we left I was roused from sleep by hearing the clock strike one, and immediately it had ceased six violent blows shook our own door on its hinges, and came with frightful rapidity, followed by deep groans. After this sleep was impossible. The next night, our last in Scotland, my husband and others watched in our passage all night, and though the sounds were again heard in different directions, nothing was to be seen. As I write, at the commencement of October, the house on the lonely hillside is deserted; the tenants have gone southwards; an old caretaker (too deaf to hear the weird sounds which nightly awaken the echoes) is the sole occupant. Even she closes up all before dusk, and retires into her quarters below; though she hears not, her sight is unimpaired, and she perhaps dreads to meet the hunchback figure which is said to glide up the stairs, or the shadowy form of a grey lady who paces with noiseless footfall the lonely corridor, and has been seen to pass through the door of one of the rooms. Within the last two months a man with bronzed complexion and bent figure has been seen by two gentlemen, friends of mine. They both describe him as having come through the door and passed through the room in which they were about three in the morning. I have tried to give a faithful and accurate account of these strange events. I leave it to each and all to form their own opinion on the matter." Some passages in private letters to Miss Freer and Lord Bute written by Mrs. "G.," should be quoted as bearing upon some points in the above:-- "_February 9th._--I am going to ask you if you do go there [B---- House] if you would let me know if you see or hear anything. I am immensely interested in it, as we stayed there in the autumn with some friends who took it, and anything more horribly haunted could not be. I never should have believed it if I had not been there." After the appearance of _The Times_ correspondent's accusation against the H---- family, Mrs. "G." wrote as follows to Lord Bute:-- "_June 10th._--If the noises complained of by nearly all who have stayed at B---- were the result of practical jokes perpetrated by the H----s, how is it that not only were they heard by guests who stayed there years ago, but are admitted by members of the S---- family to have been heard by themselves? Miss Freer also has told me, that the same noises were heard at all hours day and night by herself and her guests for months after the H---- family and their servants had left Scotland. This so completely exonerates them from the absurd charge, that I should hardly have mentioned it, had not Miss Freer seemed quite under the impression that practical jokes had been played during the tenancy of the H----s; and as a proof of this, she told me that the doors, especially of two of the rooms, were marked with nailed boots, and the panels even split through, and this damage was attributed by her to the younger members of the H---- family. I am happy to say I was able to disabuse her mind of this idea, as we were staying at B---- within a few days of their leaving Scotland, and I had most carefully examined the doors especially of the two rooms specified, one of which was our own room. There was not a scratch, nor the smallest mark or indentation; others can also vouch for this fact. The H----s had all left B---- for good at that time, except the eldest son, and Miss Freer agreed with me that whatever damage was done to the doors, must therefore have been done after the H----s left, and before her party came in.... The hot-water pipe theory revived by the writer of the article in _The Times_ is disproved by Miss Freer, who told me that the hot-water apparatus was not used for some time, and that the disturbances continued just the same.... The stories told in connection with B---- were not circulated or started by the H---- family. They were told _to_ them by persons living around B----." In a letter to Miss Freer, dated June 12th, Mrs. "G." writes, in reference to the charge of practical joking:-- "They are the most unlikely family to do such a thing; and besides, if further proof were wanted, the young men of the family were away from B---- when we stayed there ten days, and there was only one night when we did not hear the noises." Miss Freer of course entirely accepts Mrs. "G.'s" statement, and that of Mr. H---- as published in _The Times_. She had been led to her earlier conclusions as to the marks of a boot-heel on the upper panels of the doors by the statements of interested persons. A suggestive point in this connection is the fact, to which Miss "G." has herself testified, that while Mr. and Mrs. "G." were disturbed to the utmost degree, their daughter, who slept in a room communicating with that of her mother, heard nothing whatever; from which it would appear that the noises heard by them were subjective, and that the alleged evidence of the boot-heel, even were it credible, would be, in fact, irrelevant. The mention of the hallucinatory nature of such phenomena suggests attention to the intellectual acumen displayed by _The Times_ correspondent in saying that "Lord Bute ought to have employed a couple of intelligent detectives" for the purpose of catching subjective hallucinations. On the same principle, he ought to offer to his learned friend, Sir James Crichton-Browne, well known as an alienist, some advice as to the best mode of securing morbid hallucinations in strait-waistcoats. Is he prepared to propose to take photographs of a dream, to put thoughts under lock and key, or to advocate the supply of hot and cold water on every floor of a castle in the air? One of the guests at B---- during Colonel Taylor's tenancy wrote after his return to London to Miss Freer as follows:-- "_March 24th._--I went to call the other day on the 'G.'s' who chanced to be still in town.... I begin chronologically, and give you what I was told in all seriousness.... The H----s knew nothing about any stories of haunting when they took the place, and Miss H---- and one of the sons went up, most innocently, to prepare for the arrival of the others. As soon as they entered it the son said to his sister that he couldn't explain why, but he had a conviction that the house was haunted. That night, however, nothing happened. But the second night the bangings began. An old Spanish nurse was in the haunted room, and was greatly disturbed by the noise upon her door, which seemed as if it were going to be burst open. She didn't seem to be alarmed in the least however, and later took steps to secure its remaining shut by stuffing a towel under the chink (why this should secure it I rather fail to see, still that was her view). Apparently the ghost resented this, and one night did actually burst the door open, with such violence that the towel was precipitated into the middle of the room. The longer they stayed in the house, the worse things got. The noises were all over the house more or less, and were by no means confined to bangings. Miss H---- slept in room No. 8, where the ghost limped round her bed. She was so alarmed that she fetched her brother in, and he slept on the sofa. The limping began again, and she asked him if he heard anything, and he at once agreed that somebody was walking round the bed. In his own room--I forget which--he twice _saw_ the ghost, once in the shape of an indeterminate mist, once in the shape of a man, who came in by the door and vanished in the wall. Mrs. 'G.'[B] now appears on the scene, and slept in No. 1 (I _think_). She heard only the bangings, which she declares were indescribably loud. They were mostly at the door of the haunted room. Traps were laid to catch unwary jesters; the door, or the surrounding floor, I forget which, was covered with flour, and wires were stretched across the door; and if I had the proper mind of a ghost-story narrator, I should say that the bangings were as bad as ever, and the flour and the wires were found undisturbed. "But as a matter of fact she didn't say that, though doubtless she intended to, but jumped on to something else. Mr. "G.," who was there some weeks after his wife, was put down in the wing--I don't know which room--and had visitations. He heard steps approach down the passage, followed by a heavy body flinging itself against his door. He also heard screams, which seemed to him to recede as though the screamer was passing through the walls. (I couldn't quite understand this effect, but that was how he described it.) Their chaplain, who was put into the haunted room, was also greatly worried, and both he and the Spanish nurse and Colonel A---- all had the sensation that their bedclothes were being pulled off, and they had to hold on to them to prevent their departure. The most interesting part of the story is that Mrs. S---- later admitted to Mrs. "G." that it was quite true the house was supposed to be haunted, that she had lived there for twenty years, and at various times there had been outbreaks of this kind of thing of greater or less duration, but that the outbreaks had not been often enough for them to think it worth while mentioning the fact to incoming tenants. It appears also that the story of the bangings on the table in the daylight on the occasion of the last interview between the late Mr. S---- and the land-steward, came from one of the young S----s. It was also said that one of the young S----s used to sleep in the dressing-room between No. 1 and the haunted room, and used to complain that somebody kept pulling his bedclothes off. "I may add that it is quite clear that the people about the place--some of whom, on my leaving, I vainly tried to draw--have been threatened not to talk about the ghost. There was no mystery about it whatever last year, the station officials being exceedingly loquacious and full of information...." The above are the circumstances which _The Times_ correspondent thus describes:-- "Lord Bute's confidence has been grossly abused by some one. It was represented to him by some one that he was taking the 'most haunted house in Scotland,' a house with an old and established reputation for mysterious if not supernatural disturbances. What he has got is a house with no reputation whatever of that kind, with no history, with nothing germane to his purpose beyond a cloud of baseless rumours produced during the last twelve-month. Who is responsible for the imposture it is not my business to know or to inquire, but that it is an imposture of the most shallow and impudent kind there can be no manner of doubt. I interviewed in P---- a man who has the district at his finger-tips, and was ready to enumerate in order all the shooting properties in the valley. He had never heard until the moment I spoke to him of B---- possessing any reputation, ancient or modern, for being haunted, although he is familiar with the estate, and has slept in the house. It has no local reputation of the kind even now beyond the parish it stands in. The whole thing has been fudged up in London upon the basis of some distorted account of the practical jokes of the H----s." As the writer in question obtained his admission to the house as a guest by Sir James Crichton-Browne's solicitation through Sir William Huggins and Lord Bute, it might naturally have been supposed that the real facts were known to him, at least so far as they were concerned. It appears, however, that he cherished a voluntary ignorance upon the subject, to judge from the phrase, "it is not my business to know or to inquire." Of such a writer, and of such statements, the reader will now form his own opinion; but that the correspondent in question should continue to cling to his journalistic anonymity, is little to be wondered at. Colonel Taylor served in the Bedfordshire Regiment. He was afterwards Professor of Tactics at Sandhurst, and retired in 1894. Possessed of means, leisure, and intelligence, he chose to make the study of psychic subjects his particular occupation. He is one of the seven fundamental members who, in 1895, signed the Articles of Association of the London Spiritualist Alliance, holds office in the Society for Psychical Research, and has rendered very valuable services in investigation of various kinds. Having made the investigation of houses alleged to be haunted his special province, he may be fairly considered to be somewhat of an expert in this matter. It may, or may not, be regarded as a drawback to his usefulness in this direction, that he is so peculiarly insensitive to subjective impressions, that a man who is colour-blind would be almost as useful a witness as to shades of colour as Colonel Taylor upon hallucinations, local or otherwise; but, as will be seen, he is fertile in expedients, experienced in research, and careful and observant of the phenomena experienced by others. Lord Bute, who takes some interest in scientific matters, has been accustomed not infrequently to defray the cost of scientific work which he is unable to undertake himself, and he offered to meet the expense of the lease of B---- if Colonel Taylor would take the house, a proposal which he accepted. This is what _The Times_ correspondent of June 8, 1897, thought proper to describe in the words, "for reasons which are differently stated in London and in Perth, where the agent for the proprietor is to be found, Lord Bute did not take the house in his own name, but in that of Colonel Taylor." It would have been equally true to say of the Coptic texts, published at Lord Bute's expense by Mr. Budge of the British Museum, that Lord Bute wrote and published these books under the name of Budge. Had Colonel Taylor been prevented by circumstances from becoming tenant of B---- House, Sir William Crookes, the present President of the British Association and of the Society for Psychical Research, or Mr. Arthur Smith, Treasurer of the S.P.R., was willing to take the lease. Having thus agreed to Lord Bute's proposal, Colonel Taylor at once proceeded to make himself acquainted with the history of B---- House. He naturally placed himself in communication with the late tenant, assuming that that gentleman would be willing to assist in investigating the phenomena by which his family and guests had been annoyed. But the only information which Mr. H---- seemed disposed to give was an admission that some members of his family had heard noises, and that the house was locally reported to be haunted. However, other sources of information as to the experiences of the H---- establishment were fortunately available. Captain S----'s agents made no scruple about letting the house to the well-known expert. The Edinburgh agents, Messrs. Speedy, indeed mentioned the haunting, and expressed the hope that Colonel Taylor would not make it the subject of complaint, as had been done by the H---- family, and they received the assurance that this was not a score upon which he would give trouble. In regard to the letters of Messrs. R.H. Moncrieff & Co., dated June 12, 1897, which appeared in _The Times_, it can only be said that the impression which they were likely to convey was, that Colonel Taylor was an imaginary being like John Doe or Richard Roe. Their scepticism must have been of recent origin, since none was manifested on receiving his rent. Their position is in any case unfortunate, since, even if unclouded by doubt as to the Colonel's personality, they appear to wish the public to believe that they seriously thought that one well known as a Spiritualist in England and America, a retired Professor of Military Tactics, with a comfortable house at Cheltenham, a member of the Junior United Service Club in London, a man who neither shoots nor fishes, had been suddenly seized in his mature years with a desire to hire an isolated country house in Perthshire, in the depths of winter, for the purpose of trying his 'prentice hand upon rabbit-shooting on a small scale. Colonel Taylor, who is a widower without a daughter, was at this time much occupied by the illness and death of a near relative, and was unable for the moment to take up residence at B---- House. Lord Bute accordingly expressed a hope that Miss Freer would undertake to conduct the investigation. Mr. Myers also wrote urgently to her, saying, "If you don't get phenomena, probably no one will." She was abroad at the time, but at considerable personal inconvenience consented to return, and on December 26th she wrote to Lord Bute, stating that she could reach Ballechin on February 2nd, and adding-- "I have been reflecting further on the question of the personality of investigators. I think the names you suggest, and some others which occur to me, divide naturally into three classes (assuming, and I think you agree with me, that it does not follow that every one can discover a ghost because it is there, nor that their failure to discover it is any proof that it is not there). (1) Those who have personal experience of phenomena, and may be expected to be susceptible to psychic influences; (2) those who have no personal powers in that line, but are open-minded and sympathetic; and (3) those who are passively open to conviction. A fourth class, those who come to look for evidence against the phenomena, but will accept none for it, should, I think, be left until we have some demonstrable evidence to show.... Mr. Myers proposes himself for April 14-21.... I should suggest the keeping of a diary, in which every one willing to do so should make entries, negative or affirmative." The _Times_ Correspondent further criticised the method of inquiry employed at B----. "Lord Bute's original idea was a good one, but it was never properly carried out. Observing that the S.P.R. had made many investigations in a perfunctory and absurd manner by sending somebody to a haunted house for a couple of nights and then writing an utterly worthless report, he desired in this case a continuous investigation extending over a considerable period. He ought, therefore, to have employed a couple of intelligent detectives for the whole term, and thus secured real continuity. As things are, the only continuity is to be found in the presence--itself not entirely continuous--of the lady just mentioned. But simply because she is a lady, and because she had her duties as hostess to attend to, she is unfit to carry out the actual work of investigating the phenomena in question. Some of her assistants sat up all night, with loaded guns, in a condition of abject fright; others, there is reason to suspect, manufactured phenomena for themselves; and nearly all seem to have begun by assuming supernatural interference, instead of leaving it for the final explanation of whatever might be clearly proved to be otherwise inexplicable." It is hardly necessary to repudiate such a condition of mind on the part of the guests at B----, but it may be well to remark that the writer of this sapient paragraph seems to be under the impression that every result of certain forces at present imperfectly understood is supernatural. The assertion that any one who was in the house during Colonel Taylor's tenancy believed in the possibility of the existence of anything supernatural is, so far as the present editors are aware, a pure fabrication, having no foundation whatever. In their own belief all things which exist, or can exist, are, _ipso facto_, natural, although their nature may not belong to the plane of being in which we are normally accustomed to move. In this connection may be usefully quoted the following passages from Miss Freer's article in _The Nineteenth Century_, August 1897:-- "Some of my friends asked me how I proposed to organise a haunted house research, to which I could only reply that I didn't propose to do anything of the sort. It seemed to me that among several things to be avoided was self-consciousness of any kind, that the natural thing to do was to settle down to a country-house life, make it as pleasant as possible, and await events.... The subject of the 'haunting' was never accentuated, and we always tried to prevent talking it over with new-comers.... As to the guests, for the most part they came on no special principle of selection.... Several of our visitors had more or less special interest in the inquiry, but others merely came for a country-house visit or for sport, and some knew nothing whatever till after their arrival of any special interest alleged to attach to the house.... Analysing our list of guests, I find that there were eleven ladies, twenty-one gentlemen, and _The Times_ Correspondent. Of the gentlemen, three were soldiers, three lawyers, two were men of letters, one an artist, two were in business, four were clergy, one a physician, ... and five, men of leisure." It would be unnecessary to quote all the preliminary correspondence; but the following passages from Lord Bute's letters to Miss Freer help to explain the situation, and the relation of those concerned:-- "_December 20th.--_ ... I am afraid I shall encroach even further upon your kindness. Myers has all the papers, but I fancy you would rather know as little as possible, so as not to be influenced by expectation. It is no case of roughing it. B---- House is, I believe, a luxurious country house, ample, though not too large, in a beautiful neighbourhood...." A letter of December 22nd refers to a suggestion that the phenomena were produced by trickery, a fact which is mentioned to show that the possibility was kept in view from the first. On January 23rd, "Not a day should be lost in beginning the observation, which ought to be continuous. Such a chance has never occurred before, and may never occur again. Orders have been given to get the house ready for immediate occupation." Miss Freer, accompanied by her friend Miss Constance Moore (a daughter of the late Rev. Daniel Moore, Prebendary of St. Paul's and Chaplain, to the Queen), arrived at B---- House on February 3, 1897. FOOTNOTES: [A] Here and in all references to rooms by their numbers, see Frontispiece. [B] See her own account, p. 64. The account here given, as will be seen, is not quite accurate as to the precise rooms. Mrs. "G." slept in the wing. JOURNAL KEPT DURING A VISIT TO B---- HOUSE JOURNAL KEPT DURING A VISIT TO B---- HOUSE _February 3rd, Wednesday._--Constance Moore and I arrived from Edinburgh, with Mac., the maid, a little after 10 P.M., having sent on beforehand the following servants:--Robinson and Mrs. Robinson, butler and cook; Carter and Hannah, two housemaids. I had engaged them on behalf of Colonel Taylor in Edinburgh last evening. They had all good characters, and were well recommended. We told them nothing, of course, of the reputation of the house, and were careful to choose persons of mature age, and not excitable girls. I had seen no plans nor photographs of the house, and merely desired that any rooms should be prepared for us that were near together--_i.e._ bedroom, dressing-room, and maid's room. Mr. C---- [who met us in Edinburgh, and is a lawyer, mentioned hereafter], who had seen plans, asked what orders we had given, and remarked that, as far as he knew, we should secure one quiet night, as the "haunted" part contained, apparently, no dressing-rooms. The house looked very gloomy. It was not cold out of doors, though thick snow lay on the ground. Inside it felt like a vault, having been empty for months. None of the stores ordered had arrived. We had no linen, knives, plate, wine, food, and very little fuel or oil. Candles and bread and milk and a tin of meat had been got for us in the village. We ate and went to bed. The room was so cold that we had to cover our faces, and we had no bed-linen. We had been very busy all day in Edinburgh, and soon fell asleep. _February 4th, Thursday._--I awoke suddenly, just before 3 A.M. Miss Moore, who had been lying awake over two hours, said, "I want you to stay awake and listen." Almost immediately I was startled by a loud clanging sound, which seemed to resound through the house. The mental image it brought to my mind was as of a long metal bar, such as I have seen near iron-foundries, being struck at intervals with a wooden mallet. The noise was distinctly as of metal struck with wood; it seemed to come diagonally across the house. It sounded so loud, though distant, that the idea that any inmate of the house should not hear it seems ludicrous. It was repeated with varying degrees of intensity at frequent intervals during the next two hours, sometimes in single blows, sometimes double, sometimes treble, latterly continuous. We did not get up, though not alarmed. We had been very seriously cautioned as to the possibilities of practical joking; and as we were alone on that floor in a large house, of which we did not even know the geography, we thought it wiser to await developments. We knew the servants' staircase was distant, though not exactly where. About 4.30 we heard voices, apparently in the maid's room, undoubtedly on the same floor. We had for some time heard the housemaids overhead coughing, occasionally speaking, and we thought they had got up and had come down to her room. After five o'clock the noises seemed to have ceased, and Miss Moore fell asleep. About 5.30 I heard them again, apparently more distant. I continued awake, but heard no more. About 8 A.M. the maid brought us some tea. She said she had slept very badly, had worried over our apparent restlessness, as she had heard voices and footsteps and the sound of things dragged about, but that the maids had not been downstairs. We had never risen, and had spoken seldom, and in low tones, and an empty room (the dressing-room) intervened between Mac.'s room and ours. In order, as we supposed, to follow up the noises we, later, in the day moved our rooms to the other side of the house, especially choosing those from which the sounds seemed to proceed--Nos. 6 and 7--leaving Mac., the maid, in No. 3. The whole day has been occupied with exploring the house, sending for food and supplies, trying to thaw the rooms, moving furniture to make things homelike, and trying to arrive at a little comfort. The house will soon be very pleasant, and only needs living in, but it feels like a vault. It is very roomy and very light. Nothing less like the conventional "haunted" house could be conceived. The main body of the house was built in 1806, the wing about 1883, with the apparent object of providing the children of the family with rooms outside the "haunted" area. It is cheerful, sunny, convenient, healthy, and built on a very simple plan, which admits of no dark corners or mysteries of any kind. A pleasanter house to live in I would not desire, but it is constructed for summer rather than for winter use. It has been added to at least twice, and there is much waste space. The original mansion, which was, I understand, upon a different site, was dated 1579; the new wing was built about fourteen years ago, and consists of four rooms and offices, adapted for schoolroom or nursery use. But the older walls are of great thickness. After dusk we sat down to rest, and for the first time read the papers relating to the house,[C] breaking open the envelope in which Mr. Myers had given them to me. I had done this for my own satisfaction, as I wanted, if only for a few hours, to have as unprejudiced a presentation of the place as was possible under the circumstances. Miss Moore had heard some of the rumours about the house in Edinburgh from Mr. MacP---- and Mr. C----, but I had avoided all information as far as I could. We now learnt, to our chagrin, that we had done the wrong thing, and had left rooms alleged to be haunted, and taken two apparently innocent. We, however, consoled ourselves by the reflection that we can offer the others to our guests, and that we are at all events _next_ to No. 8, which has an evil reputation. It is the room in which Sarah N---- died, and in which Miss H---- heard the limping footsteps walking round her bed. As we had been told that the avenue is shunned by the whole neighbourhood after dark, we went out for a stroll up and down about six o'clock. We saw nothing, but our dog Scamp growled at the fir plantation beside the road. Mr. L. F---- [eminent as an electrical engineer], arrived about 10 P.M. We thought it polite to give him a quiet night after so long a journey, and he is sleeping in No. 5. _February 5th, Friday._--Miss Moore and I slept well. We were both desperately tired. Mr. L. F---- awoke suddenly at 2.30. No phenomena. He has an excellent little apparatus, an electric flashlight, which he is able to keep under his pillow and turn on at a second's notice, very convenient for "ghost" hunting--no delay, and no possibility of blowing it out. The maids tell mine that they heard the sounds below them of continuous speaking or reading, and "supposed the young ladies were reading to one another." This is the first occasion on which there has been mention of the sound of continuous reading aloud, which afterwards became extremely familiar. The sound