CHAPTER I - LUCETTA FULFILS MY EXPECTATION OF HER

It was not till Mr. Trohm had driven away that I noticed, in the shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the road, a horse tied up, whose empty saddle bespoke a visitor within.  At any other gate and on any other road this would not have struck me as worthy of notice, much less of comment.  But here, and after all that I had heard during the morning, the circumstance was so unexpected I could not help showing my astonishment.

“A visitor?” I asked.

“Some one to see Lucetta.”

William had no sooner said this than I saw he was in a state of high excitement.  He had probably been in this condition when we drove up, but my attention being directed elsewhere I had not noticed it.  Now, however, it was perfectly plain to me, and it did not seem quite the excitement of displeasure, though hardly that of joy.

“She doesn’t expect you yet,” he pursued, as I turned sharply toward the house, “and if you interrupt her ­D ­n it, if I thought you would interrupt her ­”

I thought it time to teach him a lesson in manners.

“Mr. Knollys,” I interposed somewhat severely, “I am a lady.  Why should I interrupt your sister or give her or you a moment of pain?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered.  “You are so very quick I was afraid you might think it necessary to join her in the parlor.  She is perfectly able to take care of herself, Miss Butterworth, and if she don’t do it ­” The rest was lost in indistinct guttural sounds.

I made no effort to answer this tirade.  I took my usual course in quite my usual way to the front steps and proceeded to mount them without so much as looking behind me to see whether or not this uncouth representative of the Knollys name had kept at my heels or not.

Entering the door, which was open, I came without any effort on my part upon Lucetta and her visitor, who proved to be a young gentleman.  They were standing together in the middle of the hall and were so absorbed in what they were saying that they neither saw nor heard me.  I was therefore enabled to catch the following sentences, which struck me as of some moment.  The first was uttered by her, and in very pleading tones: 

“A week ­I only ask a week.  Then perhaps I can give you an answer which will satisfy you.”

His reply, in manner if not in matter, proclaimed him the lover of whom I had so lately heard.

“I cannot, dear girl; indeed, I cannot.  My whole future depends upon my immediately making the move in which I have asked you to join me.  If I wait a week, my opportunity will be gone, Lucetta.  You know me and you know how I love you.  Then come ­”

A rude hand on my shoulder distracted my attention.  William stood lowering behind me and, as I turned, whispered in my ear: 

“You must come round the other way.  Lucetta is so touchy, the sight of you will drive every sensible idea out of her head.”

His blundering whisper did what my presence and by no means light footsteps had failed to do.  With a start Lucetta turned and, meeting my eye, drew back in visible confusion.  The young man followed her hastily.

“Is it good-by, Lucetta?” he pleaded, with a fine, manly ignoring of our presence that roused my admiration.

She did not answer.  Her look was enough.  William, seeing it, turned furious at once, and, bounding by me, faced the young man with an oath.

“You’re a fool to take no from a silly chit like that,” he vociferated.  “If I loved a girl as you say you love Lucetta, I’d have her if I had to carry her away by force.  She’d stop screaming before she was well out of the lane.  I know women.  While you listen to them they’ll talk and talk; but once let a man take matters into his own hands and ­” A snap of his fingers finished the sentence.  I thought the fellow brutal, but scarcely so stupid as I had heretofore considered him.

His words, however, might just as well have been uttered into empty air.  The young man he so violently addressed appeared hardly to have heard him, and as for Lucetta, she was so nearly insensible from misery that she had sufficient ado to keep herself from falling at her lover’s feet.

“Lucetta, Lucetta, is it then good-by?  You will not go with me?”

“I cannot.  William, here, knows that I cannot.  I must wait till ­”

But here her brother seized her so violently by the wrist that she stopped from sheer pain, I fear.  However that was, she turned pale as death under his clutch, and, when he tried to utter some hot, passionate words into her ear, shook her head, but did not speak, though her lover was gazing with a last, final appeal into her eyes.  The delicate girl was bearing out my estimate of her.

Seeing her thus unresponsive, William flung her hand from him and turned upon me.

“It’s your fault,” he cried.  “You would come in ­”

But, at this, Lucetta, recovering her poise in a moment, cried out shrilly: 

“For shame, William!  What has Miss Butterworth to do with this?  You are not helping me with your roughness.  God knows I find this hour hard enough, without this show of anxiety on your part to be rid of me.”

“There’s woman’s gratitude for you,” was his snarling reply.  “I offer to take all the responsibilities on my own shoulders and make it right with ­with her sister, and all that, and she calls it desire to get rid of her.  Well, have your own way,” he growled, storming down the hall; “I’m done with it for one.”