was always that well known to Roman Catholics as that of a priest "saying his office." It may be as well to remind the reader that Clerks in Holy Orders of that Church are, like those of the Anglican, strictly bound to read through the whole of the Daily Service every day, and it is not permitted to do this merely by the eye, the lips must utter the words. In practice some are accustomed to move the lips with hardly any sound, and such, we have ascertained, is the custom of the Rev. P---- H----; others read it absolutely aloud, and will retire to their own rooms or other places, where they may be alone for the purpose. This, we heard, was the invariable practice of the Rev. Mr. "I.," the chaplain of Mr. and Mrs. "G." As a matter of fact, we were sleeping on the other side of the house, and the rooms under the maids' rooms were empty.... In the evening, about six o'clock, we strolled down the avenue again, and Scamp, who never does bark except under strong excitement, again barked and growled at the copse. The Hon. E. F----, a fellow-member of an S.P.R. committee, arrives to-night. Hospitality constrains us to put him in No. 4, which is "not haunted." I asked after the success of the new kitchenmaid, a local importation, who arrived yesterday. I was told she had already gone. The cook told me "she talked all sorts of nonsense about the house, and the things that had happened in it, and had been seen in it, all day; and then at night refused to sleep here, and the butler had to walk home with her at eleven o'clock." The Factor [_anglicé_: bailiff] came this morning, and I fancied a special intention in his manner. He was much annoyed about the kitchenmaid, said such talk was "all havers" [_anglicé_: "drivel"], begged me not to employ her again, and undertook to get another, lending me a girl in his own service meanwhile. I went with him into the wing to get him to see to things there. We have been too busy in getting the rest of the house into order to look after it yet; but I find the pipes are out of order, the cisterns frozen, and the "set-basins" in the three bedrooms and bath-room out of working order. He promised attention, but discouraged the use of the wing. "Had we not room enough without?" and so on. I suggested that, any way, for the sake of the rest of the house it must be aired and thawed, and he insisted that the kitchen fire below did that sufficiently. I cannot help remembering that this is the scene of the phenomena recorded by Miss "B----," as Duncan R----, the factor, is well aware. Also, he was persistent about "keeping out the natives," and their chatter, if I wanted to keep the servants, but did not specify the nature of the chatter, and I asked no questions. _February 6th, Saturday._--No phenomena last night. The house perfectly still. During Colonel Taylor's tenancy a good many experiments of different kinds were made in hypnotism, crystal gazing, and automatic writing. These, however, belong to a class of matter quite different from that of spontaneous phenomena, and are therefore not referred to, with the exception of a single instance of crystal gazing, which, though relating to B----, was made elsewhere, and one or two occasions of automatic writing. This latter method of inquiry displayed all the weakness to which it is usually, and apparently, inherently liable, and is only mentioned here as explaining other matters. Its chief interest was that it supplied a name marked by a certain peculiarity which afterwards became familiar, and that it led to a hypothesis as to at least one of the personalities by whom certain phenomena were professedly caused. In the afternoon an experiment was made with the apparatus known as a _Ouija_ board, and this, as is very often the case, resolved itself, after a time, into automatic writing. There is in the library a portrait of a very handsome woman, to which no name is attached, but which shows the costume of the last century. Her name was asked, and the word _Ishbel_ was given several times. It is not certain whether this word was meant as an answer to the question, or whether, as often happens in such cases, it was intended merely as an announcement of the name of the informant supposed to communicate. The word, as given, possesses the following peculiarity. In the Gaelic language the vowels _e_ and _i_ have the effect of aspirating an _s_ immediately preceding them, in the same way in which they effect the _c_ in Italian, or the _g_ in Spanish, so that, as in Italian _ce_ and _ci_ are pronounced _chay_ and _chee_, so in Gaelic _se_ and _si_ are pronounced _shay_ and _shee_. The name Isabel is written in Gaelic _Iseabal_, but the _e_ is absorbed in its effect upon the _s_ (like the _i_ in the Italian _cìo_) and the first _a_ is so slurred as to be almost inaudible, so that the word is pronounced "Ish-bel." It was obvious, therefore, that the intelligence from which the writing proceeded (if such existed) could write in English, and was familiar with the colloquial Gaelic pronunciation of the name, but was unacquainted with the Gaelic orthography. On this occasion also the name "Margaret" was given in its Gaelic form of Marghearad (somewhat similarly misspelt as _Marget_), without any special connection either with the questions asked, or, so far as could be discovered, with anything in the mind of any present, none of whom had interested themselves at that time in the S---- ancestry. In reply to questions as to what could be done that was of use or interest, the writers were told to go at dusk, and in silence, to the glen in the avenue, and this, rightly or wrongly, some of those present identified with what had been called Scamp's Copse. They were, however, perplexed by being told to go "up by the burn," for though Miss Freer and Miss Moore had twice explored the spot, they had not observed the presence of water. The journal continues-- We decided to walk in the avenue, and to explore "Scamp's Copse" before dinner, in spite of the fact that we were expecting Mr. MacP---- [a barrister], Mr. C---- [a solicitor], and Mr. W---- [an accountant] just about the time that we should be absent. Miss Moore took the dog off in the opposite direction, and we walked in silence to the plantation, Mr. L. F----, Mr. F----, and I. It was quite dark, but the snow gleamed so white, that we could see our way to the plantation. We went up among the trees, young firs; the snow was deep and untrodden; and when we got well off the road, we found that a burn comes down the brae side. It is frozen hard, and we found it out only by the shining of the ice. We walked on in silence to the left of the burn, up the little valley, along a small opening between the trees and the railing which encloses them, Mr. L. F---- first, then I, then Mr. F----. In a few minutes I saw what made me stop. The men stopped too, and we all stood leaning over the railings, and looking in silence across the burn to the steep bank opposite. This was white with snow, except to the left, where the boughs of a large oak-tree had protected the ground. Against the snow I saw a slight black figure, a woman, moving slowly up the glen. She stopped, and turned and looked at me. She was dressed as a nun. Her face looked pale. I saw her hand in the folds of her habit. Then she moved on, as it seemed, on a slope too steep for walking. When she came under the tree she disappeared--perhaps because there was no snow to show her outline. Beyond the tree she reappeared for a moment, where there was again a white background, close by the burn. Then I saw no more. I waited, and then, still in silence, we returned to the avenue. I described what I had seen. The others saw nothing. (This did not surprise me, for though both have been for many years concerned in psychical investigation, and have had unusual opportunities, neither has ever had any "experience," so that one may conclude that they are not by temperament likely to experience either subjective phenomena or even thought-transference.) It was proposed that we should ascend the glen in her track on the other side of the burn. It was very difficult walking, the snow very deep, and after two or three efforts to descend the side of the bank we gave it up, and followed to nearly her point of disappearance, keeping above the tree, not below as she had done. We saw no more, and returned to the house, agreeing not to describe what had occurred, merely to say that as the factor (who looks about eighteen stone) is said not to like the avenue at dark, we had been setting him and others a good example. In a letter to Lord Bute under date February 25th, Miss Freer describes this figure with some detail:-- "As you know, these figures do not appear before 6.30 at earliest, therefore there is little light upon their surface. Like other phantasms seen at dark, they show 'by their own light,' _i.e._ they appear to be outlined by a thread of light. It is therefore only when the face appears in profile that one can describe the features, and this is somewhat prevented by the nun's veil. 'Ishbel' appears to me to be slight, and of fair height. I am unable, of course, to see the colour of her hair, but I should describe her as dark. There is an intensity in her gaze which is rare in light-coloured eyes. The face, as I see it, is in mental pain, so that it is perhaps hardly fair to say that it seems lacking in that repose and gentleness that one looks for in the religious life. Her dress presents no peculiarities. The habit is black, with the usual white about the face, and I have thought that when walking she showed a lighter under-dress. She speaks upon rather a high note, with a quality of youth in her voice. Her weeping seemed to me passionate and unrestrained." The appearance of a nun was entirely unexpected, as the name "Ishbel" had been associated rather with the portrait of the beautiful woman in an eighteenth-century dress in the library, and it was she whom the witnesses, had they expected anything at all, would have expected to see. Miss Freer, moreover, the first witness, had regarded the statements of "Ouija" with her habitual scepticism as to induced phenomena, more particularly those of automatic writing, in which, as in dreams, it is almost always difficult to disentangle the operations of the normal from those of the subconscious personality. If the name "Ishbel" were really intended to apply to the nun, it becomes a very curious question who is the person meant. A Robert S---- of B---- married, as has been already mentioned, Isabella H----, who died in 1784, but we know of no reason for supposing that she ever became a nun. The portrait may possibly have represented her, but it shows a much older woman than the phantom so often seen; on the other hand, the dates are not inconsistent, and a considerable distance of time is suggested by certain phrases which occurred in the automatic writing. The person to whom the mind more naturally reverts is Miss Isabella S----, the sister, and apparently the favourite sister, of Major S----. As already mentioned, she professed as a nun under the name of Frances Helen in 1850, and died in 1880, aged sixty-six. She did not, therefore, enter her convent till the age of thirty-five, an age much greater than that shown by the phantom. It is, moreover, interesting to note that this lady's name was Isabella _Margaret_, so that both names, as given automatically, may have really referred to her. In the seventh edition of "Burke's Landed Gentry," 1886, there appears for the first time this entry-- "_IV. Isabella Margaret, a nun, regular Canoness of the Order of the Holy Sepulchre, d. 23 Feb. 1880._" The editors have obtained from the Nunnery, where she lived and died, a photograph, representing the dress of the Community, and a description of herself, which is as follows:-- "She died 23rd February 1880, quickly, of an attack of pneumonia or acute bronchitis. She died a most edifying death, in perfect consciousness, assisted by the Confessor ... and the Community around her, and having received the last Sacraments only a few hours before she expired. As to her appearance, she was short, rather fair, not at all stout, but not extraordinarily thin. "She entered the Community in April 1848, was clothed in May 1849, and professed May 1850. We do not know whether she could speak Gaelic. She was very fond of Scotland, and very particular about the pronunciation of Scotch names. She was a most entertaining companion, being full of natural wit." The dress, which is dignified, is very peculiar and striking, and not the least like the very ordinary nun's attire in which the phantom appeared, while it would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that between the merry old lady of the description and the weeping girl so often seen. There was, however, at least one very peculiar reason, which will be noticed presently, for supposing that this phantom was really intended to represent the late Rev. Mother Frances Helen, and that its inaccuracy was owing to the stupid, and rather melodramatic misconception in the mind which originally imagined it and transferred it to the witnesses at B----. This is our arrangement for to-night:-- Room 1 (where we heard noises). Mr. F----. " 2. Dressing-room communicating with Nos. 1 and 3; doors opened between. " 3. Mr. L. F---- (specially "haunted"). " 4. Mr. MacP----. " 5. Mr. W----. " 6. Dressing-room, Miss Moore. " 7. Myself. " 8. Mr. C----. (Sounds alleged, see evidence.) _N.B._--Nothing is alleged against 4 and 5. _February 7th, Sunday._--Miss Moore was awakened this morning soon after one o'clock by a loud reverberating bang, which seemed close to her bed. She lay awake for a long time afterwards, but the sound was not repeated. The men heard nothing. They report that they went to bed soon after eleven, and very quietly. My maid, who has had to give up her room, slept downstairs last night. She was kept awake nearly all night by noises and footsteps. The wing is not yet fit for use, as all the pipes are frozen, and the only downstairs bedroom was insufficiently aired; so I told her to use that for dressing, and make herself up a bed on one of the sitting-room sofas, and she slept (or rather, lay awake) in the drawing-room. She was not frightened, as she thought all the noises were made by the gentlemen; but they declare they made no noise. I asked her as to the other servants. She says the maids are still very nervous. I spoke to them for the first time about the noises to-day. The butler's wife has heard sounds, but her husband only scoffs. The upper housemaid thinks ghosts the proper thing, and tolerates them along with the high families to which she is accustomed. The under housemaid is very shy, is Highland, and knows little English, and won't talk, but owns to discomfort, and is scoffed at by the other servants, who think it all part of her having been only a "general" till she came here. The kitchenmaid goes home to sleep, but I believe some one fetches her. I have had a girl out of the village to make up the linen, and she, we notice, is careful to go home before dark. This morning we all went to churches of various sorts. When the men came in to tea they reported that they had had a conversation with an outdoor servant, who proved to have been in the service of [Mr. F----'s father] Lord D----, and was consequently the more communicative. I know him, and have found him extremely intelligent. He says that having heard from the H----s' butler (who slept on the dining-room floor, in the room my maid is to occupy to-night) that it was impossible to sleep in a room so noisy, he induced him to allow him to share his room, that they heard much, but they dared not show a light for fear of his admission being discovered (the H----s being much on the alert), and they saw nothing [_cf._ p. 40 for evidence of the H----s' butler]. We did not like to send for him on a Sunday, but decided to have him in on Monday, and test him as to the intensity of the noise. In the evening, while we were all chatting in the drawing-room, Miss Moore came out into the hall, where she had been looking after the dog. In spite of the noise we were all making, she distinctly heard the clang noise upstairs. She had said the same thing, though with less certainty, once before, and we agreed that one night some one must sit up in the hall. (This was afterwards done without result.) _February 8th, Monday._--Last night my maid heard footsteps and the sound of hands fumbling on her door; this she told us when she came in with our early tea. Miss Moore in the early morning, between one and two, heard again the sharp, reverberating bang as before. We speculated at breakfast as to whether the sound could have been made by the men after we had gone upstairs, though they were all sure of having been quite still before midnight. We made them rehearse every sound they had in fact made, but nothing was in the least like it, either in quality or quantity. I had been disturbed about 5.30 A.M. by the sound (which we had not heard hitherto) described by former witnesses as "explosive." I know of nothing quite like it. I have heard the Portsmouth guns when at a place eight miles away; the sound was like that, but did not convey the same impression of distance. I heard it, at intervals, during half-an-hour. Miss Moore is a very light sleeper, but she did not awake. At six I got up and went through my room to the dressing-room door (No. 6), after a sound that seemed especially near. It was so near, that though I thought it quite unlikely under the circumstances, I wanted to satisfy myself that no one was playing jokes on Mr. C----, whose room was close by. The house was deadly still. I could hear the clocks ticking on the stairs. As I stood, the sound came again. It might have been caused by a very heavy fall of snow from a high roof--not sliding, but percussive. Miss Moore had wakened up and heard it too. (_N.B._--We afterwards found that, as the roof is flat, the snow is cleared away daily.) Mr. W----, an utter sceptic, he declares, left early; then we all went for a walk. We spent the whole afternoon making experiments. Miss Moore or my maid or I, as having heard the noises, shut ourselves up in the room whence they were heard, or stood in the right places on hall or staircase. The experimental noises made were as follows:-- 1. Banging with poker or shovel as hard as possible on every part of the big iron stove in the hall; kicking it, hitting it with sticks (as Miss Moore and I persisted that the first noise was as of metal on wood, or _vice versâ_). 2. Trampling and banging in every part of the house, obvious and obscure, in cupboards and cistern holes. 3. (On the hypothesis of tricks from outside.) Beating on outside doors with shovels and pokers and wooden things, on the walls and windows accessible; banging and clattering in outside coal-cellars and in the sunk area round the house. (_N.B._--Beating on the front door handle with a wooden racket, was right in kind, but not nearly enough in degree.) Miss Moore, who was familiar with the noise, did it rather well by going into a coal-cellar (always locked at night, however) outside and throwing big lumps of coal, from a distance, into a big pail, but _it wasn't nearly loud enough_. 4. Finally the men climbed on to the roof, outside, while Miss Moore and I shut ourselves into the proper places. They clattered and walked and stamped and kicked and struck the slates, but _they couldn't make noise enough_. Then we had in the gardener they saw yesterday, and put him in the butler's room, and the four men made hideous rows as before. He was grateful and respectful, but contemptuous. _They couldn't make noise enough._ We went out at dusk, having sent Mr. MacP---- and Mr. C---- to pay a visit (as they had not been told of the brook scene), intending that the same trio as before should go to the copse. Mr. L---- F---- couldn't come, and as Mr. F---- and I went on alone, we met Mr. MacP---- and Mr. C---- returning before they were expected. On the spur of the moment I asked Mr. C---- to come with me, leaving Mr. F---- and Mr. MacP---- in the avenue. The snow had gone, and I saw less distinctly; but I saw the nun again, and an older woman in grey, who talked earnestly with her, she answering at intervals. I could hear no words; the ice was giving, and the burn had begun to murmur. (I tried to persuade myself that the murmur accounted for the voices, but the sounds were entirely distinct, and different in quality and amount.) This older woman in grey afterwards became familiar. The name "Marget" was given to her at first half in fun and simply because this was one of the two names given by Ouija (_cf._ p. 98). She is apparently the grey woman referred to in the paper published by Mrs. G---- (_cf._ p. 64). The fact of voices being heard by two persons, while one alone saw the figures, seems a clear proof that the figures were hallucinatory. It seems probable that the sounds also were hallucinatory, but were what is called in the vocabulary of the S.P.R. the "collective" hallucination of two persons. This seems to render it highly probable that in the case of each the hallucination had a cause external to both, although common to both; moreover, hallucinations are often contagious. _The Times_ correspondent states, that "the lady admitted that the apparition was purely subjective, but in regard to other matters was not willing to suppose that she might be the victim of hallucinations of hearing as well as of sight." On the contrary, as all readers of Miss Freer's published works are aware, she is entirely of opinion that such sights and sounds are pure sense-hallucinations, whatever may be their ultimate origin. We rejoined the others in silence. Then Mr. MacP---- said to Mr. C----, "Did you see anything?" "Nothing; I only heard voices." "What sort of voices?" "Two women. The older voice talked most, almost continuously. I heard a younger voice, a higher one, now and then." _Note by Mr. MacP----._ "I knew previously, though Mr. C---- did not, that Miss Freer had seen something up the burn; and when waiting for her and Mr. C----, Mr. F---- told me the whole story." _February 9th, Tuesday._--Last night we--Miss Moore and I--heard the "explosive" noises about 11.30 P.M., and speculated as to the possibility of their being caused by the wind in the chimney. There was a little wind last night--very little. It is worth mentioning, that ever since we have been here the air has been phenomenally still. One can go outside, as we do frequently, to feed the birds and squirrels without hats and not feel a hair stirred. Even when the snow was on the ground we never felt the cold, owing to the absence of wind, and the thaw has been imperceptible. Snow is still on the hills. I have several times thrown open my bedroom window about dawn for an hour to familiarise myself with the outside noises. There is nothing human within a quarter of a mile. (_N.B._--The others, who are much more likely to be accurate as to distance than I, say the lodges are farther off.) The servants' houses are in a group of buildings on the hill above the house, but are, I believe, all empty. We found, and adopted, a deserted cat, whose condition certainly testified to the nakedness of the land. There are two inhabited lodges far out of hearing. A gardener comes round to the houses about 10 or 10.30 P.M., but we have watched him, and know exactly what sounds he creates. _February 10th, Wednesday._--Mrs. W---- arrived this morning from London; also Miss Langton, who is "sensitive," but wholly inexperienced. In the evening, at 6 P.M., Colonel Taylor arrived. He is in No. 8. Miss Moore and I moved back into No. 1, and moved Mr. F---- into No. 3, the room reported (by the H----s) as specially haunted, where Colonel A---- and Major B---- had slept, and in our time Mr. L---- F----, who left last night. The wing is now ready for habitation, except that the pipes are out of order, and the "set-basins" useless, also the bath. (_N.B._--The fact that the pipes are all out of working order, and not a drop of hot water is to be had except in the kitchen, does away with a theory, which has been rather emphatically put forward, that "it is all the hot-water pipes.") We are anxious to test the wing. Only one story, Miss "B----'s," is connected with it, and if there has been any practical joking anywhere, I personally incline to think that was the occasion. The wing is new, built, they say, in 1883, and the "ghost" showed human intelligence in selection of doors and victims. (After my return to London I had a conversation with Mrs. G----, which convinced me that I was mistaken in supposing that tricks had been played upon Miss "B----." See p. 71.) An old woman in the village asked Miss Moore to-day with interest, "Hoo'll ye be liking B----?" She spoke of the hauntings, and her husband insisted (the Highlander always begins that way) that there were not any, and so on, and the old woman explained that it was just the young gentlemen last year that was having a lark. Later she admitted, "There's nae ghaists at B----, but the old Major" (who died about twenty years ago); "he'd just be saying to Gracie if she didn't do as she was told, that he'd be coming back and belay the decks" (_cf._ p. 136). _P.S._--_Monday 15th._--In the kirkyard to-day at L---- we were shown the Major's grave. It is one of three, inclosed by a rough stone wall. They have no headstones, and seem quite uncared for. One is, we are informed, that of his housekeeper, Sarah N----. The other is said to be that of a black man-servant. Last night we slept as follows:-- Room 1 and 2. Myself and Miss Moore. " 3. Mr. F----. " 4. Miss Langton. " 5. Mrs. W----. " 6 and 7. Empty. " 8. Colonel Taylor. Miss Moore lay awake nearly the whole night. She heard, though in less degree, the old noises; and in the early morning (compare our first night) heard the sound of women's voices talking. When I awoke, about 6 A.M., she told me she had been disturbed, and said she feared that the others had also, as she had heard Mrs. W---- talking in Miss Langton's room. At breakfast Mrs. W---- reported that she had been awakened by knockings, but had never moved. Miss Langton had heard nothing. The Colonel reported that about, or just before, six he had heard footsteps over his head. There is no room over No. 8, which is mostly a built-out bow, and the servants had not moved before 6.30. (If they moved then, it was contrary to their habits!) We heard later that Hannah had gone, about 6.30, "in her stocking-feet, only without her stockings," to ask the time at the cook's door. The Colonel (before our inquiries) had imitated the noise by stamping heavily with striding steps across the library. _February 11th, Thursday._--The Colonel moved down into "Miss B----'s room" in the wing, and Mr. F---- into the room next to him. _February 12th, Friday._--No phenomena. The great business to-day, which we had specially reserved for the Colonel's arrival, was the making of sketches and measurements for the plan of the house. We found no mysteries. The walls are immensely thick, but all the space is accounted for. _February 13th, Saturday._--Miss Moore slept very badly again last night. She heard the noises at intervals between three and five; she was awake before and after. They were loudest and most frequent after four. At 5.30 I was awakened by a loud crash as of something falling very heavily on the floor above. The maids sleep there, but can give no account of any fall. Miss Moore, of course, heard it as, and when, I did. Mrs. W---- reports having heard loud raps. She thinks the noise may have wakened her, but after she was awake enough to get a light and look at her watch (3.40) she heard what she describes as "a double knock." _February 14th, Sunday._--Our first wet day. The weather so far has been perfect. We all got very wet coming from church. In the evening we did various experiments--thought-transference, crystal gazing, &c.--but nothing came of it in regard to the house. _February 15th, Monday._--Mr. F---- left early. We all walked to the Parish Church, and had some talk with the sexton, and I had to listen to long yarns about the Major (see under date February 9th). I was tired, and could not go to the copse. In the evening we played games, and were very lively. Miss Langton came into my room for a few minutes, and was certainly not in any nervous condition, nor did we speak of the hauntings. But this morning (Tuesday) at breakfast she reported having heard a loud crash almost directly after getting to her room. We considered possible causes, but could not discover that any one was moving in the house. The servants had gone to bed some time earlier, and we had put out the lights ourselves in the hall and on the stairs. _February 16th, Tuesday._--I had an experience this morning which may have been purely subjective, but which should be recorded. About 10 A.M. I was writing in the library, face to light, back to fire. Mrs. W---- was in the room, and addressed me once or twice; but I was aware of not being responsive, as I was much occupied. I wrote on, and presently felt a distinct, but gentle, push against my chair. I thought it was the dog and looked down, but he was not there. I went on writing, and in a few minutes felt a push, firm and decided, against myself which moved me on my chair. I thought it was Mrs. W----, who, having spoken and obtained no answer, was reminding me of her presence. I looked backward with an exclamation--the room was empty. She came in directly, and called my attention to the dog, who was gazing intently from the hearthrug at the place where I had expected (before) to see him. As the day began with the above, and I had had a quiet rest, I went to the copse at dusk. The moon was bright, and the twilight lingered. We waited about in the avenue to let it get darker, but it was still far from dark when we made our way up the glen--Miss Moore, Miss Langton, and myself. I saw "Ishbel" and "Marget" in the old spot across the burn. "Ishbel" was on her knees in the attitude of weeping, "Marget" apparently reasoning with her in a low voice, to which "Ishbel" replied very occasionally. I could not hear what was said for the noise of the burn. We waited for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. They had appeared when I had been there perhaps three or four. When we regained the avenue (in silence) Miss Moore asked Miss Langton, "What did you see?" (She had been told nothing, except that the Colonel, who did not know details then, had said in her presence something about "a couple of nuns".) She said, "I saw nothing, but I heard a low talking." Questioned further, she said it seemed close behind. The glen is so narrow, that this might be quite consistent with what I saw and heard. Miss Moore heard a murmuring voice, and is quite certain it was not the burn. She is less suggestible than almost any one I know. The dog ran up while we were there, pointed, and ran straight for the two women. He afterwards left us, and we found him barking in the glen. He is a dog who hardly ever barks. We went up among the trees where he was, and could find no cause. Miss Moore and I moved into No. 8 (dressing-room No. 6). It is a "suspect" room, which I had not tried, and Miss Moore had scarcely slept all the week in No. 1, and was looking so worn out, that I decided to move. _February 17th, Wednesday._--A most glorious day, still, bright, and sunny. Nothing happened till evening. The Colonel, Mrs. W----, Miss Langton, Miss Moore, and I were in the drawing-room after dinner. Some of us, certainly the last four, heard footsteps overhead in No. 1, which is just now disused. I was lying on the sofa, and could not get up quickly: but Mrs. W---- and Miss Langton ran up at once, and found it empty and dark, and no one about. Later, about 10.30, we all five heard the clang noise with which some of us are so familiar. The servants had gone to bed--or so we presumed, as all lights were out, except on the upper floor. It occurred four times. It is of course conceivable they may have made it, but we do not hear it when we know them to be about, and we do hear it when we know them not to be about. The following quotation is from Miss Langton's private diary:-- "On the night of Wednesday, February 17th, I had a curious dream or vision. I seemed to be standing outside the door of No. 4, looking up the corridor to No. 2, when suddenly I saw a figure with his back to the door of No. 2, and quite close to the door which leads to No. 3. His face was quite distinct, and what struck me most was the curious way in which his hair grew on his temples. His eyes were very dark, keen, and deep-set; his face was pale, and with a drawn, haggard expression. He looked about thirty-nine years of age. His hair was dark and thick, and waved back from his forehead, where it was slightly grey. It was a most interesting and clever face, and one that would always, I should think, attract attention. He was dressed in a long black gown like a cassock, only with a short cape, barely reaching to the elbows." A further reference to this vision, which at the time seemed irrelevant, will be found on page 225. _February 18th, Thursday._--This morning's phenomenon is the most incomprehensible I have yet known. I heard the banging sounds after we were in bed last night. Early this morning, about 5.30, I was awakened by them. They continued for nearly an hour. Then another sound began _in_ the room. It might have been made by a very lively kitten jumping and pouncing, or even by a very large bird; there was a fluttering noise too. It was close, exactly opposite the bed. Miss Moore woke up, and we heard it going on till nearly eight o'clock. I drew up the blinds and opened the window wide. I sought all over the room, looking into cupboards and under furniture. We cannot guess at any possible explanation. Further experience of these curious hallucinatory sounds, combined with visual hallucination in the same room, taking also into consideration the interest which our own dogs always displayed in these phenomena, led us to the conclusion that our first deductions had been wrong, and that the sounds were those of a dog gambolling. (The Rev.) Mr. "Q." (an English vicar), arrived. In the evening, at 6.30, Miss Langton and I took him down to the glen. It was a very light evening. I saw the figure of Ishbel, not very distinctly, in conversation with the second figure, which was barely defined. We remained in perfect silence as usual. On regaining the avenue Miss L---- said she had heard voices, and thought she had seen what might be the white parts of the nun's dress. Mr. "Q." said he had seen a light under the big tree. The figures were nearer the tree than usual. Miss Langton went up a second time with the Colonel, and again heard voices. It is worth remarking that Mr. "Q." has, doubtless from some idiosyncrasy, since developed a faculty of seeing lights where other people see phantasms. _February 19th, Friday._--No phenomena last night. We have spent the day in A----, the neighbouring town, where I had a fall and hurt my foot, so that I was obliged to drive home, and could not go to the glen. Miss Langton and Mr. "Q." went down about seven o'clock. Mr. "Q." saw the outline of a figure of which he has written the description. Miss Langton heard the usual voices on the other side of the burn; they seemed to her to be interrupted by a third voice, in deeper tones; and she also heard the footsteps of a man passing behind her, a heavy tread, "not like a gentleman." The following, the account referred to, was contained in a private letter from Mr. "Q." to Lord Bute. The description of Ishbel in the Journal of February 26th, was, it will be observed, of later date, although before Miss Freer had seen the following:-- "_February 19th and 20th, 1897._--I had heard only that Miss Freer had seen two figures by the burn, one of which was that of a nun, the other a woman, before whom, on one occasion, the nun appeared to be kneeling. I had always pictured the nun as standing or kneeling with her back to the spectator. "On February 19th, at about 6.45 P.M., I visited the burn with Miss Langton (_and not Miss Freer_). After looking a little I saw (_a_); the white was very plain, and the head clearly outlined, but the vision was for the fraction of a second. I was conscious of it indistinctly for a few minutes, and there seemed a good deal of movement. Suddenly I was again conscious of the figure as shown in (_b_), full-face, as though gazing at me; again the white part was very distinct, but I could distinguish no features." [Illustration: a] [Illustration: b] _February 20th, Saturday._--This morning we went down to ---- and had a little talk with the old servant who told us stories the other day about the Major, and she repeated the story of his threatened return. The same story was repeated independently this afternoon by [a local tradesman], who opened conversation by inquiring whether we had "seen the Major yet." Miss Moore and I again this morning heard noises in No. 8, more especially those of the pattering footsteps, just after daylight, and a violent jump and scramble, which we thought was our dog, until we found that he was sleeping peacefully as usual on his rug at our feet. In a letter to Lord Bute, dated February 21, 1897, Mr "Q." gives the following account:-- "On February 20th, at about 6.45 P.M., I visited the burn with Miss Freer and Miss Langton. I was very briefly conscious of the figure (_a_) on the bank of the burn, but saw no more till Miss Freer pointed to the hollow of a large tree, when I again saw (_b_). On each occasion of seeing (_b_) a curious sensation was noticeable, and I felt I was being looked at. On speaking afterwards to Miss Freer, I found her vision of the nun _under the tree_ to be the same as mine at (_b_), _i.e._ full face, as indeed Miss Freer had seen it on previous occasions. This is the second sketch I have drawn of the full face (_b_). The first I showed to Miss Freer, remarking to her, 'I have made the figure _too broad_' (being unaccustomed to drawing). 'Yes,' said Miss Freer, 'for the nun is very slight.'" It was seen at the same moment also by Miss Freer and Miss Langton. _February 21st, Sunday._--Again this morning we heard noises of pattering in No. 8, and Scamp got up and sat apparently watching something invisible to us, turning his head slowly as if following the movements of some person or thing across the room from west to east. During the night Miss Moore had heard footsteps crossing the room, as of an old or invalid man shuffling in slippers. We both heard a bang at the side of the room about 6.20, some time before any sounds of moving were heard from the servants above. The noise was muffled in quality, and had no resonance, and seemed to come from behind a small wardrobe on the east wall. The room (No. 7) on that side was unoccupied. [This bang was heard at other times in the same spot. Experiment showed that no noise made in No. 7 was audible in No. 8, not even hammering with a poker on the wall, which is curved at this point.] This morning, on coming out of church, I received a letter from Mr. F----, in which was the following passage:-- "... Miss H----, who slept, I believe, in the room occupied by you when I left, heard sounds of footsteps going round her room, footsteps with the most unmistakable limp in them. Shortly after she heard stories connected with the former owner, who used to go by the name of B----, an aged man [the Major]. She asked if he could be described. 'No,' said her informant; 'the only thing he could remember about him was that he had a most peculiar limp,' and he forthwith gave an exhibition, which tallied exactly with the limp around the bed." In discussing this, Miss Moore and I agreed that, had Miss H---- slept in No. 8 instead of in No. 1, as Mr. F---- supposed, we should have considered these limping sounds as probably identical with those we ourselves had heard. After I had closed my reply to Mr. F----, Miss Moore discovered Miss "B----'s" plan of the house (in the packet of evidence of the H----s' tenancy, see p. 96), which showed that in fact No. 8 _was_ the room referred to. Hence it appears that the room in which Miss H---- heard the footsteps was the same as that in which _we_ heard them. We had been misled by Mr. F---- speaking of "the room you occupied when I left," a mistake on his part, as, though the change had been spoken of, we had not left No. 1. This afternoon Miss Langton experimented with Ouija at Mr. "Q.'s" request. Lord Bute had suggested various test-questions in relation to the phantasm of the nun, to be asked the next time the Ouija board was in operation, and answers to these were attempted at various times, with the usual result of showing the influence, conscious or sub-conscious, of the sitters, almost all statements as to matters not actually known to them being worthless. On this occasion, however, in reply to the question, "How old was Ishbel when she died?" answers were spelt out to the effect that she was still living, and that her age was fifty-nine. This may perhaps be taken as throwing light upon the intended personality of Ishbel, and supplying a possible clue to the identity of the mind of which she seems to be an imaginary creation. Fifty-nine was the age of the late Rev. Mother Frances Helen in the year 1873, when Sarah N---- died. They are not people who are at all likely to have met each other upon "the other side" any more than upon this. It is a generally recognised fact that the conditions which we call "time and space" exist on in the world beyond in a form so very different from those in which they are conceived of by us, that from our point of view they can hardly be said to exist at all. It is natural, therefore, to seek the utterer of this remarkable statement in some person connected with B---- who did not know the late Mother Frances Helen (supposing her to be the person for whom Ishbel was intended), but had heard of her. _February 22nd, Monday._--Mr. "Z----" _came_. The whole matter of the inquiry had been made known to Mr. "Z----," the proprietor of a prominent Scottish newspaper, of course in the strictest confidence, which was carefully made a condition of the admission of any one to the house, a confidence which he most honourably observed. It was arranged that if anything occurred within the observation of himself or his son, the scientific value of which rendered it, in their judgment, desirable to publish a notice of it in _The ----_, the notice should be published under avowedly false names and geographical indications. Mr. "Z----" was unable to come himself, but his son arrived this day. Mr. "Endell" (a Member of the S.P.R.) arrived while we were out, and made a tour of inspection alone of the outside of the house and the ground-floor rooms. He intuitively fixed on the window of No. 3 as that of a "haunted" room, and has since, equally by intuition, diagnosed the drawing-room and library as "creepy," and the dining-room as definitely cheerful. (This coincides with our experience.) My own experiences to-day were confined to ejection from a high waggonette, while waiting at the station for Mr. "Z----," the horse having bolted at the appearance of the train. No phenomena. We are putting Mr. "Z----", at his own request, in No. 3, the "ghost-room." _February 23rd, Tuesday._--Pouring wet. No phenomena. Visit to glen impossible. Mr. and Mrs. R---- (local residents) came to lunch. Though in great pain I was able to see them for a few minutes, and both inquired whether we had had any experience of the reported hauntings, of which, however, they could give us no details. _February 24th, Wednesday._--Mr. "Z----" left early. (_N.B._--No phenomena reported by any one during his visit; he himself slept soundly in the "haunted" room, but does it the justice to acknowledge that he "could sleep through an earthquake.") Miss "N." (the daughter of a landowner of the district) arrived. Mr. Garford (an old friend and excellent observer) came from London. We sleep to-night as follows:-- In the wing, in the two rooms alleged by guests of the H----s to be haunted, the Colonel and Mr. "Endell." No. 1. Mr. Garford. " 3. Mr. "Q." ("ghost-room"; he has just asked to be removed from his former room in the wing). " 4. Miss Langton. " 5. Mrs. W----. " 7. Miss "N." " 8. Miss Moore, myself, and dog. _February 25th, Thursday._--Mr. "Endell" reported this morning having heard a sound he could in no way account for, which seems to us to correspond with the "clanging" noise. We asked how he would imitate it as to volume and quality, and he said that a large iron kettle, about the size of the dinner-table (we are dining eight), boiling violently, so that the lid was constantly "wobbling," might produce it. (_N.B._--Mr. "Endell's" opinion later is that a pavior's crowbar heavily dropped, so as to produce a prolonged reverberation, is a better illustration.) Mr. Garford, who was not told that any sounds might be expected in No. 1, says he was awakened by a violent banging at the door of communication between Nos. 1 and 2 (No. 2 is empty). Mr. "Endell," Mr. "Q.," and Miss Moore went up later in the day to experiment on the door, and found that it would _open_ with the slightest push. Mr. Garford had closed it on going to bed, and found it closed in the morning. He had not been alarmed, and had almost called out to his supposed visitors, before he remembered supernormal possibilities. He described the sound as a muffled bang, and in order to reproduce it to his satisfaction one of the party held a thick rug on the inner side while another hammered on the panels without. Mr. "Q.'s" experiences in No. 3 will be reported by himself. The groans which he heard coming from No. 2 some of our party suggested might have been made in sleep by the occupant of No. 1, but on trying experiments it was found that no sounds of the kind which he could make in his room were audible in No. 3. Mr. "Q." left. Miss Langton went up the glen with Mr. Garford, and was perplexed by seeing the grey figure when looking for the nun; she saw it but dimly, but later in the evening recovered it in the crystal, more clearly and in greater detail. The following is Mr. "Q.'s" account of his experience, written on February 24th and March 4th, in private letters to Lord Bute, but, in order to avoid the possibility of suggestion to others, not contributed at the time to this journal. The Editors have been permitted also to read another account written by Mr. "Q." of this and of his subsequent experience, written immediately after the occasion, which agrees with his letters to Lord Bute in every particular. "_February 24th, 1897._--I slept in room No. 3. I knew it had a 'bad' reputation, also I had heard through Ouija of probable appearances and noises at 3 A.M. and 4.30 A.M. I noted the time of retiring in passing the clock on the staircase, _i.e._ 12.10. "Before going to bed I sat in a chair with my back to a small mahogany cupboard, placed against the wall of the dressing-room, into which my room (No. 3) opens. About 1 A.M. I was much startled at hearing behind me very distinctly a loud groan, coming, apparently, from the dressing-room, in the direction of the mahogany cupboard. The sound was very distinct, and but for the fact of there being no one visible, I should have estimated its origin as _in_ the room, its distinctness being such that, coming from the next room, with the door closed, it would have sounded slightly muffled. So distinct was it that I heard what I can only describe as the throat vibration in the tone. "I tried to ascribe it to the bubbling of the hot-water pipe of a washing basin fixed in the dressing-room, as I supposed, against the wall of the bedroom, but saw next day that the basin in question was fixed against the opposite wall of the dressing-room. [Illustration: A, Cupboard. B, Chair. C, Washing-stand (fixed).] "The sound was a greatly magnified and humanised edition of what I have several times heard in the drawing-room below the dressing-room, and which has been heard by several of the party together." And in a letter dated March 4.--"I went upstairs at 12.10. On shutting the door of my room I experienced a curiously cold sensation. I stood by the fire, which was burning brightly, and shivered to an extent that was quite phenomenal; the fire did not in the least remove the cold shudderings which ran from head to feet. "I threw the feeling off as best I could, but not entirely. I read a little and then prayed. I read the office of compline and my private prayers, and praying according to my custom for all faithful departed, and especially for those who had previously lived in the house or been connected with it. After this I looked at my watch; it was just upon one o'clock, and I sat for a few minutes in the chair by the fire, when I heard the noise described, behind me. "I changed my position and placed the chair with its back to a table and facing the door, the candle on the table, and took a book and read; my shuddering sensations had been worse than ever. Suddenly I looked up, and above the bed, _apparently_ on the wall, I got just a glimpse (like a flash) of a brown wood crucifix: the wall was quite bare, not a picture, nothing to make it explainable by imperfect light or reflection. From that time the sensation of cold and shuddering went away: I don't say immediately, but I was quite conscious of being reassured. "About half-an-hour afterwards all feeling of distress of any sort had gone. I went to bed and to sleep. My own idea now is, that the sound I heard was an inarticulate cry for help, probably by means of prayer. The influence I feel was _bad_, but something overcame it." It is desirable to add, as a question of evidence, for comparison of the dates of this and Miss Freer's subsequent account of the same phenomenon, that a letter from Mr. "Q." in Lord Bute's possession, dated March 16th, begins, "I have no objection to Miss Freer seeing my letter on the subject of the crucifix...." Mr. "Q." also states that his delay in writing to Lord Bute about the crucifix was, that he thought it might be a mental reproduction of one which he sometimes sees in his own home, but that he found on examining the latter that it has a white figure, whereas that of the apparition has the figure of the same brown wood as the cross. In the private account above referred to Mr. "Q" writes, "I found that the crucifix at home _in no way_ resembles what I saw at B----". It will be remarked that this peculiar apparition was seen in the same room by the Rev. P. H---- in August 1892 (see p. 17), and it was again seen on March 6th by Miss Freer, who had not heard at all of his experiences, and only a bare mention, without detail or description, of that of Mr. "Q." A fourth vision in this connection--that of Miss Langton, who had heard of none of the other three, is described under date March 19. _February 26th, Friday._--Nothing happened till I was in the drawing-room in the evening, when I was, as usual since my accident, taking my meal alone. A screen stood between my sofa and the door, so that it was impossible to see who entered. I saw the shadow of a woman on the wall, and supposed it to be a maid come to see after the fire. Next, the figure of an old woman emerged from behind the screen; she was of average height, and stout; she wore a woollen cap, and her dress was that of a superior servant indoors. Supposing her to be some servant's visitor come to have a look at the drawing-room while the party were at dinner, I moved to attract her attention, with no result. She walked a few steps towards the middle of the room, then disappeared. Her countenance was not pleasing, but expressed no personal malevolence; her face may have been coarsely handsome. Her dress was dark, and made in the fashion which was worn in my childhood. When the dog came in later he seemed to sight something from behind the screen and followed it across the room, when he lay down under my couch, instead of on the hearth as usual. He had done the same thing yesterday morning, looking much frightened, and had then taken refuge under Miss Langton's chair. In connection with this it will be seen elsewhere that footsteps were constantly heard in the drawing-room, both at night and in daylight. Mr. Garford, in No. 1, heard last night what seemed like the detonating noise, which he describes as like a wheelbarrow on a hard road, "a sharp, rapidly repeated knocking," at a distance. _February 27th, Saturday._--Colonel C---- and Mr. MacP---- arrived. To-night we sleep as follows:-- No. 1. Mr. Garford. No. 2. Miss Langton. No. 3. Colonel C---- (I had planned for him to go in the wing, but the butler, an old soldier with two medals, seemed to think it due to such a distinguished officer to put him in the haunted room). No. 4. Mr. MacP----. Nos. 5, 7, and 8 as before. The Colonel and Mr. "Endell" unchanged. The glen was visited by Colonel C---- and Mr. MacP----, escorted by Miss Langton. _February 28th, Sunday._--All slept well. I assisted Miss Langton with some Ouija experiments in the presence of, first, Mr. "Endell," then Mr. MacP----, then of Colonel C---- and Miss "N." _March 1st, Monday._--Mr. MacP---- reported at breakfast that he had awakened at 5.45, and almost immediately heard a loud clanging sound in the north-west corner of his room; he was fully awake, struck a light, saw nothing, and looked at his watch. We tried later to reproduce this noise, which he described as resembling a loud blow upon a washhand basin. I shut myself into No. 1, and found this a fair, but too faint, imitation of the sounds Miss Moore and I had heard there. Colonel C---- and Mr. MacP---- left. Miss M---- and the Colonel have to-day had some talk with ---- [who had an intimate knowledge of the S---- family. See under dates Feb. 9th and 20th]. She repeated her former story of the Major's promised "return," especially a statement made to an old woman who worked in the garden, who had told him that at least "he'd no get in there, she'd keep the gate locked," that he "would come in below the deck" (_cf._ p. 114). He was described as a short, broad man, with white hair and beard, "a'ful fond o' dogs (of which he had many), and so noisy with them in the morning, that when he and his housekeeper-body let them out, his voice could be heard on the hill." She also said that on Major S----'s return from India to assume the property he found a tenant in possession, and had built himself a small house beyond the grounds, which he afterwards let with the shooting. In the late Mr. S----'s time this house was used as a retreat during the summer for nuns (a statement which interests us greatly, as affording a possible clue to the apparition). The Major was greatly attached to the place, and had a great dislike to the presence of strangers in it, or to its going out of the old name. The estate, we hear, was much encumbered when he succeeded to it, but he cleared off all debts in a few years, and appears to have lived a somewhat eccentric and recluse life, in the society of his dogs and dependants. This is the first mention of the fact that nuns had ever lived at B----. Miss Freer had not been aware that the object of the Rev. P. H----'s visit in 1892 had been to give what is called a Spiritual Retreat to those who had been occupying the cottage. It is only fair to suggest that the phantasmal nun, to whom the name Ishbel had been given, may really have been the phantasm of one of these visitors, and that the dress of at least some of them was identical with or closely resembled hers, while it was totally unlike that worn by the community to which the late Mother Frances Helen belonged. At the same time, Ishbel's dress was of a kind so very common among nuns, that it would have been that with which she would, most naturally, have been clothed by the imagination of any one unacquainted with the very rare Order to which Mother Frances Helen belonged. To make further investigation into the history of all the Sisters who ever stayed at B---- through the kindness of the late Mr. S---- would have been a task impossible for its vastness, and almost certainly futile through the natural reticence of their communities with regard to any matters likely to occasion haunting. _March 1st (continued), Monday._--I went up the burn for the first time since my accident on Saturday, February 20th. We had had a promise from Ouija on Sunday that if Mr. "Endell" were to visit the copse with me after 6.30 he would be touched on the left shoulder. He was told to go to the farther side of the burn, and to stand under the sapling, which is at some little distance from the spot where the phantasm usually appears. This we accordingly did. I was barely able in the dusk to distinguish the figure from my post on the west bank, but the phantasm appeared very near him, as I could distinguish the white pocket-handkerchief in his breast pocket. I saw her hand approach this, but could not positively say that it touched him. Mr. "Endell" saw nothing, and could not positively say that he felt a touch, though conscious of a sense of sudden chill, and agreed with me that had he certainly felt one, he would probably have considered it the effect of expectation. We stood there for perhaps ten minutes, and he was for a short time conscious of the subjective sensations which he commonly feels in the presence of phenomena. We returned simultaneously to the avenue, where we discussed the occurrence and the possibilities of making it evidential. The only thing we could think of was to send for Miss Langton, and without telling her anything of what we had seen or expected, ascertain whether she saw the phantasm in its usual position (high up on the bank), or a good deal farther to the left, and nearer the burn, as I had done. By the time she arrived it was much darker, but she saw the figure under the tree by the brook, and described it as "kneeling." She has better sight than I, and believed it to be behind Mr. "Endell." I should have judged her to be crouching or stooping in front of him, but judging from comparison of our normal sight, she is much more likely to be accurate than I. Mr. "Endell's" separately recorded account, dated March 5, exactly agrees with this, but adds some additional touches to the latter part. "At Miss Freer's suggestion, I fetched Miss Langton, telling her nothing of what had occurred, but merely that we were trying an experiment, and she was to report what she saw. "I stood again under the sapling. This time I began to shudder almost immediately. It was so dark they told me that they could only see my collar though I was only ten yards from them. "Miss Langton said that thirty seconds after I had taken up my position, the figure appeared behind me a little to my left, and seemed to raise its arm. Miss Freer said it was waiting for me, and touched me as before. "I felt no touch throughout, only shiverings that seemed to coincide with appearances." To-night Miss "N." wishes to sleep in No. 3, and Miss Langton will remain in No. 2; the door of communication can be opened between them. _March 2nd, Tuesday._--This morning I was reading in bed by candlelight from 5.30 to 6 o'clock, and again heard the pattering sound which has become familiar to us in No. 8. Miss Moore was asleep, but happened to awake while the sound was specially distinct, and without speaking signified that she was giving it her attention. Shortly after six we heard the sound of a violent fall about the middle of the west wall, between the fireplace and window. Our first thought was that one of the maids upstairs must have fallen, till we remembered that there was no room above us. We have since inquired, and find that none of them moved till nearly seven o'clock, nor was anything heard either by them or by Mr. Garford, whose room (No. 1) joins our west wall.