The young man, whose attitude of reserve, mixed with a strange and lingering tenderness for this girl, whom he evidently loved without fully understanding her, was every minute winning more and more of my admiration, had meanwhile raised her trembling hand to his lips in what was, as we all could see, a last farewell.

In another moment he was walking by us, giving me as he passed a low bow that for all its grace did not succeed in hiding from me the deep and heartfelt disappointment with which he quitted this house.  As his figure passed through the door, hiding for one moment the sunshine, I felt an oppression such as has not often visited my healthy nature, and when it passed and disappeared, something like the good spirit of the place seemed to go with it, leaving in its place doubt, gloom, and a morbid apprehension of that unknown something which in Lucetta’s eyes had rendered his dismissal necessary.

“Where’s Saracen?  I declare I’m nothing but a fool without that dog,” shouted William.  “If he has to be tied up another day ­” But shame was not entirely eliminated from his breast, for at Lucetta’s reproachful “William!” he sheepishly dropped his head and strode out, muttering some words I was fain to accept as an apology.

I had expected to encounter a wreck in Lucetta, as, this episode in her life closed, she turned toward me.  But I did not yet know this girl, whose frailty seemed to lie mostly in her physique.  Though she was suffering far more than her defence of me to her brother would seem to denote, there was a spirit in her approach and a steady look in her dark eye which assured me that I could not calculate upon any loss in Lucetta’s keenness, in case we came to an issue over the mystery that was eating into the happiness as well as the honor of this household.

“I am glad to see you,” were her unexpected words.  “The gentleman who has just gone out was a lover of mine; at least he once professed to care for me very much, and I should have been glad to have married him, but there were reasons which I once thought most excellent why this seemed anything but expedient, and so I sent him away.  To-day he came without warning to ask me to go away with him, after the hastiest of ceremonies, to South America, where a splendid prospect has suddenly opened for him.  You see, don’t you, that I could not do that; that it would be the height of selfishness in me to leave Loreen ­to leave William ­”

“Who seems only too anxious to be left,” I put in, as her voice trailed off in the first evidence of embarrassment she had shown since she faced me.

“William is a difficult man to understand,” was her firm but quiet retort.  “From his talk you would judge him to be morose, if not positively unkind, but in action ­” She did not tell me how he was in action.  Perhaps her truthfulness got the better of her, or perhaps she saw it would be hard work to prejudice me now in his favor.

CHAPTER II - LOREEN

Lucetta had said to her departing lover, that in a week she might be able (were he willing or in a position to wait) to give him a more satisfactory answer.  Why in a week?

That her hesitation sprang from the mere dislike of leaving her sister so suddenly, or that she had sacrificed her life’s happiness to any childish idea of decorum, I did not think probable.  The spirit she had shown, her immovable attitude under a temptation which had not only romance to recommend it, but everything else which could affect a young and sensitive woman, argued in my mind the existence of some uncompleted duty of so exacting and imperative a nature that she could not even consider the greatest interests of her own life until this one thing was out of her way.  William’s rude question of the morning, “What shall we do with the old girl till it is all over?” recurred to me in support of this theory, making me feel that I needed no further confirmation, to be quite certain that a crisis was approaching in this house which would tax my powers to the utmost and call perhaps for the use of the whistle which I had received from Mr. Gryce, and which, following his instructions, I had tied carefully about my neck.  Yet how could I associate Lucetta with crime, or dream of the police in connection with the serene Loreen, whose every look was a rebuke to all that was false, vile, or even common?  Easily, my readers, easily, with that great, hulking William in my remembrance.  To shield him, to hide perhaps his deformity of soul from the world, even such gentle and gracious women as these have been known to enter into acts which to an unprejudiced eye and an unbiased conscience would seem little short of fiendish.  Love for an unworthy relative, or rather the sense of duty toward those of one’s own blood, has driven many a clear-minded woman to her ruin, as may be seen any day in the police annals.

I am quite aware that I have not as yet put into definite words the suspicion upon which I was now prepared to work.  Up to this time it had been too vague, or rather of too monstrous a character for me not to consider other theories, such as, for instance, the possible connection of old Mother Jane with the unaccountable disappearances which had taken place in this lane.  But after this scene, the increased assurance I was hourly receiving that something extraordinary and out of keeping with the customary appearances of the household was secretly going on in some one of the various chambers of that long corridor I had been prevented from entering, forced me to accept and act upon the belief that these young women held in charge a prisoner of some kind, of whose presence in the house they dreaded the discovery.

Now, who could this prisoner be?

Common sense supplied me with but one answer; Silly Rufus, the boy who within a few days had vanished from among the good people of this seemingly guileless community.