[D] Miss "N." passed a very disturbed night. She went to bed about twelve o'clock; she is habitually an exceptionally good sleeper, and, moreover, has slept in many rooms alleged to be haunted without the slightest inconvenience, and has never had an "experience" of any sort. She lay awake in discomfort till 3 A.M., and then sought refuge with Miss Langton. Miss "N." left. The following is the record of her impressions:-- "_March 4th._--You ask me to write exactly what I felt in No. 3 when I slept there on March 1st. Well, it is rather difficult to describe! I never felt frightened out of my wits at nothing before, if it _was_ nothing. I certainly saw no shadows or figures, and the only noise I heard was the thud twice, which sounded as if it came from the storey below. If I shut my eyes for a minute I felt as if I was struggling with something invisible (not indigestion, as I never have it!). I was so paralysed that I _dare_ not call out to Miss Langton, and lay awake from twelve to three without moving! In the morning, of course, I felt I had been a fool to be so silly, and I would go and sleep there again to-night if I had the chance." Mrs. B. C---- came. She is an Associate S.P.R., is a Highlander, has been all her life interested in psychical matters, but has had no "experience." Mr. "Endell," Miss Moore, and I sat up in No. 3 till about 2.30 in the dark, except for the firelight, and in silence, except when any one wished to draw the attention of the rest to sounds or sensations. There were no sounds for which, on reflection, we found it impossible to account. Mr. "Endell" suffered, as on previous occasions, from the sensation known as "cold-air," and very visibly shivered, though clearly not in the least nervous. He is keenly interested in psychical inquiry, but has never had any "experience" other than subjective sympathy with the psychic impressions of others, or a consciousness, such as he described on his arrival here, of an atmosphere other than normal. (This last has been of frequent occurrence, and seems to have been always veridical.) The sole experience of any kind on this occasion was my own. Mr. "Endell," by way of reproducing the conditions of former occupants of the room, threw himself on the bed about twenty minutes to 2 A.M. Soon after he was seized by audible and visible shivers. We did not speak till he uttered some forcible ejaculation of complaint, when, looking towards him, I saw a hand holding a brown (probably wooden) crucifix, as by a person standing at the foot of the bed. He immediately said, "Now I'm better," or words to that effect. We persisted in silence till perhaps 2.30, when we agreed to separate, and while we were having some refreshment over the fire, I told Miss Moore and Mr. "Endell" what I had seen. (_Cf._ under date February 25, p. 132.) _March 3rd, Wednesday._--Mrs. W---- left. This afternoon we had a call from Mrs. S---- and her daughter. The Colonel, Miss Moore, and I were in the room. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _March 4th, Thursday._--Mr. "Endell" left. Heavy snowstorm. _March 5th, Friday._--Last night I was in bed and asleep before Miss Moore came in from her dressing-room. She did not light the candle for fear of waking me, but, while sitting by the fire reading, she heard the pattering noise just behind her, in the same place where we have heard it and the fall before, though never till then at night. It only lasted a few minutes, but there was apparently nothing to account for it, though of course she took every possible means to discover its cause. Mrs. B. C---- left to-day. Miss Moore happened to mention at breakfast that the upper housemaid had told her that the maids had twice again on the last two nights heard the sound of monotonous reading, once as late as 2 A.M. The theoretical hour for Mattins is midnight, which, however, is only observed in practice in certain very rigid monasteries; in others it begins at two. But it is easily conceivable that a priest, if wakeful at that time, would select it in preference to another. Mrs. B. C---- at once said that she also had heard precisely that sound each night, and had spoken of it to her maid, and, like the servants, had concluded that Miss Moore was reading to me, although it was as late as twelve o'clock. She had also heard a bang on a door close to her own, but had supposed it was a late comer, possibly one of the gentlemen from the smoking-room, and had not been disturbed. She had been sleeping in No. 1, her maid in No. 2, and none of the gentlemen are on the same floor. Mr. Garford, who is now in the wing, remarked that he too had heard voices as of speaking or reading several times when sleeping in No. 1, but had assumed that they were normal. As a matter of fact, Miss Moore goes straight to her dressing-room on going upstairs, and I am always too tired to read or speak. No two persons sleep in any other room. We tested this by getting Colonel Taylor to shut himself into No. 1 while I, in No. 8, read aloud at the top of my voice, Miss Langton remaining in the room with me. The Colonel could hear no sound less than direct banging on the wall with a poker. The cook has been talking to-day of the various noises heard at night; she is not nervous, nor are the maids, but all speak of voices and bangs for which they cannot account; except the butler, who has heard nothing, but is obviously impressed with his wife's experience last night. Her story is that, not feeling well, she went up to bed early, before the servants' supper, the rest of the household being as usual in the drawing-room. While in bed, before ten o'clock, she distinctly heard the sound of voices talking, apparently below, but not far distant (her room is over No. 7, at present empty). She "wondered if it could be the servants in the servants' hall at supper"--an obvious impossibility, as their room is _not_ underneath, is two storeys away, and has no connection with the upper part of the house. She also heard bangs on the wall, behind her bed and to the side; there was no furniture there to crack, and it was mostly on the _outside_ wall, so she finally became uncomfortable, and buried her head in the clothes to deaden the sound. She "doesn't believe in ghosts," but thinks the house "very queer," and says that far and wide in the country round it is spoken of as "haunted," though no one seems to know of any story, as to the cause, except that, very improbable, about the murder of a priest by the wife of a former proprietor. It appears that a maid engaged in the village refused to sleep in the house, because when in service here once before she had been frightened by bangs at the door of her bedroom (in a room over No. 1); she had also heard the sounds of a rustling silk dress on the back-stairs, and had seen the bedroom door pushed open and a lady come in.... A maid, who came after this one had left, told the cook that she believed there was a story of a "priest murdered somewhere at the Reformation"; she had once been told it by Mrs. S---- in explanation of the noises, but had not heard whether the said murder was in the house or the grounds, and thought Mrs. S---- particularly did not wish the spot known. This maid has only been an occasional help in the house, but has lived for years in the district, and knows the place well by reputation. To-day as we passed through the churchyard, [a resident in the neighbourhood] pointed out the desolate grave of the Major, with the remark that one could hardly be surprised at a man being said to "walk" who was expected to rest in such a place as that. He said that there had been a great deal of talk all over the neighbourhood as to the excitement during the H----s' stay at B----, and seemed to believe that practical joking might account in part for what had occurred. He did not, however, deny that stories had been told long before their coming to the place. This resident is the one as to whom the _Times_ correspondent dogmatically stated, that having lived in the place for twenty years he asserted that there had never been a whisper of the haunting of B---- until the tenancy of the H----s. _March 6th, Saturday_.--Mr. Garford left. The Colonel is to sleep to-night in No. 3, which has not been occupied since Miss "N." left. Mr. C---- arrived. He sleeps, by his own choice, in No. 2. He has had a conversation with the butler, whom he had been instrumental in engaging for us, which began by his asking how he liked his situation? He expressed himself satisfied with everything, but added, "But there's something very queer about the house," and then proceeded to tell his wife's experience. _March 7th, Sunday_.--Mr. C---- has written an account of his experiences last night. Robinson has this morning told him of his first experience! He was awakened by the noise of a heavy body falling in the middle of the room; he awoke his wife, struck a match, and looked at his watch--it was 3.30; no one else had been disturbed. Mr. C----'s account follows:-- "_March 7th, 1897._--It was arranged that Colonel Taylor should occupy No. 3, and that I should sleep in No. 2. I went to bed about twelve, but did not go to sleep at once. "I awoke suddenly with the distinct impression that there was some one in the room. I lay still, and tried to realise what was in the room, but could not do so. There was no idea of movement in my mind, but still I felt convinced that some one was there. The impression seemed gradually to fade out of my mind after about seven or ten minutes, and then I got up and looked at my watch--the time was 4.40 A.M. "I then went back to bed, but did not go to sleep. I heard the clock in the hall strike five. "Shortly after I thought I heard some one moving about in No. 1, which I knew to be unoccupied. I listened, and it seemed to me that some one was moving round three sides of the room and then coming back. The movement went on for about three or four minutes and then stopped, but after a pause of some minutes it began again. I tried to make out footsteps, but could not do so. The movement was that of a heavy body going round the room, and the floor seemed to shake slightly, after the way of old flooring when a heavy man moves about. After going on for some time the movement stopped, and again, after a pause, began again. The movement, whatever it was, occurred four times, with three pauses in between. The durations of the movement and pauses were irregular. After the noise ceased I got up and lit the candle. The time was 5.25, and I read for twenty-five minutes, when I felt sleepy and blew out the candle. I did not, however, go to sleep, and I heard six strike. The day was dawning. The rooks I first heard about 5.35, when I was reading. "About ten minutes after the clock struck six I heard a noise like a light-footed person running downstairs, which seemed to adjoin No. 3, where the Colonel was sleeping, and almost immediately after I heard a loud rapping at the door of No. 1. After a short pause this occurred again, and I jumped out of bed. As I opened the door of my room leading into the passage the rapping sounds occurred again, but less loudly. There was no one in the passage, and I went back to bed, not having quite shut my door. No sooner had I done so than there was a knock at my door, which I thought must be the Colonel coming to speak to me about the rapping at No. 1. I called out 'Come in,' but there was no answer, and I accordingly again went to the door, only to find no one. "I heard the servants begin to move about at 6.30 above me, and as seven struck I heard them going through the house. "The Colonel did not hear anything. "There are no stairs coming down to the bedroom storey where I thought I heard footsteps. "The rapping was not in any way an alarming noise. "On Saturday night 'Ouija' had said that I was not to be disturbed that night, so I was 'not expecting.' It also stated that Nos. 3 and 8 were the rooms that 'the Major' occupied." * * * * * _March 8th, Monday._--Mr. C---- left early. He has promised to write of any experience last night, as he was gone before we were up. Colonel Taylor is still in No. 3; he has heard nothing, but this is perhaps the less evidential, that, although a frequent visitor to haunted houses, he has never had any experience. We are still in No. 8, in which we have had a sufficient number of experiences to make us anxious to distribute responsibility by handing it over to another sensitive at the earliest possibility. Miss Langton has hitherto slept in No. 4, in which she was put on her first arrival, except for the three nights she was in No. 2, with companionship in the adjacent rooms. There seems to be no object in the Colonel remaining in No. 3, as he is unlikely to see or hear anything, and as soon as that side of the house is quite emptied she proposes to go into No. 1, as we are anxious to discover whether her experience will corroborate that of Miss Moore, myself, Mrs. B. C----, Mr. Garford, and the maids, as to the sound of voices. _March 9th, Tuesday._--Mr. C---- writes this morning in regard to Sunday night: "_March 8th._--... Last night I was not so much disturbed, but I awoke at 3.10, and did not sleep after that. I had exactly the same sensation as on the previous night, that whenever I was going to sleep something woke me. At 5.20 I heard three noises very close together, but they were very distant, and sounded from the direction of your room" (No. 8). _March 10th, Wednesday._--I awoke about 5.30, and lay awake reading. I had drawn the blinds up, but kept the candle in as long as it was required. At intervals between twenty minutes to six o'clock and ten minutes past I heard the sounds characteristic of No. 8., viz., footsteps of a man, and pattering of a dog. Miss Moore awoke, and heard the later sounds. About 6.10 we both heard the thud, which seems to occur generally beyond the wardrobe nearer the door. In the afternoon Miss Moore and I called on Mrs. S----. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _March 11th, Thursday._--Very wet day, no phenomena. _March 12th, Friday._--Another wet day. I had had a headache all day, and was unable to join the others in a walk when the rain cleared off, but I went out, alone, about 6.30 to the copse. Standing in my usual place, I saw the nun coming over the hill towards the burn; she stood nearly opposite to me, looking down to the water for a few minutes, and then moved away towards the avenue. I followed as quickly as possible, but when I got to the drive she was still a few yards ahead of me, and I failed to catch her up, though I pursued her down to the lodge, about two hundred yards; she then, passing through the gates, turned to the left, and I lost her in the obscurity of the road, which is there darkened by heavy trees. When I returned to the house I was still in so much pain that I took a sedative draught and went to bed, and to sleep at once. With regard to the above it may be remarked that the way she came led from B---- Cottage, where by the kindness of Mr. S---- some nuns had formerly spent their annual holiday, and the road on which she disappeared was a way which would have led back to it. _March 13th, Saturday._--At ten o'clock last night Miss Moore woke me to take some food. I was still under the influence of the opiate, and did not really rouse, even when she came to bed half-an-hour later. We did not speak till I was aroused by a loud banging noise, when, in answer to my startled exclamation, Miss Moore suggested that it was probably the servants shutting up downstairs, as we were early, and they had very likely not yet gone to bed. I was much annoyed, as I knew they had been cautioned to keep quiet, and even the maid had not been allowed to enter my room. This morning, when Miss Moore went to see the housekeeper, the butler came in and asked if we had heard any noises last night, about a quarter to eleven o'clock, he thought, after every one had gone up to bed; adding, "It was two bangs like a fist on a door, and I said, 'If that isn't Miss Moore or Miss Langton, I'll believe in the noises they all talk about,'--it's just like what the gentlemen told me." His wife had also heard the bangs, but had waited for him to speak to her of them, and the maids on the other side of the house had been roused to come to their door and listen. The footman, who sleeps in the basement, and the Colonel, who was in the smoking-room in the wing till 11.30, heard nothing; but Miss Langton, in No. 4, to whom Miss Moore mentioned the servants' story, had heard noises "between 10.30 and 10.45," but had not been disturbed, thinking, as we had done, that they were probably made by the servants. On inquiry we found that the cook had gone to bed directly after the servants' supper, the two under maids were up by ten o'clock (Miss Moore heard their voices when she came to my room at ten o'clock), and the upper housemaid had gone up a few minutes after the hall clock struck, following Miss Moore up the stairs. The butler had come up directly after, only waiting to put out the hall lamp, and all were in bed before 10.30. We ourselves noticed the striking of the hall clock _after_ we heard the noise--it had gone wrong, and only struck nine instead of eleven o'clock--so there seems little doubt that we all heard the same sound, and all describe it as coming from below. In discussing the occurrence with the butler and his wife, Miss Moore learned that they had lately heard a story [from a local resident] which was new to us. A maid of Mrs. S----, who, though married to the butler, still lived in the house, and performed her duties as usual, was one night coming up the back-stairs with a tray for Mrs. S----, when, on reaching the top, by the door of No. 3, she met the figure of a nun, which so frightened her that she dropped the tray and broke all the plates on it. Mrs. S---- explained it away by saying it was "only ----" (they could not remember her name) "come to pray with her." It was Sunday night, but they knew there was no one there who could in the least account for the appearance. The only explanation offered by the narrator of the story was that "there had been a Miss S----, a nun, who had died." _March 14th, Sunday._--I called on Mrs. S----, and had a long talk with her. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _March 15th, Monday._--Miss Moore and I, both awake at the time, heard a loud, vibrating noise about a quarter to six. Miss Langton in No. 4 heard it also. The Colonel, who sleeps downstairs, heard it as from the hall, and said he also felt the vibration. Except for about three nights he has always slept in the wing, where, during our tenancy, there have been no phenomena. _March 16th, Tuesday._--Miss Moore, Miss Langton, the Colonel, and I, left B----. Miss Moore, Miss Langton, and I returning on March 20th. After leaving B---- Colonel Taylor wrote as follows to Lord Bute:-- _March 19th, 1897._--"I arrived in London yesterday, after having spent five weeks at B---- very pleasantly. I feel sure that there _is_ a ghostly influence pervading the house, but I am a little disappointed at the way in which it manifests itself, for, up to the time I left, the nature of the manifestations was such that, though it is satisfactory to me, it would not be so, I think, to those who do not look at such things from so favourable a position as I do. "I hope a change may yet come, and things take place which one might think would justify people in evacuating and forfeiting their money as the H----s did; certainly nothing of this sort happened while I was there. "It is very interesting to note Miss Freer's experiences, but in regard to those of others who have something to relate, it is perhaps difficult to determine how much these statements should be discounted for error of observation and self-suggestion. I heard many noises in the night during my stay at B----, but they were of much the same sort I have been accustomed to hear at a similar time in other houses. I think that some of our witnesses may have given them undue prominence, under the influence of their own expectancy. The clairvoyant visions of 'Ishbel' in the grounds are not of great evidential value for the scientific world in general, and I think that any amount of 'voices' could be read into the noises of the running stream, near where she is seen, by those who 'wished to hear.' Still, there are some objective noises which cannot be easily accounted for in an ordinary way, and the three almost independent visions of the brown cross are important. "I hope things will improve; in any case, you will have added considerably to psychical research when all has been recorded...." It is difficult perhaps to see why Colonel Taylor should regard the independent visions of the crucifix as of more value than the equally independent and far more numerous hallucinations, audible and visual, of "Ishbel." We have the statements of the failure of several persons who "wished to hear" voices in the sounds of the burn, which was, moreover, frozen and silent when the voices were heard by the first two non-expectant and quite independent witnesses. _March 19th._--A passage in Miss Langton's private journal under this date is as follows:-- "_St. Andrews, March 19th._--I looked into a water-bottle to-night to see if I could see anything of what was happening at B----. I distinctly saw room No. 3, and gradually a figure came into view between the two doors (_i.e._ near the foot of the bed), the figure of a tall woman, dressed in a long clinging robe of grey, and who seemed to be holding something in her hand, against the wall at the foot of the bed. This became more distinct, and I saw that it was a cross of dark brown wood, some 12 inches long (I should say). The figure did not appear to move. I seemed to be standing at the door of No. 3, which opens on to the landing" (_cf._ pp. 17, 132, 142). For the information of those not accustomed to the phenomena of crystal-gazing, it may be as well to remark that it is quite possible that the image had been subconsciously seen by Miss Langton when sleeping in No. 3, as deferred impressions are often externalised for the first time in the crystal. She may equally have received the impression by thought-transference from others. Certainly she had not been informed of earlier experiences. _March 20th, Saturday._--Miss Langton, Miss Moore, and I returned to B---- house. Four guests arrived in time for dinner. Rooms for to-night:-- 1. Miss Moore and I. 2. Miss Langton. 3. Miss "Duff," a lady whose name is familiar to readers of recent records of crystal-gazing and other students of the literature of the Psychical Research Society. 4. Mr. MacP----. 5. Mr. W----. 8. Colonel C----. _March 21st, Sunday._--Last night, about 11.15, after Miss Moore and I were in bed in No. 1, we heard a loud sound from the left-hand side of the fireplace (south-west corner). It might be imitated by the "giving" of a large tin box (_cf._ pp. 173, 179). There was nothing but a footstool and a draped dressing-table there. We called out to Miss Langton, whom we could hear still moving about. She said she had heard the noise, but had made none herself. Her account is as follows:-- "Last night (Sunday, March 21st) we retired to bed early, as Miss Moore was leaving by an early train next morning, and I was going to get up in order to see her off. It was certainly not later than 10.45, when I went to my room, having gone to No. 1 to say good-night to Miss Freer and Miss Moore, who were sleeping that night in that room. Miss 'Duff' was in No. 3, and I was occupying No. 2. I am not at all nervous, and certainly I was not expecting to see anything, as No. 2 is always supposed to be a 'quiet' room. I was some time getting to bed, but I put out my candle at twelve o'clock, and, after noticing that the moon was shining brightly, I got into bed. Contrary to my usual custom I did not fall asleep for some time, and I felt that the room was, in some inexplicable way, not as usual. At last I fell asleep, but not comfortably. I kept waking, and for some time after each awakening I could not get to sleep again. I put this down, however, to the fact that I wanted to waken early the next morning, and was restless in consequence. At last I really fell asleep, but at 4.30 I suddenly awakened with the feeling that I was not alone in the room. I looked round; the room was quite dark; the moon was not shining, but between the bed and the wardrobe there was a figure standing. At first it was very indistinct and misty, but gradually it formed itself into the figure of a woman--a slight, tall woman, with a pale face. She was dressed in long robes, but the upper part was the only part I could see clearly. Round her face and head was a white band, like that worn by a nun, and over her head was what might have been a black hood or small shawl, but in the darkness it was very difficult to distinguish. I could not see what her features were like, but she looked as if she were in trouble, and entreating some one to help her. She stood for some few moments at the foot of my bed looking towards me, and then she made a movement towards the door, but before she reached it she had vanished. I was not at all frightened, as there was nothing at all alarming in her appearance. I cannot write a better description of her, as the vision was so short. The figure was the same as that I had seen at the burn, only very much clearer." Miss "Duff" writes under this date March 21st:--"On my arrival yesterday I was shown to my room (No. 3), which I had selected, with Miss Freer's permission, as one said to have an evil reputation. Perhaps it was natural that a feeling 'as if I were not alone' should come over me, and needless to say there was no _apparent_ cause for this! "As a rule I am a very sound sleeper, nothing ever disturbs me; but last night I was suddenly wide awake, as if roused by something unusual. I sat up quickly in bed, but suddenly remembering where I was, I waited expectantly. Nothing occurred, although I did not get to sleep again for about two hours." _March 22nd, Monday._--Mr. MacP---- was awakened between four and five by heavy footsteps overhead. We made many experiments to account for it, and of course made inquiries among the servants, but could find no cause. We are the more interested that hitherto nothing has been heard by our party in his room, No. 4, though there is a tradition of earlier disturbances there. Mr. MacP---- has furnished the following account of his experience:-- "As usual I went to bed about 12 P.M. I had no desire to be disturbed, and so my room was still No. 4, which I had originally selected as being reputed innocuous, and which, save in one slight instance, I had hitherto found to deserve its reputation. My repeated visits had eliminated any expectancy which may at first have, perhaps, existed. "My bed was alongside the south wall of my room, and parallel to the corridor or passage, my head towards No. 5, and my feet towards No. 3. "As often happened at B----, I awoke from a sound slumber, not by degrees, but in a moment. There was no transition--no half-awakening, but full and complete consciousness all at once. I struck a light, looked at my watch, found it was 4.30, and went to sleep again immediately. I then wakened slowly and gradually, hearing more and more clearly a noise which appeared to me to be the cause of my awakening. The noise was the kind of sound which is produced by a person walking rapidly with one foot longer than the other--_i.e._, it was a succession of beats in rapid sequence, each alternate beat being louder than the one immediately before it. "It appeared to me (1) to be produced outside my room; (2) to be on a higher level; and (3) to be moving in the direction of my bed--_i.e._, going as from No. 5 past No. 4, in which I was, towards No. 3. I at once jumped out of bed, opened my door and looked out. I saw nothing, and the noise stopped. I then struck a light, and found that it was only 4.45. I lay awake till I heard the servants obviously moving about, and then went to sleep again. At breakfast I asked, 'Has anybody ever heard this kind of noise?' reproducing it as well as I could by a series of thumps on the table. 'Oh yes,' was the answer, 'that is what we call the 'limping' or 'scuttering' noise. Of course I had heard the phrases used, but thought they referred to two separate noises. I had also formed quite distinct ideas as to the kind of noises these epithets were intended to describe--both entirely different from the kind of noise I had heard--and I showed what I meant. 'Oh no,' said Miss Freer, 'what you heard is what we have been calling indiscriminately the _limping_ or _scuttering_ noise, and we have not heard the kinds of noise these words suggested to you.' I emphasise this as showing clearly that I cannot have been expecting to hear the particular noise in question. "The next thing was to account for the noise, if possible, and we spent some time experimenting. First of all the servants were interrogated as to whether any of them had been moving about at 4.45. Answer, 'No.' Next we asked who got up first. This was a maid who slept in X, and went into Y to call the kitchenmaid, who slept there. To do so she had, of course, to go through the narrow room which was over part of my bedroom. "This, she said, was a good bit later than 4.45. But we thought it well to make her go from X to Y while I lay down on my bed and listened. We made her walk backwards and forwards, both with her slippers on and also in her stocking soles. I and some of the others who came into my room heard her quite distinctly. But (1) the noise of her steps was in a different place--near my window, and exactly in the line of her progress; (2) it was an entirely different kind of noise. She walked now fast, and now slowly, but both footsteps seemed always of the same weight; and (3), and this, to my mind, was most important, we heard her quite distinctly going from X to Y, and back again from Y to X and could tell in which direction she was moving. Now, the noise which I had heard only went in the one direction, _i.e._, parallel to the maid's outward progress. I did not hear anything going in the other direction. I was entirely wakened by the noise which I had heard, and, as I have said, I continued to listen intently for some considerable time, and yet I heard nothing. "In short, alike from its apparent _locus_, from its quality, and from the direction of its movements, I am convinced that the noise which I heard was not caused by any of the servants moving about upstairs. "Anybody who knows the house will understand that where the noise seemed to me to be was in the neighbourhood of the dome. For all I know, the dome, as somebody suggested, may be a regular sounding-board; but even so, that does not help much towards an explanation. Wherever the noise may have been produced, the question still remains, 'What produced it?' and that we have entirely failed to answer." * * * * * The gist of this account was communicated by Mr. MacP---- to the Hon. E---- F----, who replied as follows on April 19, 1897: "Do you appreciate the fact that your ghost, with the footsteps of alternate lowness and softness, is absolutely correct, and corresponds with Miss H----'s ghost, as I heard it from Mrs. G---- lately in town. Miss H---- slept, I _think_, in No. 4 [this is wrong; _cf._ p. 124], and was wakened by the sound of walking round her bed with a peculiar limp. Much alarmed, she went and called her brother, who came and slept on the sofa (is there a sofa in No. 4?), and shortly afterwards they both heard the same noise again." Mr. MacP----, as already mentioned, did not know that this noise had been heard by any one. Miss "Duff" thus describes her next night: "Having heard nothing unusual all day, I went to bed quite disappointed. However, I was to be again awakened, and this time by a loud _crash_ at my door, which resounded for some time. I lit a candle, but nothing had fallen in my room to account for the sound. "I began to think I might be mistaken as to the direction of the noise, and that it might have been caused by a large piece of coal falling in the fender. I went to look, but there was no coal at all, only the dying embers in the fire. I soon fell asleep again, only to be again awakened by a similar crash (although not so loud), and this time between the washstand and the window. I kept awake till morning, and heard nothing more." [We had carefully concealed from Miss "Duff" the nature of the usual phenomena of this room.] _March 23rd, Tuesday._--Mr. L---- and his friend Captain B---- arrived. The proof of this portion of the Journal was submitted to Mr. L----, who returned it with, _inter alia_, the following note:-- "I do not wish to suppress the fact of my visit to B----, but object to the publication of any details about me or any of my writings." In deference to Mr. L----'s wish, therefore, his contributions to the Journal have been withdrawn, and all further references to him deleted. Captain B---- had no experiences, and by his desire some interesting suggestions made by him as to possible normal causes have been omitted. We are now sleeping as follows:-- 1. Captain B----. 2. Miss Langton. 3. Miss "Duff." 4. Mr. MacP----. 5. Myself. 6. Mr. L----. 7. Colonel C----. Miss "Duff" writes under this date:-- "Last night I sat late by my fire _expecting_, but as nothing seemed to be going to happen I went to bed, and soon to sleep. However, I was to have my most startling experience! I was awakened as if by some one violently shaking my bed (I must mention there was a great wind blowing outside), and at the same time I felt something press heavily upon me. _I struck out!_ rather frightened, but remembering again where I was, refrained from striking a light, in order to see the next development of this weird experience. To my disappointment nothing happened, although sleep was successfully banished till daylight." * * * * * [On March 28th Miss "Duff" wrote to me: "Mr. ---- suggested that I should describe to you more accurately the shaking of my bed, as it was not at all such a vibration as might be caused by a high wind or any ordinary movement occurring in other parts of the House. "The bed seemed to heave in the centre, as if there were some force under it, which raised it in the centre and rocked it violently for a moment and then let it sink again. I should also have added, that on other nights quite as windy this phenomenon did not occur; in fact, no movement I have ever felt has given me quite the same sensation. The highest point on the 'Switchback' is the nearest to it in my experience. I was wide awake at the time, so it was no nightmare."] * * * * * Miss "Duff" thus continues her account of Tuesday, March 23rd:-- "This morning, as I sat in the drawing-room, I heard the low, monotonous voice of some one reading aloud. Knowing that Miss Freer and Miss Langton were writing in the next room, I concluded that Miss Freer must be dictating while Miss Langton wrote for her, although I must say I did not recognise Miss Freer's voice. This went on for about an hour. Soon after Miss Langton came into the drawing-room, and I said, 'Well, you _have_ been busy; I suppose Miss Freer has been dictating to you?' She looked surprised and said, 'No, indeed she hasn't; we have both been writing, and if Miss Freer spoke at all, it was only a few words now and again.'" This low monotonous sound of a human voice I afterwards heard once or twice in Room 3. _March 24th, Wednesday._--Last night I heard a crash as of something falling from the dome into the hall, about twenty minutes to twelve. At breakfast Colonel C---- said he had heard a loud thump on his door at an early hour--before six, when wide awake. Mr. W---- also had had an experience. He heard sounds outside his room, and went to investigate. On returning he found the kitten in his room, but, sceptic as he is, he acknowledged freely that the kitten, a wee thing, could not have produced the sounds he heard. _Copy of letter from_ Mr. W---- _to_ Mr. MacP----. "_March 24th, 1897._-- ... In case it may interest Miss Freer to know what I thought of the noises I heard in No. 1 prior to the kitten incident, the following states my recollections shortly: The first noise was about half-past four, and resembled two small explosions, such as a fire sometimes makes. They followed one another closely, and came from the direction of the fireplace or the south-west corner of the room. I got up and looked at the fire, and it was all but out; but I would not like to swear that the noises did not come from it. "As to the other noise, it occurred about a quarter to six, and was quite loud. It sounded as if one of the large, deer heads on the staircase wall had fallen down and rolled a step or two. I cannot understand how some of the others did not hear the noise, but I heard and saw nothing when I went out of my room to see what it was. "I should add, that in this case, as well as in the former one, I was awake when the noise occurred. If I had heard these noises in any other house I would not have thought of noticing them, but it might be curious to see if they are the same that have been heard in that room already." After breakfast I heard of a great excitement among the servants, and taking Miss Langton with me, to serve as witness and to take notes, I interviewed separately the three concerned, as well as the cook, to whom they had told the story also. It is worth while to mention that I have several times heard the kitchenmaid complained of as lacking in respect for her betters--in scoffing at their reports of phenomena. Only yesterday Mrs. Robinson told me she had not mentioned several things (bell-ringing, a knock at her door, &c.) because it upset her authority in the kitchen to exhibit interest in such things. All the stories were consistent, and no cross-questioning upset the evidence. They were distinctly in earnest. The three maids and a temporary servant, M----, belonging to the district, went up to their rooms about 10.30. The two housemaids sleep together [in Z], Lizzie, the kitchenmaid, separately, in a room adjoining [in Y]. Directly after getting into bed all heard knockings, and they called out between the rooms to each other. Lizzie stayed awake, and looking up towards the ceiling had what sounds like a hypna-gogic hallucination, of a cloud which changed rapidly in colour, shape, and size, and alarmed her greatly. Then she felt her clothes pulled off, but thought this might be accidental, and tucked them in. Then she was sure they were pulled off again, and screamed to the other maids. Neither dared go to her, her screams were so terrifying; but they finally opened the door of communication between the rooms, and Carter went to fetch the temporary assistant from the other end of the corridor, "because she was such a good-living girl" (particular about fasting in Lent, I gather). The three then returned for the kitchenmaid, and all spent the night in the housemaid's room. The upper housemaid went to Miss Langton's room this morning, I hear, much upset and crying, and there can be no doubt of the conviction of all the maids. For the future they wish to occupy one room. The cook, sleeping on the ground floor below No. 3, heard footsteps and knockings, and awoke her husband, but he heard nothing. She diagnosed it as being "about the door of Miss 'Duff's' room (No. 3 above). She thought it was outside of her door, but was not sure. It was just after midnight. Miss "Duff" writes on the same day:-- "Last night I had just got into bed, when I heard footsteps, so, always on the alert for phenomena, I listened and was relieved (? disappointed would be better!) to hear Mr. ---- cough, so I settled down to sleep. A quarter of an hour or twenty minutes later (about twelve o'clock) I again heard steps, but this time they came from the back-stair and shuffled past my room, and then I heard a loud fall against what seemed to me the door of room No. 1, which is practically next door to mine.[E] "I went to listen, but not a sound was to be heard, and I saw no one. It could not have been the gentleman who was occupying that room [Mr. W----], as I heard him (with others) come up a quarter of an hour later and go into his room. Although the fall seemed _against_ the door of No. 1, I must add that the depth and quality of the noise was as if a large body had fallen far away, of which we only, as it were, heard the echo, but that _quite distinctly on_ the door of No. 1." [Miss Langton testifies to being disturbed by the same sounds in No. 2, the dressing-room between Miss "Duff's" room and Mr. W----'s.] Miss "Duff" continues:-- "_March 25th._--Last night I felt my bed shake, as if some one had taken it in both hands, but as there was a high wind, I did not take much notice of this. I have had my bed shaken violently in that room once before, however, when there was no wind at all." Mr. MacP---- and Captain B---- left. The only phenomenon to be noted under this date is the following record by Miss Langton:-- "I heard a loud thump at the door of communication between Nos. 1 and 2 when dressing for dinner, but on going into No. 1 found it quite empty. A curious point about these noises is that the knocks on the door between Nos. 1 and 2 have been audible in this room, No. 2 (in my experience) only when No. 1 is empty, and in No. 1 only when No. 2 is empty." _March 26th, Friday._ . . . . . . . . Miss "Duff" writes on the same day:-- "As I was talking to Miss Langton at the door of her room (No. 2) on my way to dress for dinner, a double bang on the door came from the inside of room No. 1, which was the one Captain B---- had occupied, and where he had heard nothing. At the same moment Miss Langton called out that there had been a bang on the door between her room and No. 1. For a moment I hesitated to go in, but a housemaid came down the corridor at that moment to see what the noise was she had heard, and we investigated together, but to no purpose." Miss Langton writes further under this date:-- "I heard three distinct bangs at the lower part of the door of my room leading into the corridor. I described it to myself as a person coming along the corridor towards No. 2, walking in an unsteady way, and as if he could not see where he was going, and then walking straight against the door of my room and banging his foot against it. Miss 'Duff' this morning acted at our request as I have just described, and the noise she made was an exact reproduction of what I heard last night. The bang occurred at three intervals--at 11.35, 11.45, and 11.50." _March 27th, Saturday._--Mr. ---- and Miss "Duff" left. Miss Langton and I are now alone. Miss "Duff" was undisturbed last night. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . There was very little wind last night, as I happen to know in the following connection. Carter twice over, about 11.30 and again after midnight, heard the sounds of reading, which she imitated to me this morning--like the monotoning of a psalm. She called out to two other maids to listen, and all three heard it. She felt sure it was not the wind or the pipes. Both the gardener and the gamekeeper say it was a very quiet night. _March 28th, Sunday._--As it had been suggested that practical joking or malicious mischief were in question, we were a good deal on the _qui vive_ to-night, being alone. I watched from behind the curtain at an open window from 10.30 P.M. till after midnight, and again from 4.30 A.M. to 6 A.M. The night was windy and there was a good deal of noise, but very different in kind from any of our usual phenomena. We found that there were people moving about till after midnight, but we did not attach much importance to this, as the gardeners may have been to the stoves (the night was frosty), and there is a right-of-way through the grounds. No phenomena. The servants, we find, are alive to the fact that some one prowls about at night. The footman, who sleeps downstairs, says they have tried to frighten him, and things have been thrown at the kitchen windows. I found it out by the fact that I was seized by the butler and footman when I went out "prowling" on Sunday night, fancying I had heard footsteps. They were on the same errand, and caught me in the dark! _March 29th, Monday._--To-day Miss Langton and I have been very busy writing in the library, both silent and occupied. Again and again have we heard footsteps overhead in No. 8, at intervals between ten A.M. and one, and again in the evening between six and seven. No rooms are in use on that side of the house--6, 7, and 8 are all empty. The rooms below are locked up and shuttered. At 11.30 we both heard some one moving about outside on the gravel, but it was too dark a night to see any one. [_Friday, April 2nd_--An unpleasant light has (possibly) been thrown on these movements. We find to-day that some one has killed a sheep in the garden, in a retired spot, taking away the skin and the meat.] _March 30th, Tuesday._--No phenomena, except the sound of steps overhead above the library. For this reason, Miss Langton is going to sleep in No. 8, where the steps occur. Mr. and Mrs. M---- came. [We were particularly glad to welcome Mrs. M---- for other reasons than the pleasure of her society. She is of Spanish origin, and a Roman Catholic, and according to previous evidence, so were other persons upon whom specially interesting phenomena had been bestowed.] Mr. B. S---- and Miss V. S----, brother and sister of the owner, dined with us. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _March 31st, Wednesday._--Mr. and Mrs M---- were put into No. 1. Both complain of a very sleepless night. Miss Langton in No. 8 heard sounds after daylight--footsteps shuffling round the bed, and a knock near the wardrobe. No one is overhead nor in No. 7, the next room. Mrs. M---- spent two hours alone in the drawing-room. She asked me just before lunch what guns those were she had heard. I suggested "The keeper?" and she said, "No, it is like the gun you hear at Edinburgh at one o'clock _a long way off_," which is a good description of the familiar detonating sound (_cf._ under date, February 8). Her own account of the day is as follows:-- "B---- HOUSE. "I arrived here last evening, Tuesday, 30th of March, about six o'clock. It was a nice bright evening, but cold. I was received by Miss Freer, who gave me some tea, and then I was taken to my bedroom by Miss Langton, of whom I asked if my room was haunted. She said it had 'a reputation', but somehow or another it did not seem to impress me much. That night Miss S---- and her brother dined here; they were very pleasant, and talked away hard, and we played card games, such as 'Old Maid' and 'Muggins.' We went to bed feeling quite happy, saying we had never been in such an unghostly house before. The bed was quite comfortable, and we lay talking quite happily, but could not sleep, and were not in the least bit restless. About two o'clock we dozed off, and a few minutes to four A.M. we were both suddenly awoke by a terrific noise, which sounded to me like the lid of the coal-scuttle having caught in a woman's gown. We then lay awake until about 6.30, and in that interval we heard a few noises, what I cannot exactly describe, as they were very ordinary sounds one might hear in any not very solidly built house. We came down to breakfast feeling we had passed a sleepless night, but otherwise quite happy. After breakfast I went into the smoking-room in the new wing, where my husband was writing letters. I sat there a good time, and he was in and out of the room. All the time I heard tramping up above as if the housemaid was doing the room. Not knowing the geography of the house I took it for No. 8. and thought what very noisy servants these were. I then went into the drawing-room to write my own letters, and Miss Freer came and spoke to me there. While she was with me there, I heard a distant cannon, exactly like the one o'clock gun in Edinburgh, and the whole morning a ceaseless chatter, which I put down to Miss Freer and Miss Langton in the room next door (_cf._ under date, March 23rd). _April 1st, Thursday._--This is Mrs. M----'s account of last night. "Last evening we were late for dinner, as Mr. M---- and I had been out to see the nun by the burn, but had seen nothing. The whole evening I had a sort of half consciously disagreeable feeling, and when I went to my room it was some time before I could make up my mind to get into bed. The servants very much annoyed me; they were making such a needless amount of noise in running about the room overhead. [The room overhead was empty. Since their adventure of March 23rd, the servants had slept on the other side of the house.] At last I got into bed, and I may say I hardly slept a wink the whole night. I simply lay in terror, of what I cannot say, but I had the feeling of some very disagreeable sensation in the air, but we did not hear a sound all night from the time we got into bed until we got up next morning at 8.30. "I spent the whole of the morning in the drawing-room writing letters and reading, and from time to time I went up to No. 1 to get books and different things, and each time was a little surprised to find the room empty, as there had been a ceaseless noise of housemaids, and very noisy ones too. I also heard what I had described before as the cannon. After luncheon Miss Freer and Miss Langton and I went out walking, and just as we were coming in to tea we all three heard the cannon, and then I said that is the noise I heard every morning, and sometimes in the evening, in the drawing-room." This afternoon we were having tea in the drawing-room at 4.30, Mrs. M----, Miss Langton, and myself. We heard some one walking overhead in No. 1, a sound we have heard often before, when we knew the room to be empty above. Mrs. M---- remarked that it was just the sound she had heard, again and again, when sitting alone in the drawing-room. It was so exactly the heavy, heelless steps we had heard before, that Miss L---- ran upstairs softly to see if any one was there, but found no one about. Next we heard a loud bang--not of a door--in the hall, and she went out again to ascertain the cause, and met the butler on the same errand. We could find nothing to account for it. It was like the noise before described, of something dropped heavily into the hall from the gallery above. There had been so much trouble of ascertaining whether the noises were caused by doors banging, that since the warmer weather set in, ever since our return on March 20th, in fact, we have had every passage-door opening into the hall and into the gallery upstairs fixed open with wedges. We had scarcely settled to our tea again before we again heard the footsteps overhead, and again Miss Langton went up and found the room empty. She walked across the room, and we heard her do so, but the sound was quite different. She did it noisily on purpose, but though she is very big and tall, she didn't sound heavy enough. Mrs. M---- remarks, on hearing this read over, that the sound was different in character as well as in volume--that the footsteps she (and we) heard were "between a run and a walk." My phrase was, and has always been, "as of the quick, heavy steps of a person whose foot-gear didn't match." We called it, when we first heard it in No. 8, a "shuffling step." After she came down the servants' tea-bell rang, and we at once said, "Now we shall know where they all are." The hall is under the wing, at the other end of the house, and we knew that the room underneath us was empty, and the shutters up, and that all who were in the house were either in the drawing-room or the servants' hall. In a few minutes we again heard the pacing footsteps, up and down, up and down; we heard them at intervals during half-an-hour. We also heard voices as of a man and woman talking. I went to the foot of the stairs, just below the door of No. 1, and heard them plain. Mrs. M---- is not quick of hearing, but she heard them distinctly several times. At 5.20 we heard the maids go up the stone staircase, coming away from their tea, and though we listened till after six, the other sounds did not occur again. _April 2nd, Friday._ [Mr. M---- left early, Mrs. M---- remaining till a later train.] At 11.15 Miss Langton and I were in the library at two different tables writing. The room was silent. Suddenly we heard a heavy blow struck on a third table, ten feet at least away from either of us. I instantly fetched Mrs. M----, and in her hearing Miss Langton imitated the sound on the same table, by hitting with her fist as heavily as possible. There is a drawer in the table, empty, which added to the vibration, and also pendent brass handles. I tried, but could not make noise enough. We kept watch in the room till lunch, Mrs. M---- keeping guard when we were obliged to leave, but nothing happened till, when we were sitting at luncheon (there is only a single door and a curtain between the two rooms), we heard it again as above described. One of the informants, who described the scene which occurred the day the late Mr. S---- left this house for the last time, said "a very heavy blow like a man's fist came on the table between them." This is the same room. The same sound occurred again while we were at lunch in the dining-room just now. The first time Miss Langton rushed to the library and found a housemaid there at the stove, so we agreed it should not count. It occurred again in about five minutes, and again she went into the room (which is next the dining-room) and found it empty and no one in the hall. Mrs. M----, whom I asked to locate the sound, pointed to just that part of the wall by the table upon which the knock had struck. Signed (as correct) by Mrs. M---- and Miss Langton. (I have since asked the housemaid if she heard anything, and she says no, she was making too much noise herself. We all heard it distinctly, above the clatter of the fire-irons.) On April 9th Mr. M---- sent me the following account of his impressions:-- "... You ask me to describe the noises I heard while staying with you at B----. I should say, in the first place, that I am a good, but light, sleeper; I seldom lie awake, am generally asleep five minutes after going to bed, but wake easily, and awake at once to full consciousness. I am not the least nervous, and have often slept in so-called 'haunted' rooms [Mr. M---- has had very exceptional opportunities in this direction]; and while I certainly cannot say that I altogether disbelieve in what are commonly called 'ghosts,' I do believe that in nine cases out of ten, noises, and even appearances, may, if investigated, be traced to perfectly normal causes. "We spent three nights at B----: March 30th and 31st, and April 1st. The first two nights room No. 1 was our bedroom, and the third night room No. 8. Room No. 2 was my dressing-room. "When talking to you and Miss Langton at the top of the stairs, just before going to bed, we all of us heard noises--rappings--coming apparently from No. 2. The noises were very undoubted, but as we were talking at the time I cannot define them more accurately. "When first going to bed, both nights in No. 1, we heard footsteps and voices apparently in conversation above us. The sounds seemed to come from a room which was over the bed, but did not extend as far as the fireplace in No. 1, and also from the room which would be above the room next to ours behind the bed." The rooms overhead were empty. _Cf._ under date April 1st. "These noises I attributed at the time, and still attribute, to the maids going to bed. I am bound to say, however, that they were heard