This theory once established in my mind, I applied myself to a consideration of the means at my disposal for determining its validity.  The simplest, surest, but least satisfactory to one of my nature was to summon the police and have the house thoroughly searched, but this involved, in case I had been deceived by appearances ­as was possible even to a woman of my experience and discrimination, ­a scandal and an opprobrium which I would be the last to inflict upon Althea’s children, unless justice to the rest of the world demanded it.

It was in consideration of this very fact, perhaps, that I had been chosen for this duty instead of some regular police spy.  Mr. Gryce, as I very well knew, has made it his rule of life never to risk the reputation of any man or woman without reasons so excellent as to carry their own exoneration with them, and should I, a woman, with full as much heart as himself, if not quite as much brain (at least in the estimation of people in general), by any premature exposure of my suspicions, subject these young friends of mine to humiliations they are far too weak and too poor to rise above?

No, rather would I trust a little longer to my own perspicacity and make sure by the use of my own eyes that the situation called for the interference I had, as you may say, at the end of the cord I wore about my neck.

Lucetta had not asked me how I came to be back so much sooner than she had reason to expect me.  The unlooked-for arrival of her lover had probably put all idea of her former plans out of her head.  I therefore gave her the shortest of explanations when we met at the dinner table.  Nothing further seemed to be necessary, for the girls were even more abstracted than before, and William positively boorish till a warning glance from Loreen recalled him to his better self, which meant silence.

The afternoon was spent in very much the same way as the evening before.  Neither sister remained an instant with me after the other entered my company, and though the alternations were less frequent than at that time, their peculiarities were more marked and less naturally accounted for.  It was while Loreen was with me that I made the suggestion which had been hovering on my lips ever since the noon.

“I consider this,” I observed, in one of the pauses of our more than fitful conversation, “one of the most interesting houses it has ever been my good fortune to enter.  Would you mind my roaming about a bit just to enjoy the old-time flavor of its great empty rooms?  I know they are mostly closed and possibly unfurnished, but to a connoisseur like myself in colonial architecture, this rather adds to, than detracts from, their interest.”

“Impossible,” she was going to say, but caught herself back in time and changed the imperative word to one more conciliatory if equally unyielding.

“I am sorry, Miss Butterworth, to deny you this gratification, but the condition of the rooms and the unhappy excitement into which we have been thrown by the unfortunate visit paid to Lucetta by a gentleman to whom she is only too much attached, make it quite impossible for me to consider any such undertaking to-day.  To-morrow I may find it easier; but, if not, be assured you shall see every nook and corner of this house before you finally leave it.”

“Thank you.  I will remember that.  To one of my tastes an ancient room in a time-honored mansion like this, affords a delight not to be understood by one who knows less of the last century’s life.  The legends connected with your great drawing-room below [we were sitting in my room, I having refused to be cooped up in their dreary side parlor, and she not having offered me any other spot more cheerful] are sufficient in themselves to hold me entranced for an hour.  I heard one of them to-day.”

“Which?”

She spoke more quickly than usual, and for her quite sharply.

“That of Lucetta’s namesake,” I explained.  “She who rode through the night after a daughter who had won her lover’s heart away from her.

“Ah, it is a well-known tale, but I think Mrs. Carter might have left its relation to us.  Did she tell you anything else?”

“No other tradition of this place,” I assured her.

“I am glad she was so considerate.  But why ­if you will pardon me ­did she happen to light upon that story?  We have not heard those incidents spoken of for years.”

“Not since the phantom coach flew through this road the last time,” I ventured, with a smile that should have disarmed her from suspecting any ulterior motive on my part in thus introducing a subject which could not be altogether pleasing to her.

“The phantom coach!  Have you heard of that?”

I wish it had been Lucetta who had said this and to whom my reply was due.  The opportunities would have been much greater for an injudicious display of feeling on her part and for a suitable conclusion on mine.

But it was Loreen, and she never forgot herself.  So I had to content myself with the persuasion that her voice was just a whit less clear than usual and her serenity enough impaired for her to look out of my one high and dismal window instead of into my face.

“My dear,” ­I had not called her this before, though the term had frequently risen to my lips in answer to Lucetta ­“you should have gone with me into the village to-day.  Then you would not need to ask if I had heard of the phantom coach.”

The probe had reached the quick at last.  She looked quite startled.

“You amaze me,” she said.  “What do you mean, Miss Butterworth?  Why should I not have needed to ask?”

“Because you would have heard it whispered about in every lane and corner.  It is common talk in town to-day.  You must know why, Miss Knollys.”

She was not looking out of the window now.  She was looking at me.