both by Mrs. M---- and her maid, who was in No. 1 with her, during the daytime, at an hour when it was said no servants were upstairs. These voices and footsteps did not go on for long into the night. For (I should say) some hours during the night of the 30th, I frequently heard a sound which seemed to come from near the fireplace, and which I can best describe as a gentle tap on a drum--like some one tuning the kettle-drum in an orchestra. I do not think Mrs. M---- heard this noise, for though she slept very badly, she was dozing a good deal during the first half of the night. At 3.55 A.M. I was in a state of semi-consciousness, when both I and Mrs. M---- were fully roused by a noise so loud that I wonder it did not wake people sleeping in other parts of the house. It seemed to come either from the door between No. 1 and 2, or from between that door and the fireplace. To me it sounded like a kind of treble rap on a hollow panel, but far louder than any one could rap with their knuckles. My wife described it as the sound of some one whose gown had caught the lid of a heavy coal-scuttle and let it fall. This noise was not repeated, and by a treble rap I mean the sound was like an arpeggio chord. I feel certain it was not against the false window outside, indeed it had the sound of being in the room. The kettle-drum sounds might easily have been a trick of the wind, though the night was still, but the only natural explanation of this noise that I can give is practical joking, as the noise _might_ have come from my dressing-room. The coal-scuttle was standing between the fireplace and door-post, just where the sound seemed to come from. The second night I moved the scuttle right away to between the head of the bed and the window, and the noise was not repeated. The second night the talking and footsteps were both heard when first we went up; and once, shortly after all was still, early in the night. Nevertheless we again both of us slept very badly indeed--I may say that except from about 6 to 8 A.M. I slept very little either night. I should say that all through both nights I frequently heard the owls hooting--both the tawny owl and another, which I think was the little owl; the former on one occasion was very close to the window, and any one with a vivid imagination or unacquainted with the cry of the owl (and, strange as it may seem, a country-bred girl, staying at L---- the other day, did _not_ know the owls' cry when she heard it), might well take it for shrieks." _N.B._--No one ever heard shrieks during Colonel Taylor's tenancy at B----. "The third night, as I have said, we were in No. 8, and both of us slept like tops, and heard or saw nothing. "One morning, in the smoking-room in the east wing, I heard voices which _seemed_ to come from above, but which I am convinced were from the kitchen beneath. "As you know, 'Ishbel' was not kind enough to show herself to me.... "_P.S._--I wrote the above without reading over my wife's account. I have only to add that I had none of the uncomfortable sensations she talks of. Bodily and mentally I was comfortable all night. Nor was I in the least restless--only wakeful. But for the noises, B---- certainly strikes one as a very unghostly house." _April 3rd, Saturday._--Miss Langton and I heard footsteps walking up and down overhead at dinner-time last night, in No. 7, a room which is not in use. We looked at each other, but did not at first say anything, on account of the presence of the servants. After it had gone on for at least ten minutes, I asked the butler if he had heard them. He at once said, "Yes, and might he go and see if any one were about?" We heard him go upstairs and open the door of the room, and walk across it, but his step was quite different from the sound we had heard. He came back saying, "The housemaid had been in to draw the blind down since we had been at dinner." I have questioned her since, and she says she simply went in and out again--was not there half a minute. About four o'clock this afternoon, Miss Langton ran in from the garden where we were gathering fir-cones, to fetch a basket out of the library, and heard so much noise going on in the drawing-room that she went in to investigate. It was empty and silent. The noise was a violent hammering on the door between the two rooms on the drawing-room side. The two rooms below the library and drawing-room were empty, and shuttered (the smoking-room and billiard-room), No. 1 was disused (over the drawing-room), and Miss Langton found no one in No. 8 (over the library). She came back and told me at once. I have now had the following rooms locked up and the keys taken away by the butler:-- Ground floor: All the wing and drawing-room. Above: 2, 3, 4, 6, and 7. (I am sleeping in No. 5, Miss Langton in No. 8.) Basement: Smoking and billiard rooms. Mr. T---- arrived in the afternoon. We were all out till dinner-time. While at dinner, we all three, as well as the butler, heard steps walking overhead in No. 7, as we did last night. _April 4th, Sunday._--I was wakened early this morning by the sound of a crash. As it was mixed with my dreams I did not think it worth while to get up and investigate, but looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes to six. Five minutes later I heard another crash under the dome--of the kind so often described--and looked out, but the house was perfectly still. I heard the servants come down about seven o'clock. Miss Langton, sleeping in No. 8, describes the same sounds at the same moment. Mr. B. S---- and Miss S----, brother and sister of the proprietor, called. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mr. T---- writes under this date:-- "_April 4th, Sunday._--I heard footsteps overhead last evening while at dinner. Sleeping in No. 1. To bed about 11 P.M. To sleep in about half-an-hour. Meanwhile I heard sounds as of reading aloud in No. 8. Woke at 6.20. Heard voices in No. 8 again." _April 5th, Monday._--Mr. T---- said at breakfast that he had heard sounds as of some one reading in Miss Langton's room, No. 8, between 11.0 and 11.30 P.M., and again the sound of voices from the same room in the morning. Miss Langton was alone, nor, as we have proved--(see under date March 2nd)--could any sound of reading or speaking have been heard, had any really existed. _April 6th, Tuesday._--Mr. T---- writes under this date:-- "To my room last night about 11 P.M. Loud thuds on the floor above me, and a heavy thud against the door dividing my room (No. 1) from the dressing-room beyond (No. 2). I went out and listened at the servants' staircase. They were talking, but not moving about. [I learnt on inquiry that they were all in bed by 10.30.--A.G.F.] I went to sleep immediately after I got to bed, but woke up later with a violent start, as if by a loud noise, though I heard nothing. I waited a few minutes and then looked at my watch. It was 12.30. I heard voices talking pretty loud. I was awake over three-quarters of an hour, then slept till 5.30." Mr. B. S---- was out fishing with Mr. T---- in the morning, and came in to lunch and again to dinner. In the evening I had a good deal of talk with him. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . This afternoon Mrs. ----, a lady well acquainted with the neighbourhood, came to tea. She asked me about the hauntings, and said they were matter of common talk in the district. She also told me that in the late Mr. S----'s time it had been alleged that the disturbances were intentional annoyances, though she agreed it was rather a sustained effort. I also called to say "good-bye" to Mrs. S.----, to whom I remarked that, though I could not doubt the existence of phenomena at B----, we had been most comfortable, and had greatly liked the place. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Early this morning (I am still sleeping in No. 5) I heard the familiar crash under the dome. It was about 2.30. Mr. T---- said at breakfast that he had heard it too. _Wednesday 7th._--Mr. T---- writes under this date:-- "To bed about eleven. To sleep at once. Awakened at 2.30 by a terrific crash, and the sound of voices. A little later I heard light raps at the foot of my door, as if a dog had wagged his tail against it. Looked out, saw nothing; very disturbed night." _April 8th, Thursday._--Mr. T---- writes, "Woke last night at 12.30. Heard nothing, but slept very badly. I may mention that I am, as a rule, a very sound sleeper, and as I had taken a lot of exercise every day--fishing, shooting, cycling, and walking, from breakfast-time to dark--there was no reason why I should not sleep." Mr. T---- had been out the whole of this day with the keepers--heather burning--and was obviously "dead tired" when he went to bed. It is curious that even when not disturbed, he should have slept so badly, but sleepless and nameless discomfort has assailed most persons in No. 1, though the room is large and airy. _April 8th, Thursday._--We had planned to leave yesterday, but it was borne in upon me that to-day being the anniversary of the Major's death, it would be a pity--on the hypothesis of there being anything supernormal in these phenomena--that the house should not be under observation to-night. In the morning the Land-steward called, having heard from Mrs. S---- that we had heard footsteps about the house at night, and that I had several times observed a disreputable-looking man about the place, whom I knew not to be one of the farm-servants. The admissions hitherto made by him, and by ---- and ----, as to some of the phenomena, carry the evidence back for over twenty years. I don't know whether we have been specially on the _qui vive_ to-day, but we seem to have heard bangs and crashes and footsteps overhead all day, though all the rooms, except Nos. 1, 5, and 8 are locked up--Mr. T---- occupies No. 1, Miss Langton No. 8, I No. 5. Acting upon the hints given us by ---- and ----, I thought the downstairs smoking-room ought to be specially under observation to-day. I was suffering from acute headache, and was obliged to lie down in my own room from lunch-time to dinner, and this smoking-room, which is known as "the Major's room," was the only sitting-room in use. A few minutes before dinner, I went down and busied myself in putting my camera to rights. It was a delicate piece of work, and when I saw a black dog, which I supposed for the moment to be "Spooks" (my Pomeranian), run across the room towards my left, I stopped, fearing that she would shake the little table on which the camera stood. I immediately saw another dog, really Spooks this time, run towards it from my right, with her ears pricked. Miss Langton also observed this, and said, "What is Spooks after?" or something of that sort. A piece of furniture prevented my seeing their meeting, and Spooks came back directly, wagging her tail. The other dog was larger than Spooks, though it also had long black hair, and might have been a small spaniel. [It was not till after we had left B---- that we learned that the Major's favourite dog was a black spaniel.] After dinner we returned to this room. I had intended to try Ouija and the crystal, but was in too much pain to make this possible, and Miss Langton felt she could not do it alone; it was as much as I could do to sit up at all, but, by a strong effort of will, I was able to remain downstairs till after midnight. [I was still occasionally suffering from the results of my accident.] We sat in front of the fire, playing a round game. About nine we all three heard footsteps coming from the south-west corner and going towards the door; I held up my hand for silence, but I could see, from the direction of their eyes, that they heard the sounds as I did--even the dog looked up and watched. The steps were those of a rather heavy person in heelless shoes, who walked to the door, and came back again, passed close behind Mr. T----'s chair, crossed the hearth-rug just in front of me, and stopped at or about the north-east corner, but--it seemed--remained in the room, behind Miss Langton's chair. We heard them again about 10.30; we also heard sounds several times during the evening of the talking of a man and woman. Three times over Miss Langton and Mr. T---- went out to listen, but the house was perfectly quiet, and though we were on the same floor with the servants, there had been, the whole time, three closed doors between us and their quarters in the wing, which also was in the direction opposite that from which the sounds came (the present billiard-room). About 10.45, Miss Langton and I went up to the dining-room in search of refreshment; everything upstairs seemed perfectly still, and the servants had long before gone to bed. Mr. T---- followed us up, and as we went back to the smoking-room, the voices seemed to be in high argument just inside. We could distinguish no words, though the _timbre_ of the voices is perfectly clear in my memory. About 12.20 we went to bed. I had intended to sit up in No. 8, but found I was not equal to it, and Miss Langton would not accept my offer of sleeping there with her. She was therefore there alone, I in No. 5, and Mr. T---- in No. 1. I had not been many minutes in my room when I heard the familiar loud crash as of something falling into the hall, under the dome, and rushed out immediately--the house was perfectly still. We had left a small lamp burning in the corridor. Mr. T---- said, next morning, that he had also came out at the sound, but must have been later than I, as he was just in time to see my door shut. About twenty minutes after, I heard the shuffling footsteps come up the stairs, and pause near my door; I opened it, and saw nothing, but was so definitely conscious of the presence of a personality, that I addressed it in terms which need not be set down here, but of which I may say that they were intended to be of the utmost seriousness, while helpful and encouraging. I may add, that I knew from experience of the acoustic qualities of the house, that I should not be audible to those in Nos. 1 or 8. Absolutely, while I was speaking, the voices we had heard downstairs became audible again, this time it seemed to me outside the door of No. 8; they were certainly the same voices, but seemed to be consciously lowered. (Miss Langton's account will show that she heard voices and footsteps outside her door at about this time.) I was asleep before the clock struck two, but was awakened again about 3.30, and was kept awake for more than an hour by various sounds in the house. Roughly speaking, these were of two kinds: one, those of distant clangs and crashes which we have heard many times in varying intensity, loudest of all on our first night and on this. The other (more human in association), knocks at the door, thuds on the lower panels within, say, two feet of the ground; footsteps, not as before, but rapid and as of many feet, and again the same voices. The night was perfectly still, and I could clearly differentiate the cries of the owl (of two kinds, I think), the kestrel hawk, and even of the rabbits on the lawn. I went to the windows and looked out, but the night was quite dark, and the dawn was grey and misty. About 5.45 I fell asleep, and did not wake till my tea came up at 7.30, when I asked the maid if she had been disturbed, and she replied that the servants had been extra busy the day before, had gone to bed early, and had slept soundly. Miss Langton and Mr. T---- attest the above as a correct account of our experience, so far as they were concerned. The following is from Miss Langton's private diary:-- "Miss Freer, Mr. T----, and I all agreed that, as it was the anniversary of the old Major's death, we would sit to-night in his own sitting-room, which we always call 'the downstairs smoking-room.' Just before dinner, Miss Freer, who was sitting between the writing-table and fireplace, suddenly called out, 'What is Spooks running after?' and then she said that there were _two_ black dogs in the room, and that the other dog was larger than Spooks she said, 'like a spaniel.' "After dinner we three sat round the fire and played games; suddenly one of us called out, 'Listen to those footsteps,' and then we _distinctly_ heard a heavy man walking round the room, coming apparently from the direction of the safe, in the wall adjoining the billiard room, and then walking towards the door, passing between us and the fireplace in front of which we were sitting. It was a very curious sensation, for the steps came so very close, and yet we saw nothing. Footsteps died away, and we resumed our game. Three times over we distinctly heard outside the door the voices of a man and woman, apparently in anger, for their voices were loud and rough. Each time we jumped up at once and opened the door quietly--there was nothing to be seen; the passage was in total darkness, all the servants having gone to bed (the last time was nearly eleven o'clock). We certified this fact by making an expedition into the kitchen regions. We then returned to the smoking-room, and not long after the footsteps again began in exactly the same direction. This time they lasted a longer time. "I slept in No. 8, and was so tired I slept pretty well, but before going to sleep, just before one o'clock, I heard the sound of a heavy man in slippers come down the corridor and stop near my door, and then the sound as of a long argument in subdued voices, a man and a woman." On April 9th Miss Freer and Miss Langton left B---- in order to pass Easter elsewhere, and Mr. T---- left with them. During Miss Freer's absence the house was occupied for some days by the eminent classical scholar Mr. F.W.H. Myers, late Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, one of her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools, and Hon. Sec. to the S.P.R. It is well known that the S.P.R. is very greatly indebted to Mr. Myers for his most valuable services for many years as Hon. Sec., and for his many important contributions to its literature. He has, however, of late years somewhat alienated the sympathies of many of its members, by the extent to which he has introduced into its _Proceedings_ the reports of spiritualist phenomena, and the lucubrations of mediums. The original rules of the society would appear to exclude the employment of hired mediums, and it is difficult to distinguish Mrs. Piper, and certain other subjects of experiment, from this class. The differences, however, between Mr. Myers and some of the members do not stop at this point, for his preference for the experiences of female mediums, whether hired or gratuitous, would appear to amount to an indifference to spontaneous phenomena, an indifference that is distinctly and rapidly progressive. Mr. Myers, however, appeared to take considerable interest in the phenomena of B----, and on March 13, 1897, after reading the journal for the first five weeks, the only part of the evidence which has been submitted to him, or indeed to any member of the Council of the S.P.R., he wrote to Miss Freer:-- "It is plain that the B---- case is of _great_ interest. I hope we may have a discussion of it at S.P.R. general meeting, May 28th, 8.30, and perhaps July 2nd, 4 P.M., also. Till then, I would suggest, we will not put forth our experiences to the public, unless you have any other view.... "I should particularly like to get Mr. ['Q.'] to go again in Easter week [_i.e._ during the Myers' tenancy]. I saw him last night, and heard his account, and next to yourself he seems the most sensitive of the group. I am very glad that you secured him.... I will send back the two note-books after showing them to the Sidgwicks. I am so very glad that you and others have been so well repaid for your trouble.... You seem to have worked natural causes well." On April 12th Mr. Myers arrived at B----, and remained until the 22nd. He was preceded a day or two earlier by Dr. Oliver Lodge, Professor of Physics at Victoria College, Liverpool, Mrs. Lodge, and a Mr. Campbell of Trinity College, Cambridge. The party also included a "medium," the only person to whom this term could be applied, in the ordinary sense, who visited B---- during Col. Taylor's tenancy. This person was a Miss C----, but in order to avoid confusion with other persons, she is here called Miss "K." Miss "K." is not a professional medium, in the same sense in which a gentleman rider is not a jockey. She is the proprietress of a small nursing establishment in London, and at the time of her visit to B---- was described as in weak health and partially paralysed. She was accompanied by an attendant who was a Roman Catholic, a circumstance which is interesting in view of the strongly sectarian character of the ensuing revelations. Mr. Myers recorded regularly, and transmitted to Lord Bute, the account of the phenomena which occurred during his visit, and which were testified to by four members of his party. He declines, however, to allow any use to be made of his notes of what occurred during this episode. The regret with which his wish is deferred to is the less, because the chief value of the notes in question seems to be that of a warning against the methods employed; a fact of which Mr. Myers seems later to have himself become aware, as in regard to his journal letters to Lord Bute he wrote on March 15, 1898, _a year later_, "I am afraid that I must ask that my B---- letters be in no way used. I greatly doubt whether there was anything supernormal." However, while actually staying at B----, Mr. Myers wrote to Miss Freer on April 15th, in much the same terms as on March 11th:-- "What is your idea (I am asking Lord Bute also) _re_ speaking about B---- at S.P.R? If this is _not_ desirable on May 28th, should you have second-sight material ready then? If it is desirable, could we meet sometime, ... and discuss what is to be said? As many witnesses as possible. Noises have gone on. I am writing bulletins to Lord Bute, which I dare say he will send on to you.... I am moving into No. 5 to be nearer to the noise. I have heard nothing. Lodge hears mainly knocks." On April 21st he wrote again to Miss Freer:-- "If you come to S.P.R. meeting, we could talk in a quiet corner after it. I dine with S.P.R. council at seven o'clock, so there would scarcely be time [_i.e._ to call on you] between, but I would call at---- at 9.30 Saturday morning, if that were more convenient to you than going to the meeting." The interview took place, and July 2nd was finally arranged as the date upon which the evidence was to be presented at a general meeting of the S.P.R. In the meantime, however, the article of the anonymous _Times_ correspondent appeared in that journal on June 8th--an article which was practically an attack on certain methods of the S.P.R., after which Mr. Myers published the following letter:-- ON THE TRAIL OF A GHOST. _To the Editor of "The Times."_ "SIR,--A letter entitled 'On the Trail of a Ghost,' which you publish to-day, appears to suggest throughout that some statement has been made on behalf of the Society for Psychical Research with regard to the house which your correspondent visited. This, however, is not the case; and as a misleading impression may be created, I must ask you to allow me space to state that I visited B----, representing that society, before your correspondent's visit, and decided that there was no such evidence as could justify us in giving the results of the inquiry a place in our _Proceedings_. I had already communicated this judgment to Lord Bute, to the council of the society, and to Professor Sidgwick, the editor of our _Proceedings_, and it had been agreed to act upon it.--I am, Sir, your obedient servant, "FREDERICK W.H. MYERS, _Hon. Sec. of the Society for Psychical Research._ "LECKHAMPTON HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, _June 8_." One may gather from a comparison of this letter with the foregoing records that the standard of evidence is a somewhat variable quantity in the Society for Psychical Research. In attempting to explain the matter, Mr. Myers wrote to Lord Bute, June 11, 1897:-- "As to haunted houses recorded at length in _Proceedings_, there have been several minor ones, and one especially, 'Records of a Haunted House,' where I was instrumental in getting the account written. The great point there was the amount of coincidence of visions seen independently.... In the B---- case there is _some_ coincidence of vision, but so far as I know, not nearly so much as in the Records of a Haunted House, which did appear in _Proceedings_. We want to keep our level approximately the same throughout." Another point of view in relation to the same matter, is that taken by Miss Freer in an article in the _Nineteenth Century_, August 1897:-- "That the S.P.R. recognised that haunted houses were among the alleged facts of general interest, was proved by their early appointment of a Committee of Inquiry, on the management of which it is too late to reflect. At the end of a few months only, they practically dismissed a subject which, if considered at all, required years of patient research. They had come across the surprising number of twenty-eight cases which they considered worth inquiry; but these were presented to the public on the evidence of only forty witnesses--that is to say, an average of less than one and a half to each! The appearance of figures is recorded in twenty-four of these stories, whilst four record noises only. Ten years later the _Proceedings_ take up the subject again, and give us at some length an elaborate story on the evidence of two or three ladies, two servants, a charwoman, and a little boy. ['Records of a Haunted House.'] No proper journal was kept, and the Society for Psychical Research came upon the scene when all was practically over." In relation to the period of the visit of the Myers party to B---- House, Lord Bute received several journal letters from Professor Lodge, as well as from Mr. Myers, which, as he has made no request to the contrary, might be quoted here _in extenso_, were it not that they relate in considerable part to the proceedings of the medium, as to which the present editors agree with Mr. Myers, that "they greatly doubt if there was anything supernormal." Professor Lodge was from the first much interested in the B---- inquiry, and wrote to Lord Bute on April 14th, two days after arrival: "I have not found anything here as yet at all suitable for physical experiments. I have heard a noise or two, and intelligent raps. Nothing whatever can be normally seen so far." And on April 17th: "The noises and disturbances have been much quieter of late, in fact have almost ceased _pro tem_.... We have not heard the loud bang as yet. Knocks on the wall, a sawing noise, and a droning and a wailing are all we have heard. The droning and the wailing, some whistling, and apparent attempts at a whisper, all up in the attic, may have been due either to the wind or birds. They were not distinct enough to be evidential, though they were just audible to all of us. The sawing noise was more distinct. I think I will go to the attic about 3 A.M. to-night to see if anything more can be heard. Most of the noises occur then, or else at 6 A.M. Mr. Campbell has heard a dragging along the floor in his bedroom, No. 3. I have heard, like many others, the knocking on the wall, but for the last two nights things have been quiet. "_April 20th._--There has been nothing here for me to do as a physicist, and I return home tomorrow, but nevertheless the phenomena, taken as a whole, have been most interesting.... I know that you are hearing from Mr. Myers the details of our sittings.... There is certainly an interregnum of noises, the last three nights having been undisturbed. [After describing recent séances with Miss 'K----.'] I write just as if what we have been told were true.[F] The cessation of the noises may of course be merely a temporary lull as before, and they may break out again...." On April 22nd, he wrote to Miss Freer "The sounds are not very strong, and latterly there has been one of your interregna in the noises, but still we heard some of them; only knocks, however, except once a low droning, a sawing noise, and a whistling whisper. Some of the raps seemed intelligent, but there was nothing to investigate on the physical side...." And in another note, undated:-- "There has been nothing capable of being photographed. The sounds are objective though not impressive.... I have seen nothing to suggest electricity or magnetism, or any of the ordinary physical agents in connection with the disturbances; but the noises are so momentary and infrequent, that they give no real scope for continued examination." Professor Lodge left on April 21st, and Mr. Myers on April 22nd; but Miss "K----," with Mr. Campbell, remained alone till the morning of Monday 26th, and on the afternoon of the same day Lord and Lady Bute arrived, and stayed till Wednesday 28th. Mr. MacP----, who came with them, was obliged by previous engagements to leave next morning. They slept in the wing, and nothing occurred during their visit so far as they were concerned. Lord Bute records, however, that he twice read aloud the whole of the Office for the dead in its five sections (vespers, nocturns, and lauds) in different places, but neither he nor any one with him saw or heard anything, unless it were a sound of women talking and laughing while he was reading the Office about 10.30 P.M. in No. 8, and this he supposed was simply the maids going to bed, though in fact the room overhead was unoccupied. He had, however, a most disagreeable impression, not in the places where he expected it, which were the glen, No. 3, and No. 8, but in No. 1. The sensation was that of persons being present, and on the second occasion that of violent hatred and hostility. He recorded "Went to No. 1 a third time, and again experienced the sensation of persons being present, but on this last occasion as though they were only morosely unfriendly." It is remarkable that this sensation of unseen presences is one which many other persons experienced in this room, and in this room only; but it is also remarkable that this was the first indication of the hostile or irreligious tone which was thenceforth apparent. Until the sojourn of the party of members of the S.P.R. the tone had been plaintive and religious. Mr. MacP----, who is a Presbyterian, made a remark which struck Lord Bute as interesting, to the effect that the whole of the Office for the dead, with the frequent occurrence of the words _Requiam eternam_, &c., might be as irritating to Intelligences which desired to communicate, as would be the effect of saying merely "keep still," or "be quiet," to persons who wished to set forth their wrongs. But this curious hypothesis would be insufficient to account for a sensation of absolute enmity. A private letter, written by Lord Bute on April 29th to a distinguished ecclesiastic, repeats these statements, and adds one or two additional touches which it is desirable to quote:-- "We returned yesterday after spending forty-eight hours at B----, where we heard and saw nothing, but as my proceedings were mainly ecclesiastical, your Grace may like to know what happened. "On the way I was shown the inclosure in the churchyard wherein lie, in unmarked graves, the late Major S----, his 'housekeeper,' and his old Indian servant. I would have gone and prayed there, but the place seemed to me too public.... B---- is a remarkably beautiful place, and the day was splendid; were it not for the grandeur of the scenery, I should have called the landscape laughing, or at least smiling. The house is remarkably bright and cheerful, and indeed luxurious. There is a really nice set of family pictures from about the time of Charles II.... The place is a perfect aviary, and the sight of the innumerable birds, evidently encouraged by long kindness, building their nests was very pleasant, and has some psychological interest, since animals sometimes see these things when we do not, and there was evidently nothing to scare the birds, rabbits, or squirrels.... As her ladyship and I did not wish to be troubled at night, we took rooms in the wing, which the late Mr. S---- is said to have built in order to save his children from the haunting, and which has been but little troubled; and we slept there quite comfortably. Soon after 6 P.M. I went to the place near the burn where apparitions have so often appeared, and which was, I think, first indicated by Ouija. I read aloud the vespers for the dead, but no phenomenon appeared, nor had I any sensation. About 7.30 I went to a room which I will call A [No. 1] ... and read aloud the first Nocturn of the dirge; there was nothing to be seen or heard, but I felt some physical inconvenience in beginning, like an impediment in speech, and I had a very strong sensation that there were persons listening....[G] Soon after 10 P.M. I went and read aloud the two next Nocturns in room B [8]. As I finished the second, Mr. MacP---- and I heard two women speaking merrily outside the door, and I doubt not they were the maids going to bed. During the night, although we slept well, my servant [who slept in No. 4, next to Mr. MacP---- in No. 5], like other people in haunted rooms, could not sleep after five, and he tells me one of the maids saw the bust of a woman with short hair, as though sitting at the foot of her bed. "In the morning I said Lauds in room C [Library]. No phenomena or sensation. Soon after 5 P.M. said _Placebo_ again in room B [8]. Nothing. Then visited the haunted burn again for some time. Nothing. About 7.30 read the first two Nocturns again in room D [No. 3]. Nothing. Soon after ten read the third Nocturn in A [1]. Made slips of pronunciation, and felt the presence of others very strongly, and that it was hostile or evil, as though they were kept at arm's-length; a disagreeable sensation continued until I threw some holy water on my bed before getting into it, when it suddenly disappeared. Next morning I said Lauds in A [1]. I had no difficulty in utterance; the sense of other presences was not strong, and I had no feeling of hostility [on their part], but rather of their having to put up with a slight nuisance which would soon be over. These subjective feelings are in no way evidential, nor would I mention them were they not confined to one place out of five, and occurred whenever I went there, at three most varying hours.... My servant, the second night, could not sleep between 4.30 and 6." * * * * * Miss Freer returned alone to B---- on April 28th. The Journal is now resumed. _April 28th._--I returned to B----, arriving at 7 P.M. Slept in No. 8. Quiet night. This morning I inquired of the servants as to what occurred in my absence. They have very definite views as to the nature and causes of the phenomena during the visit of Mr. Myers's party ... including much table-tilting at meals, and so on. When questioned as to any experiences of their own, all answered to the same effect, that they shouldn't have taken notice of anything that happened at that time, but that something had occurred after the last two members of the party had left on the day of his Lordship's arrival, "and that," said the cook, "was quite another matter." The experience was Carter's, the upper housemaid, and she told it in a manner that it would be difficult to distrust. She was not anxious to talk about it, and seemed annoyed that it had been mentioned at all. I wrote down her story verbatim. "It was about four o'clock, or may be a little later, but it was just getting light; there is no blind to the skylight in my room, and I woke up suddenly and I thought some one had come into the room, and I called out, 'Is that you, Mrs. Robinson?' and when she didn't answer I called out 'Hannah,' but no one spoke, and then I looked up, and at the foot of my bed there was a woman. She was rather old, and dressed in something dark, and she had a little shawl on, and her hair short. It was hanging, but it didn't reach nearly to her shoulders. I was awful frightened, and put my head down again. I couldn't look any more." I asked about the height of the woman, wondering if it were like the figure seen in the drawing-room, and Carter said, "I didn't notice, only the top part of her." I said, "Do you mean she had no legs?" and she said, "I didn't take notice of any." She was genuinely concerned and alarmed. This is probably the incident thus described by _The Times_ correspondent. "One of the maidservants described a sort of dull knocking which, according to her, goes on between two and six in the morning, in the lath and plaster partition by the side of her bed, which shuts off the angular space just inside the eaves of the house. She likened it to the noise of gardeners nailing up ivy outside. She seemed honest, but as she had seen the ghost of half a woman sitting on her fellow-servant's bed, one takes her evidence with a grain or two of salt. Any noises she has really heard may be due to the cooling of the hot-water pipes which pass along behind the partition just mentioned to the cistern." The hot-water pipe theory has been already discussed. Before proceeding, it had better be again mentioned that, owing to the fact that several of the persons interested in B---- were Roman Catholics, and the Rev. P---- H---- having been one of the principal witnesses, as well as having himself appeared phantasmally in the house, it was considered desirable to obtain the assistance of some clergy of that communion. Miss Freer accordingly secured the services of three members of a famous society; one of those was the Rev. P---- H---- himself, one a well-known Oxford man who takes much interest in such questions, and the third a man of great experience at a place where miracles are said to be frequent. However, their Superior refused to allow them to come, and she then applied to a well-known monastery, but was again refused help. Lastly, she turned to the secular clergy, and obtained the assistance of two priests and a bishop. The priests are here designated MacD---- and MacL----. All three were previously well known to her, and she had especial reason to consider them not only worthy of her esteem and confidence, but, moreover, as taking an instructed and intelligent interest in the subject. _April 29th, Friday._--Rooms for to-night:-- No. 3. Rev. A. MacD----. " 4. Rev. A. MacL----. " 8. Myself. The priests arrived late in the evening. I put them in No. 3 and 4, though I like to give No. 1 to new-comers. However, I had promised that to Madame Boisseaux, whom we are expecting from Paris, with the dressing-room for her maid. _April 30th._--The priests both look very weary. They were not frightened, but the sounds have kept them awake all night. Young S---- called to-day; he is going to help me to get up a dance for the servants. His mother is away at S----. _May 1st._--I shall have to move the priests. They persist that they are not frightened, but they are both looking shockingly ill and worn, and the Rev. MacD---- is not in a state of health to take liberties with. The Rev. MacL---- seems in the same mental state as was Mr. P----. He sees nothing, but is supernormally sensitive, and without any hint from me, declared that he felt the drawing-room, wing, and No. 7 to be "innocent." Poor little "Spooks" is the chief sufferer. She sleeps on my bed now, but even so, wakes in the night growling and shivering, and she refuses her food, and is in a dreadfully nervous state. Perhaps I ought not to keep her in No. 8, where we have so often heard the patterings of dogs' feet, and where Miss Moore was once pushed as by a dog, in broad daylight. _May 2nd._--Nothing occurred. We perhaps all slept the sounder last night, having been kept up till two o'clock waiting for Madame Boisseaux, who never turned up. She and the M----s and Mrs. "F." arrived to-day. Madame Boisseaux arrived, and was put into No. 1. Her maid " " 2. Father MacD---- " " 3. Father MacL---- " " 4. Mrs. "F." " " 5. Mr. and Mrs. M---- " " 6 and 7. Myself " " 8. _May 3rd._--The general tone of things is disquieting, and new in our experience. Hitherto, in our first occupation, the phenomena affected one as melancholy, depressing, and perplexing, but now all, quite independently, say the same thing, that the influence is evil and horrible--even poor little Spooks, who was never terrified before, as she has been since our return here. The worn faces at breakfast were really a dismal sight. In spite of her long journey, Madame Boisseaux could not sleep. She was so tired, she dropped to sleep at once on going to bed, but was awoke by the sound of a droning voice as if from No. 3, and, at intervals, more distant voices in high argument. She said she dared not go to sleep; she felt as if some evil-disposed persons were in the room, and it would not be safe to lose consciousness. But she saw nothing. She looks so ill that her maid, a very faithful old servant, has been to beg me, "_pour l'amour de Dieu_," to give Madame another room. So to-night I will put her in No. 5. Mrs. "F." who was in No. 5, was disturbed by knocks at her door (_cf._ Mrs. W----'s experience in the same room), and to-night is to sleep in my room, No. 8, which last night was also somewhat noisy, but she will not be alone. The Rev. MacD---- looks so ill from two nights' sleeplessness that the priests are to go into the wing to-night. They were unwilling to move, and made no complaints, and now do not say they have seen anything, merely that the evil influence about them was painful and disturbing. Mrs. M----, who, it will be remembered, was much disturbed during her last visit, begged that she might be quiet, and we gave her No. 7. She is the only person who has had a really good night, except Mr. M----, who had a fancy to sleep in the smoking-room, in the hope of a visit from the Major, but nothing happened. As he had been mountaineering all day, he probably would have slept well under any conditions. _May 4th._--I am thankful to say the priests slept well in the wing. Madame Boisseaux, in No. 5, was disturbed by knocks at her door, but as she wisely remarked, they had the advantage of being outside. Mr. M---- had moved into No. 1, and slept fairly well, but said he felt as before, "not alone," but as he _had_ felt that before, expectation may count for something. Mrs. "F" slept with me; I was awoke early by my dog crying, and I saw two black paws resting on the table beside the bed. It gave me a sickening sensation, and I longed to wake Mrs. "F" to see if she would see them, but I remembered her bad night of yesterday, and left her in peace. The priests spend much time in devotions, and are very decided in their views as to the malignity of the influence. The bishop comes to-day, and we hope he will have Mass said in the house. We shall then have ten Roman Catholics in the household--two visitors, three clergy, two visitors' maids, and three of our own servants. That should have an effect upon the Major! Miss Moore and Scamp arrived. _May 5th._--The bishop is in No. 1. He arrived to lunch to-day. Last night all was quiet after bedtime, but sitting in the drawing-room about five o'clock, having just come in from a drive, five of us heard the detonating noise, as it were in the empty room overhead. Madame B----, Mrs. "F," Mrs. M----, the Rev. MacL----, and myself. Mrs. "F" left this morning. The priests went with me to the copse. They saw nothing, but were in too anxious a state to be receptive. I saw Ishbel for one moment. She looked _agonised_, as never before. Mr. B. S---- dined with us, and the servants, indoor and out, danced in the hall in the evening. We had pipers, and some supper for them in the billiard-room. The gardener and the butler and cook say there was a great crash in the room just when the parish minister was saying grace, and that many of the people from outside noticed it, and "they just looked at each other." I was myself in the room, but as we had just had a very physical and commonplace disturbance--the arrival of an uninvited and intoxicated guest, of which the other people did not know as I did--I was preoccupied at the moment. Mass this morning in the drawing-room. _May 6th._--Madame Boisseaux has had to go suddenly; there has been terrible news for her of this Paris fire. She came into my room very early with her telegram (arrived too late for delivery last night). I did not like to worry her with questions, overwhelmed as she was, but she said her room "resounded with knocks." There was Mass said in the ground-floor sitting-room this morning, and as I knelt facing the window I saw Ishbel with the grey woman, nearer the house than ever before. She looked pensive, but, as compared with last time, much relieved. This is the last time the figures were seen. The following details are quoted from a letter written by Miss Freer to Lord Bute on this day: "Mass was said this morning in the downstairs room, the altar arranged in front of the window, so that, as we knelt, we faced the garden. Poor Madame Boisseaux was dressed for travelling, and in much agitation. As the carriage which was to take her to the station was expected at any moment, I suggested that she and I should remain upstairs, but she said she should like to be there, if only for a few minutes, the more that the 'intention' was to be partly for those who had suffered in the fire, and for their sorrowing friends. She and I, therefore, knelt close to the door, keeping it slightly ajar, so as to be able to obey a summons at any moment. "Suddenly she touched my arm, and directed my attention to the window. There I saw a figure standing outside, which--so slow-sighted am I--I took for the moment for Madame's maid, and thought she had come to call our attention through the window--a long 'French' one, opening out on to the lawn--as less likely to disturb the service. I was starting up when I perceived that the figure was 'Ishbel'--the black gown, like that worn by the maid, had misled me for the moment. 'Marget' seemed to hover in the background, but she was much less distinct than the other. A minute later we were called away. "The room had been selected by the priests themselves, but it is the one I should myself, for obvious reasons, have chosen for the purpose." When the bustle of Madame's hasty departure was over, and we had breakfasted, the bishop blessed the house from top to bottom, and especially visited rooms Nos. 1, 3, and 8, and also the library. He sprinkled the rooms with holy water, and especially the doorway leading to the drawing-room, where noises have so often been heard. He and the priests had hardly gone when there was a loud bang upon a little table that stands there. It is an old work-table, a box on tall, slender legs, and the sound could easily be imitated by lifting the lid and letting it fall smartly, but I saw no movement--not that I was watching it at the moment. The bishop and priests returned, and the ceremony was repeated, after which the bang again occurred, but much more faintly. The three clergy left this afternoon. Miss Moore and I are now alone. This bang was the last phenomenon of an abnormal kind during this tenancy. Miss Moore and Miss Freer stayed in the house another week without anything further occurring either to themselves, their guests, or the servants. During that time, they received six more guests: Miss C----, Miss "Etienne," with her brother, a lawyer, and three other visitors, with whom Miss Freer had no previous acquaintance, but who received an invitation under the following special conditions, not being, as were other guests, personal friends, or, in one or two instances, accompanying personal friends by whom they were introduced, and at whose request they were invited. Sir William Huggins had some time before written to Lord Bute to beg him to obtain admission to the house for Sir James Crichton Browne, who is, of course, well known as a physician of great eminence, and in especial as an expert in psychology, and whom Sir William stated to be deeply interested in phenomena such as those observed at B----. Lord Bute accordingly wrote to Miss Freer, who wrote to Sir James. He did not immediately reply, which surprised her, after so earnest a request, and because admission to the house for the purpose of such observations was a mark of confidence, which as a hostess she was very chary of giving, and which would never have been extended to him, notwithstanding his scientific eminence, had it not been for the intercession of Sir William Huggins and Lord Bute, through whom he had sought it. He wrote to her after some time, apologising for the delay on the score of illness, begging to know if it were still possible for him to be admitted, and whether he might bring with him a scientific friend. Miss Freer consented, and he then wrote announcing his arrival and that of a nephew, a student at Oxford, interested in science. He then asked, by telegram, whether a third guest could be admitted, to which she also consented, and his two friends, one of whom is believed to have been the anonymous _Times_ correspondent, accordingly came, four days after the phenomena had, as has been stated, apparently ceased. The way in which this hospitality was repaid is a matter of common knowledge. Their hostess knew of no intention to make copy of their visit, with full names, geographical indications, and repetition of private conversations, until the publication of the _Times'_ article of June 8th. They remained from Saturday evening till Monday morning, and, like others, saw and heard nothing; and much time was spent in repeating the already often repeated experiments as to possible sources of the sights and sounds observed at B----. Their observations appeared to be able to penetrate no further than the mark of the shoe which Miss Freer pointed out on the door in the wing, made subsequently to the flight of the H---- family, a passage under the roof, with which the household had long been as familiar as with the hall-door, and the suggestion that a certain stream might run under the house, the which stream runs nowhere near the house at all, as Miss Freer was already well aware, a fact which she demonstrated for their benefit on a map of the estate. This is perhaps a suitable point at which to add a letter from the head-gardener who has been referred to more than once, more especially as an important witness to the phenomena of the H----s' tenancy. He writes to Miss Freer in reference to a statement by _The Times_ correspondent:-- "_July 8th, '97._-- ... I might also mention to you, while writing, that 'the intelligent gardener' that was made mention of in _The Times_ was a journeyman, and not myself, as many have supposed. I thought it proper to tell you, madam, because I told you and several others that I was in the house and had heard something." _The Times_ correspondent's statement is as follows:-- "An intelligent gardener whom I questioned told me that he had kept watch in the house on two separate occasions, abstaining from sleep until daylight appeared at seven o'clock, but without hearing a sound." The under gardener's experience of two nights is as exhaustive of the subject as that of _The Times_ correspondent and his friends, who also remained two nights, but do not allege that they "abstained from sleep." Mr. "Etienne" was the last guest at B----, and arrived the evening before the house was vacated. He afterwards told Lord Bute that he had brought, without the knowledge of any one in the house, two seismic instruments, but that they recorded nothing, and that during the night he heard a sound as of a gun being fired outside the house. This he attributed to some poacher unknown, an explanation which seems hardly probable, as at this time of year there is nothing to shoot except rabbits. One never hears of a poacher shooting rabbits, and in any case, he would hardly do so in the immediate neighbourhood of an inhabited house, and discharging his gun once only. Mr. "Etienne's" experiments are the more interesting because that among many suggestions made by Sir J. Crichton Browne, the only one which had not been already considered, was the use of seismic instruments. This--the house being within the seismic area--seemed so reasonable, that Miss Freer at once entered into correspondence with the well-known Professor Milne, with a view to experiment in this direction. The following is from his reply:-- "_May 15th, 1897._--I was much interested in your note of the 13th, and fancy that the sounds with which you have to deal may be of seismic origin. Such sounds I have often heard, and the air waves, if not the earth waves, can be mechanically recorded. What you require to make the records is a seismograph with large but exceeding light indices, or a Perry tromometer.... The reason I think that the sounds are seismic is, first, on account of their character, and secondly, because you are in one of the most unstable parts of Great Britain, where between 1852 and 1890, 465 shocks (many with sounds) were recorded. Lady Moncrieff, when living at Comrie House in 1844, often heard rumblings and moanings, and such sounds, possibly akin to the 'barisal guns'[H] of Eastern England, often occur without a shake. The mechanism of this production may be due to slight movements on a fault face, and they may be heard, especially in rocky districts, in very many countries...." Miss Freer's reply was an urgent request that machinery and an operator might be at once sent up to B----. Professor Milne replied that delicate instruments, such as he himself employed, could only be used by one other person, but suggested that she should hire from a well-known London firm what are known as "Ewing's-type" seismometers, adding, "I doubt whether these will record anything but movements to which you are sensible." Miss Freer's designs, however, were frustrated, for on applying for an extension of tenancy for this purpose, Captain S----, the proprietor, peremptorily forbade the continuance of scientific observation--a remarkable parallel to his father's refusal to permit the use of the phonograph when suggested by Sir William Huggins. In relation to his experiments at B---- Mr. "Etienne" writes:-- "Lord Bute has asked me to describe a seismographic instrument which I used during my short visit to B----. The instrument consisted of a light wooden frame or platform which rested on three billiard-balls. The balls in their turn rested on a horizontal plate of plate-glass. Through two wire rings in the centre of the platform already mentioned a needle stood perpendicularly, resting on its point on the plate of glass. The centre of the plate of glass (and the area round it and within in the triangle describable with the balls at its angles) was smoked. You will see that the parts of such an instrument are held together by gravitation, and a very little friction, and that a tremor communicated to the plate will not simultaneously affect the platform. The needle-point describes on the smoked surface which it moves across the converse of any movement of the plate which is not simultaneously a movement of the platform, and the error between this and the description of the tremor drawn by an absolutely fixed point--say the earth itself--has been calculated on a replica of this instrument as equal to the error of a pendulum thirty feet long." It will be noticed that the phenomena began, so far as Miss Freer was concerned, upon the night of her arrival in the house, February 3rd, and ceased (if we except the sound heard by Mr. Etienne), after the service performed by the Bishop on the morning of May 6th. This period comprises ninety-two days, but from these must be subtracted the seventeen days between Miss Freer's leaving B---- on the morning of April 9th, and that of the departure of Mr. Myers's medium, Miss "K.," on the morning of April 26th. Of the remaining seventy-five days, Miss Freer was absent from the house for four days, from March 16th to March 20th, and for two nights after Miss "K.'s" leaving; during this latter interval, however, Lord Bute was himself on the spot. On the other hand, she remained in the house for eight days after the service performed by the Bishop, during which time no phenomena occurred. Of the sixty-nine days of which a record is kept in the journal, viz., from February 3rd to May 14th, exclusive of twenty-three days for the reasons already indicated, daytime phenomena occurred upon eighteen days, and night phenomena upon thirty-five nights. To these must be added the night of April 27th, the occasion of the vision seen by Carter the housemaid during Lord Bute's visit. Thirty-four nights, or almost exactly half the period, were entirely without record of any phenomena whatever. This is without counting the seven nights of the last week, during which there were observers for longer or shorter periods in the house, none of whom recorded any sight or sound of a supernormal kind, unless it were the percussive or detonating noise heard by Mr. "Etienne." The term "night" is here understood to cover the period between the hour of going to rest at night, to that of leaving one's room next morning, even if the phenomena occurred in the daylight hours of the early morning. The term "day" is used to cover the hours of active, waking life, from breakfast to bedtime. To sum up the character of the phenomena, it may be well to begin with those that are _visual_. 1. The phantasm of the Rev. P. H----. This was seen once only, and by Miss Langton, on the night of February 17th. Of the identity no doubt can be felt, since Miss Moore and Miss Freer afterwards recognised the accuracy of the description on meeting the Rev. P. H---- for the first time, in a crowded railway station on May 25th. This is the only one of the apparitions which is undoubtedly that of a living person, and like many such apparitions, it occurred at an hour when it is probable that he was asleep. B---- is a place to which Father H----'s thoughts were naturally and disagreeably drawn, and to which his attention had been called anew. On awaking, he would probably have no recollection of the circumstances, or at the utmost would have an impression of having dreamt that he was there. 2. The woman once seen by Miss Freer in the drawing-room. She was older than Sarah N----, who died at the age of twenty-seven, but of whose haunting of B---- there is some tradition, but assisted by the parish register of marriages and births it is not difficult to form a guess at the identity of the phantasm. As there is some uncertainty as to whether the person in question is still living, though it is probable that she is dead, the vision is mentioned here before those as to which there is no reason to doubt that they represent the dead. There is reason to believe that the same apparition has been seen by former occupants of the house, and it is alleged to be that of a member of the S---- family. 3. The phantasm seen by Carter the housemaid, on the night of April 27th, who was described as "rather old," may possibly have been identical with the above. 4. The nun to whom was given the name of "Ishbel." This subject has been already discussed, and the suggestion thrown out that the phantasm was an erroneous mental picture of the late Rev. Mother Frances Helen, evolved from the imagination of a half-educated person who had never seen the lady in question, and knew little about her. This figure was seen many times by Miss Freer and Miss Langton, twice by the Rev. Mr. "Q.," and probably by Madame Boisseaux, who unhappily died suddenly before the editors had an opportunity of asking her for exact information. There were also earlier witnesses. She was never seen elsewhere than in the glen, except once by Miss Langton, and on the one occasion when a Bishop was saying Mass in the house, and Miss Freer saw her outside the window just after the elevation of the chalice. It was stated, however, by two separate witnesses, that a figure, probably the same, had been seen inside the house on at least one occasion, when, some years before Colonel Taylor's tenancy, Mrs. S---- was keeping her room, and a maid who was bringing up a tray met the figure on the stairs, and experienced such a start that she dropped the tray. 5. The lay-woman dressed in grey to whom was given the name of "Marget," and who was sometimes seen in the company of "Ishbel," usually as though upbraiding or reproving her. She was seen by Miss Freer and Miss Langton, and her voice in conversation with "Ishbel" was heard not only by them, but by Mr. C---- and Miss Moore, Mr. "Q." and Miss "Duff" (_cf._ Mrs. G.'s evidence, p. 68). 6. The appearance of the wooden crucifix seen in No. 3. It was about eighteen inches long, and the figure was of the same wood as the cross. Its earliest appearance is to the Rev. P. H----. It afterwards appeared to the Rev. Mr. "Q.," and lastly to Miss Freer, none of the witnesses knowing anything in detail of the experience of the others. It was also seen in the crystal by Miss Langton--possibly by thought transference from others. When the Rev. P. H---- saw it he was always drowsy, but when it appeared to Mr. "Q." its appearance was immediately preceded by a sensation of acute chill on his part, and its appearance to Miss Freer by a similar sensation on the part of "Endell." It is perhaps worth while to remark, that we are told that among spiritualists the sensation of cold is supposed to be an unfavourable indication as to the character of the spirits who are present, and that in the cases of both Mr. "Q." and Mr. "Endell" the appearance of the crucifix seemed to put an end to the chill. 7. The dogs. These were much more often heard than seen, the sounds being those of their pattering footsteps, sometimes as of their bounding about in play, and sometimes of their throwing themselves against the lower part of doors. It seemed, however, that they were visible to Miss Freer's living dog at times when they were not visible to her, and indeed the abject terror which the Pomeranian displayed in No. 8 was so distressing, that she changed her room from No. 8 to No. 5 in consequence. A dog was, moreover, seen by Miss Freer and Miss Langton in the smoking-room on April 8th; Miss Freer and Miss Moore have described more than one occasion when they felt themselves pushed as by a dog; and on the night of May 4th, Miss Freer saw the two forepaws only, of another and larger black dog resting on the edge of a table in No. 8. Other apparitions seen in the house by former occupants were described to members of Colonel Taylor's party as well as to earlier tenants, but here, as elsewhere, we have refrained from all quotation from the relatives of the present proprietor. It is interesting to remark that one apparition which was constantly expected during Colonel Taylor's tenancy was expected in vain. This was that of the little old gentleman with stooping form and limping gait mentioned by earlier witnesses. His peculiar step was heard very frequently, and by a great number and variety of witnesses, alone and collectively; and his appearance, naturally enough, was constantly looked for, but it never occurred. In the same way there was one expected sound which never occurred, though frequent in the experience of earlier witnesses--that of the rustling of a silk dress, suggesting to the mind of the hearer the idea of some one who, either in fact or in thought, had worn such a garment. _Tactile._ The most important of these were the experiences of Miss "N." on the night of March 3rd, and of Miss "Duff" on the night of March 22nd, both in No. 3; and of a maid, Lizzie, on the night of March 23rd, in the room above No. 3, on the attic storey, who all testified to the sensation of the moving of the bed, or the handling of the bed-clothes. These were the only occasions during Colonel Taylor's tenancy, but the phenomenon is one often testified to by earlier witnesses, both during the H----s' tenancy and that of the family of the late Mr. S----. It presents a peculiar difficulty in the way of the theory that all the phenomena at B---- were subjective hallucinations, and this is especially the case with regard to the evidence of a witness who has not been brought forward in the preceding pages, but whose account of a similar experience is reported by two first-hand witnesses. On one occasion he had the whole of the upper bed-clothes lifted from off him and thrown upon the floor, while a pile of wearing apparel, which was laid on a chair beside the bed, was thrown in his face. It is of course conceivable that the whole of these experiences, including the last, were the result of an hallucination; but on the other hand, it would be very unwise, in the present state of our ignorance on the subject, to dogmatise as to the possible action of unseen forces upon what is commonly called matter. It is interesting to note that this senseless and childish trick coincides with what was said by Miss A---- as to the presence of mischievous elementals, and also what she says as to _apports_.[I] 1. The sensation of the movement of the bed itself, whether as being rocked, as in the experience of Miss "Duff" on March 22nd, and of Miss Langton on several occasions, and by guests of the H---- family, or of being lifted up, as in that of the maid Lizzie, is a phenomenon by no means uncommon, and if objective is of the nature of levitation; but we have unfortunately no evidence from a second person observing the phenomenon from outside. Whether it were actually moved it is impossible to say, but the sensation seems to have been more than subjective. 2. The sensation of struggling with something unseen, described by Miss "Duff," March 22nd, and of the sensation of an incumbent weight, as described by Miss "Duff" (same date) and Miss "N." on March 2nd. This coincides with the arrest of his hand experienced by Harold Sanders. These phenomena adapt themselves to the theory of subjectivity more easily than the foregoing, because they more closely resemble those of nightmare (familiar to most persons), although they occurred while the witnesses were awake. 3. The sensation of being pushed by a dog was experienced in two different rooms by Miss Freer and Miss Moore respectively. If Mr. "Endell" were touched by Ishbel on the evening of March 1st, as appeared to Miss Freer to be the case, he had no independent consciousness of the fact that might not have been referred to expectation, so that this cannot be regarded as evidential. For lack of other classification, we mention under this heading of "tactile" the sensation of chill experienced by Mr. "Endell" and Mr. Q---- in No. 3, and which appears to be the same as that described by Harold Sanders as the sensation of "entering an ice-house." The _audile_ phenomena were so frequent and so various, that a conspectus of them is given in an appendix. Some of them appeared to be human in origin, such as voices, reading or speaking, footsteps, and, according to earlier witnesses, screams and moans. Others might have been caused by dogs, such as pattering footsteps, jumping and pouncing as in play, the wagging of a dog's tail against the door, and the sound as of a dog throwing itself against the lower panels. Other sounds have been differentiated, as the _detonating_ or explosive noise; the _clang_ sound, as of the striking of metal upon wood; the _thud_ or heavy fall without resonance; and the _crash_, which was never better described than as if one of the beasts' heads on the staircase wall had fallen into the hall below. It very often, or almost always, seemed to occur under the glass dome which lighted the body of the house, and the falling object seemed to strike others in its descent, so that it was not ineffectively imitated by rolling a bowl along the stone floor of the hall, and allowing it to strike against the doors or pillars, when the peculiar echoing quality was fairly reproduced by the hollow domed roof and surrounding galleries. The editors offer no conclusions. This volume has been put together, as the house at B---- was taken, not for the establishment of theories, but for the record of facts. FOOTNOTES: [C] They consisted of a small part of the evidence already quoted. [D] We have since ascertained by experiment that no sound short of beating with a hammer on the wall itself is audible between the two rooms; also, that the upsetting of a metal candlestick on the bare boards in the nearer servants' room (over No. 1) cannot be heard in No. 8. [E] _Cf._ Mrs. Robinson's account _ante_. [F] These remarkable disclosures included, among other details, the murder of a Roman Catholic family chaplain, at a period when the S----s were and had long been Presbyterian, the suicide of one of the family who is still living, and the throwing, by persons in mediæval costume, of the corpse of an infant, over a bridge, which is quite new, into a stream which until lately ran underground. Professor Lodge had not had the same opportunity of acquiring a critical standpoint as to such statements, as those whose knowledge of the place was more intimate. [G] The words, in uttering which Lord Bute was thus affected, were, "Regem cui omnia vivunt venite adoremus," an invitation in which he meant to include all intelligent beings. Miss Freer, Miss Langton, and a third guest, chatting one night about 10.30 in this room, were startled by one of the familiar crashes outside. Miss Freer treated the matter lightly, fearing lest the lady in question, by no means a nervous person, however, should be alarmed; and receiving no reply turned to look at her, and observed that her lower jaw was convulsed, and that she was painfully struggling to recover speech. [H] See Appendix II. [I] See Appendix I. APPENDIX APPENDIX I A lady, known to readers of _Proceedings S.P.R._ as Miss A----, who is an habitual automatic writer, but whose social position removes her from the temptations and tendencies of the ordinary so-called medium, was good enough on March 10, 1897, to contribute the following automatic script in reply to a request from Lord Bute:-- "I do not much care for the influence of this house; it is most decidedly haunted, but not by any particularly good spirits, the haunting being carried on by mischievous elementals, and as far as I can make out there is some one who lives there through all the changes, who supplies a great deal of force, and who is not aware of the power. I think that a great deal more is added to what really takes place, as the hauntings appear to me to consist of disturbing noises, with now and then a case of apport, for the elementary forces are not sufficient to produce forms unless a great deal of outside force is given. "The forms that would appear would always be different, as each mediumistic person would supply his own surroundings. The only one I am not sure about is the shadowy figure of an old man whom I have twice seen in rather a dark passage, and from his surrounding light I should say he may often be there. "I think the noises would stop of themselves, at least the more disturbing part, if a less attentive attitude were taken towards them." These statements present certain interesting points as coming from one who had never seen the house, and knew nothing of its phenomena. "The shadowy figure of an old man in a dark passage" seems to point to the figure, possibly, of the Major, seen by earlier witnesses in the dark lobby--the only dark corner in the house--outside the door of the downstairs smoking-room, and whose voice was heard there by Miss Freer, Miss Langton, and Mr. T---- during the tenancy of Colonel Taylor. An occasion upon which the phenomena might be described as those of "mischievous elementals," and also of _apports_, is referred to in the summing up of tactile phenomena, though it did not occur during the tenancy of Colonel Taylor. On the other hand, the phenomena were often more active when least looked for, and some of those most expected never occurred. As there was not even a servant, nor even a dumb animal, common to the occupation of the S---- family and the tenancy of the H----s or Colonel Taylor, we are at a loss to know who the person can be who lives at B---- through all the changes, and supplies force during the past twenty years. APPENDIX II BARISAL GUNS. (_See page 221._) Readers not acquainted with this phenomenon may be referred to an interesting correspondence in the pages of _Nature_ (Oct. 1895, and _Seq._), opened by Professor G.H. Darwin-- "In the delta of the Ganges," he says, "dull sounds, more or less resembling distant artillery, are often heard. These are called Barisal guns, but I do not know the meaning of the term." The same sounds have been recorded by M. Rutot of the Geological Survey along the Belgian coast, and are alleged to be pretty common in the North of France. M. van der Broeck, Conservator of the Museum of Natural History of Belgium, says-- "I have constantly noticed these sounds in the plain of Limburg since 1880;--more than ten of my personal acquaintances have observed the fact. The detonations are dull and distant, and are repeated a dozen times or more at irregular intervals. They are usually heard in the daytime, when the sky is clear, and especially towards evening after a very hot day. The noise does not at all resemble artillery, blasting in mines, or the growling of distant thunder." M. van der Broeck elsewhere refers to "similar noises heard on Dartmoor, and in some parts of Scotland." Readers of Blackmore's story of "Lorna Doone" will remember, among other valuable observations of out-door life, his accounts of "the hollow moaning sound" during the intense cold of the winter, of which he gives so graphic an account. It was "ever present in the air, morning, noon, and night time, and especially at night, whether any wind was stirring or whether it were a perfect calm" (Chap. xlvi.). Another correspondent in _Nature_ refers to remarkable noises among the hills of Cheshire: "When the wind is easterly, and nearly calm on the flats, a hollow moaning sound is heard, popularly termed the Soughing of the Wind, which Sir Walter Scott, in his glossary to 'Guy Mannering,' interprets as a hollow blast or whisper." Another writer quotes experiences in East Anglia, tending to show that such sounds may be reports arising from the process of "faulting" going on, on a small scale, at a great depth, and not of sufficient intensity to produce a perceptible vibration at the earth's surface. It would seem that in districts such as Comrie in Perthshire, East Hadden in Connecticut, Pignerol in Piedmont, Meleda in the Adriatic, &c., sounds without shocks are common during intervals, which may last for several years. Remarkable sounds, not apparently accounted for, are reported to proceed from Lough Neagh in Ireland. See _Nature_, Oct. 1895, and following numbers; articles by M. van der Broeck in _Ciel et Terre_ (Belgium), Dec. 1, 1895, and following numbers, also _Geol. Mag._, vol. ix. 1892, pp. 208-18. CONSPECTUS OF AUDILE PHENOMENA AT B---- HOUSE RECORDED IN JOURNAL ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ Recorded |Heard in Room.| Witness. | Description of Sound. | under | | | | Date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ Feb. 4 | No. I. |{ Miss Freer |{ Loud clanging sound, as of | | |{ Miss Moore |{ metal struck with wood | | | |{ Voices in conversation | | | | | | No. III. | "Mac," the maid |{ Voices, footsteps, things | | | |{ dragged about | | | | | " 5 | Attics | Two housemaids | Continuous reading | | | | | " 7 | No. VII. | Miss Moore |{ Reverberating bang close to | | | |{ bed | | | | | |Drawing-room | Mac | Noises and footsteps | | | | | | Hall | Miss Moore | Clanging sound upstairs | | | | | " 8 | "Butler's | | | | room" | Mac | Footsteps and sounds on door | | | | | | No. VII. | Miss Moore | Reverberating bang | | | Miss Moore }| Noises percussive | | | Miss Freer }| or explosive | | | | | | The Glen |{ Miss Freer }| | | |{ Mr. C---- }| Voices in conversation | | | | | " 9 | No. VII. |{ Miss Moore }| Noises percussive | | |{ Miss Freer }| or explosive | | | | | " 10 | No. I. | Miss Moore |{ Clangs. Voices in | | | |{ conversation | | | | | | No. V. | Mr. W---- | Knockings. | | | | | | No. VIII. | Colonel Taylor | Footsteps overhead | | | | | " 13 | No. I. | Miss Moore | Clanging noise | | | Miss Moore }| | | | Miss Freer }| Crash | | | | | | No. V. | Mrs. W---- | Knockings | | | | | " 15 | No. IV. | Miss Langton | A loud crash | | | | | | |{ Miss Langton }| | " 16 | The Glen |{ Miss Freer }| | | |{ Miss Moore }| Voices in conversation | | | | | | |{ Mrs. W---- }| | | |{ Miss Langton }| | " 17 | Drawing-room |{ Miss Moore }| Footsteps overhead in disused | | |{ Miss Freer }| room | | | | | | |{ Col. Taylor }| | | Drawing-room |{ Mrs. W---- }| Clanging noise, four times | | |{ Miss Langton }| repeated | | |{ Miss Moore }| | | |{ Miss Freer }| | | | | | " 18 | No. VIII. | Miss Freer | Banging sounds | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ Recorded |Heard in Room.| Witness. | Description of Sound. | under | | | | Date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ | | |{ Sounds as of an animal's | Feb. 18 | No. VIII. |{ Miss Moore |{ movements in the room in | | |{ Miss Freer |{ daylight | | | | | | The Glen |{ Miss Langton }| Voices in conversation | | |{ Miss Freer }| | | | | | | The Glen |{ Miss Langton }| Voices in conversation | | |{ (later) }| | | | | | " 19 | The Glen | Miss Langton |{ Voices in conversation and | | | |{ footsteps | | | | | " 20 | No. VIII. |{ Miss Moore }| Sounds of active movement of | | |{ Miss Freer }| an animal in the room | | | | | " 21 | No. VIII. | Miss Moore |{ Footsteps of an old man | | | | shuffling in slippers | | | | | | | Miss Moore }| | | | Miss Freer }| Movements of animal | | | Dog }| | | | | | | | Miss Moore }| | | | Miss Freer }| Bang on wall near No VII. | | | | | " 25 | Wing | Mr. "Endell" |{ Clang noise "like a pavior's | | | |{ hammer dropped" | | | | | | No. I. | Mr. Garford |{ Violent banging on door of | | | | Nos. I. and II. | | | | | | | |{ Groans; "a greatly magnified | | No. III. | Mr. "Q." |{ edition of sounds I have | | | |{ several times heard in the | | | |{ drawing-room" | | | | | | | |{ Detonating or percussive | " 26 | No. I. | Mr. Garford |{ noise like "a wheel-barrow | | | |{ on a hard road" | | | | | March 1 | No. IV. | Mr. MacP---- |{ Loud clanging sound in the | | | | room | | | | | " 2 | No. VIII. |{ Miss Freer }|{ Movements of animal in the | | |{ Miss Moore }|{ room | | | | | | | Miss Freer }| Heavy fall | | | Miss Moore }| | | | | | | No. III. | Miss "N." | Thud, sounding from below | | | | | " 5 | No. VIII. | Miss Moore |{ Movements of animal in the | | | |{ room | | | | | | Attics | Two maids | Monotonous reading | | | | | | | |{ Monotonous reading (also | | No. I. | Mrs. B.C. |{ mentioned by Mr. Garford as | | | |{ occurring in No. I.) | | | | | | | Mrs. B.C. | Bang on door of room | | | | | | Attics |{ Mrs. Robinson |{ Voices in conversation | | |{ (cook) |{ Bangs on the wall of room | | | | | " 7 | Attics | Robinson |{ Heavy body falling in the | | | (butler) | room | | | | | | | |{ Movements of heavy body in | | | |{ the room | | No. II. | Mr. C---- |{ Footsteps as if descending | | | |{ stairs | | | |{ Loud rapping on doors of | | | |{ Nos. I. and II. | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ Recorded |Heard in Room.| Witness. | Description of Sound. | under | | | | Date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ March 8 | No. II. | Mr. C---- | Noises in No. I. (empty room) | | | | | " 10 | No. VIII. |{ Miss Moore | Animal moving in the room | | |{ Miss Freer | Heavy fall | | | | | " 13 | No. VIII. |{ Miss Moore }| Loud bangs | | |{ Miss Freer }| | | | | | | |{ Robinson, }| | | Attics |{ and Mrs. }| Loud bangs | | |{ Robinson }| | | | | | | No. IV. | Miss Langton | Loud bangs | | | | | " 15 | No. VIII. |{ Miss Moore }| Vibrating bang | | |{ Miss Freer }| | | | | | | No. IV. | Miss Langton | Vibrating bang | | | | | | Wing | Colonel Taylor | Vibrating bang | | | | | [Miss Freer was absent for four nights, and no Journal was kept.] | | | | | | |{ Miss Moore |{ Metallic sound in room "like | " 20 | No. I. |{ Miss Freer | the 'giving' of a large | | |{ Miss Langton | tin box" | | | | | " 22 | No. IV. | Mr. MacP---- | Heavy footsteps overhead | | | | | | No. III. | Miss "Duff" |{ Resounding crash at door | | | |{ Resounding crash in room | | | | | | | |{ Monotonous reading (also | " 23 | Drawing-room | Miss "Duff" |{ mentioned as occurring in | | | |{ No. III.) | | | | | " 24 | No. V. | Miss Freer |{ Crash of something falling | | | |{ under dome | | | | | | No. VIII. | Colonel C---- | Loud thump on door of room | | | | | | | |{ Explosive noises | | No. I. | Mr. W---- |{ Crash of something falling | | | |{ under dome | | | | | | |{ Two housemaids}| | | Attics |{ and }| Loud knockings | | |{ kitchen-maid }| | | | | | | Butler's room|} Mrs. Robinson |{ Footsteps and knocking on | | on ground |} |{ door of No. III. | | floor |} | | | | | | | No. III. | Miss "Duff" |{ Shuffling foot steps | | | |{ outside room | | | | | | No. II. |{ Miss "Duff" }| Fall against door of No. I. | | |{ Miss Langton }| | | | | | " 25 | No. II. | Miss Langton |{ Loud thump on door between | | | |{ I. and II. | | | | | | |{ Carter }| | | |{ (housemaid) }| | " 27 | Attics |{ Under- }| Monotonous reading | | |{ housemaid }| | | |{ Kitchen-maid }| | | | | | " 29 | Library |{ Miss Freer }|{ Footsteps in locked-up | | |{ Miss Langton }|{ room overhead | | | | | " 30 | Library |{ Miss Freer }|{ Footsteps in locked-up | | |{ Miss Langton }|{ room overhead | | | | | | |{ Mr. and Mrs. }| | | Corridor |{ M---- }| Rappings in No. II. (empty). | | |{ Miss Langton }| (See Mr. M----'s account) | | |{ Miss Freer }| | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ Recorded |Heard in Room.| Witness. | Description of Sound. | under | | | | Date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ March 31 | No. VIII. | Miss Langton |{ Shuffling footsteps in the | | | |{ room | | | |{ Knock near the wardrobe | | | | | | | |{ Metallic clangs in the room | | | |{ like "tuning a kettle-drum";| | |{ Mrs. M---- |{ later, "terrific noise," | | No. I. |{ Mr. M---- |{ "like treble rap on a | | | |{ hollow panel,"--like "the | | | |{ lid of a heavy coal-scuttle | | | |{ let fall" | | | | | | | |{ Voices in library | | Drawing-room | Mrs. M---- |{ Detonating noise (like a | | | |{ distant cannon) | | | | | April 1 | No. VIII. |{ Mr. M---- }| Voices and footsteps in | | |{ Mrs. M---- }| room overhead (empty) | | | | | | Drawing-room | Mrs. M---- | Voices and footsteps | | | | overhead | | | | | | |{ Mrs. M---- }| | | In the garden|{ Miss Freer }| Detonating noise | | |{ Miss Langton }| | | | | | | |{ Mrs. M---- }| Limping footsteps overhead | | Drawing-room |{ Miss Freer }| Voices of a man and woman | | |{ Miss Langton }| | | | | | " 2 | Library |{ Miss Freer }| Heavy blow on table | | |{ Miss Langton }| | | | | | | | Mrs. M---- | Heavy blow on table (heard | | | Miss Freer | in dining-room) | | | Miss Langton | | | | | | | |{ Miss Freer }| Footsteps overhead in | | Dining-room |{ Miss Langton }| empty room | | |{ Robinson }| | | |{ (butler) }| | | | | | " 3 | Library | Miss Langton |{ Violent hammering on door | | | |{ in daylight | | | | | | |{ Miss Freer }| Footsteps overhead in | | |{ Miss Langton }| empty room | | Dining-room |{ Mr. T---- }| | | |{ Robinson }| | | |{ (butler) }| | | | | | " 4 | No. V. |{ Miss Freer }| Crash under dome | | |{ Miss Langton }| | | | | | " 5 | No. I. | Mr. T---- | Monotonous reading | | | | | " 6 | No. I. | Mr. T---- |{ Thuds on floor above, and | | | |{ on door of room | | | |{ Voices in conversation | | | | | " 7 | No. V. | Miss Freer | Crash under dome | | | | | | No. I. | Mr. T---- |{ Crash under dome | | | |{ Voices in conversation | | | |{ Raps at foot of door | | | | | " 8 | Various parts| Household |{ Crashes and bangs and | | of the house| generally |{ footsteps heard during | | | |{ the day | | | | | | Smoking-room |{ Miss Freer }| Shuffling footsteps in the | | |{ Miss Langton }| room | | |{ Mr. T---- }| Voices outside door | | |{ Dog }| | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ Recorded |Heard in Room.| Witness. | Description of Sound. | under | | | | Date. | | | | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ April 8 | No. IV. | Miss Freer | Crash under dome | | | | | | No. VIII. | Miss Langton | Shuffling footsteps | | | | | | No. I. | Mr. T---- | Voices | | | | | | | |{ Thuds on lowest panels of | | | |{ door | | No. IV. | Miss Freer |{ Footsteps of many persons | | | | | [No Journal kept between April 8 and April 29. During this period | Professor Lodge's notes testify to "knocks on the wall, a sawing noise, | a droning and a wailing, ... some whistling, and apparent attempts at a | whisper, all up in the attic.] | | | | | | | |{ Monotonous voice from | May 3 | No. I. | Mme. Boisseaux |{ No. III. | | | |{ Voices in argument | | | | | | No. V. | Mrs. "F." | Knocks at door | | | | | " 4 | No. V. | Mme. Boisseaux | Knocks at door | | | | | | |{ Mme. | | | | Boisseaux }| | | |{ Mrs. "F." }|{ Detonating noise in empty | " 5 | Drawing-room |{ Mrs. M---- }|{ room overhead (No. I.) in | | |{ Miss Freer }|{ daylight | | |{ Rev. MacL---- }| | | | | | | Billiard-room| Gardener, }| | | | butler, cook} | Crash in the room | | | and others } | | | | | | " 6 | No. V. | Mme. Boisseaux |{ "Room resounded with | | | |{ knocks" | | | | | | Library |{ Miss Freer }| Bangs on table | | |{ Miss Moore }| | | | | | " 13 | No. I. | Mr. "Etienne" | [?] Detonating noise | ---------+--------------+-----------------+-------------------------------+ NOTES [Compare Plan of House.] 1. The rooms spoken of in the text as "the library," and the "upstairs," or "wing" smoking-room, are those marked in the Plan as the "morning-room," and the bedroom to the extreme east in the wing. 2. Most of the maid-servants slept in rooms Y and Z, over 1 and 2, until the alarm of March 25, when they moved to the rooms on the other side the house (X and W), thus leaving those over Nos. 1 and 2 empty. 3. Robinson and Mrs. Robinson (butler and cook) occupied room W till March 13, when both moved into the butler's room off the hall, which during the first month had been occupied by Mac the maid, who became ill and returned south. 4. Opinions regarding the noises, and experiments as to their origin, will be found on the under-mentioned pages of the Journal. _Opinions_, pp. 92, 111, 113, 120, 124, 128, 133, 143, 144, 147, 153, 154, 159, 162, 166, 168, 173, 179, 187, 198, 201, 207, 215, 219, 234, 242. _Experiments_, pp. 109, 129, 140, 160, 175, 180, 218, 220. Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. Edinburgh & London