“I assure you,” she murmured, “I do not know at all.  Nothing could be more incomprehensible to me.  Explain yourself, I entreat you.  The phantom coach is but a myth to me, interesting only as involving certain long-vanished ancestors of mine.”

“Of course,” I assented.  “No one of real sense could regard it in any other light.  But villagers will talk, and they say ­you will soon know what, if I do not tell you myself ­that it passed through the lane on Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday night!” Her composure had been regained, but not so entirely but that her voice slightly trembled.  “That was before you came.  I hope it was not an omen.”

I was in no mood for pleasantry.

“They say that the passing of this apparition denotes misfortune to those who see it.  I am therefore obviously exempt.  But you ­did you see it?  I am just curious to know if it is visible to those who live in the lane.  It ought to have turned in here.  Were you fortunate enough to have been awake at that moment and to have seen this spectral appearance?”

She shuddered.  I was not mistaken in believing I saw this sign of emotion, for I was watching her very closely, and the movement was unmistakable.

“I have never seen anything ghostly in my life,” said she.  “I am not at all superstitious.”

If I had been ill-natured or if I had thought it wise to press her too closely, I might have inquired why she looked so pale and trembled so visibly.

But my natural kindness, together with an instinct of caution, restrained me, and I only remarked: 

“There you are sensible, Miss Knollys ­doubly so as a denizen of this house, which, Mrs. Carter was obliging enough to suggest to me, is considered by many as haunted.”

The straightening of Miss Knollys’ lips augured no good to Mrs. Carter.

“Now I only wish it was,” I laughed dryly.  “I should really like to meet a ghost, say, in your great drawing-room, which I am forbidden to enter.”

“You are not forbidden,” she hastily returned.  “You may explore it now if you will excuse me from accompanying you; but you will meet no ghosts.  The hour is not propitious.”

Taken aback by her sudden amenity, I hesitated for a moment.  Would it be worth while for me to search a room she was willing to have me enter?  No, and yet any knowledge which could be obtained in regard to this house might be of use to me or to Mr. Gryce.  I decided to embrace her offer, after first testing her with one other question.

“Would you prefer to have me steal down these corridors at night and dare their dusky recesses at a time when spectres are supposed to walk the halls they once flitted through in happy consciousness?”

“Hardly.”  She made the greatest effort to sustain the jest, but her concern and dread were manifest.  “I think I had better give you the keys now, than subject you to the drafts and chilling discomforts of this old place at midnight.”

I rose with a semblance of eager anticipation.

“I will take you at your word,” said I.  “The keys, my dear.  I am going to visit a haunted room for the first time in my life.”

I do not think she was deceived by this feigned ebullition.  Perhaps it was too much out of keeping with my ordinary manner, but she gave no sign of surprise and rose in her turn with an air suggestive of relief.

“Excuse me, if I precede you,” she begged.  “I will meet you at the head of the corridor with the keys.”

I was in hopes she would be long enough in obtaining them to allow me to stroll along the front hall to the opening into the corridor I was so anxious to enter.  But the spryness I showed, seemed to have a corresponding effect upon her, for she almost flew down the passageway before me and was back at my side before I could take a step in the coveted direction.

“These will take you into any room on the first floor,” said she.  “You will meet with dust and Lucetta’s abhorrence, spiders, but for these I shall make no apologies.  Girls who cannot provide comforts for the few rooms they utilize, cannot be expected to keep in order the large and disused apartments of a former generation.”

“I hate dirt and despise spiders,” was my dry retort, “but I am willing to brave both for the pleasure of satisfying my love for the antique.”  At which she handed me the keys, with a calm smile which was not without its element of sadness.

“I will be here on your return,” she said, leaning over the banisters to speak to me as I took my first steps down.  “I shall want to hear whether you are repaid for your trouble.”

I thanked her and proceeded on my way, somewhat doubtful whether by so doing I was making the best possible use of my opportunities.

CHAPTER III - THE FLOWER PARLOR

The lower hall did not correspond exactly with the one above.  It was larger, and through its connection with the front door, presented the shape of a letter T ­that is, to the superficial observer who was not acquainted with the size of the house and had not had the opportunity of remarking that at the extremities of the upper hall making this T, were two imposing doors usually found shut except at meal-times, when the left-hand one was thrown open, disclosing a long and dismal corridor similar to the ones above.  Half-way down this corridor was the dining-room, into which I had now been taken three times.

The right-hand one, I had no doubt, led the way into the great drawing-room or dancing-hall which I had started out to see.

Proceeding first to the front of the house, where some glimmer of light penetrated from the open sitting-room door, I looked the keys over and read what was written on the several tags attached to them.  They were seven in number, and bore some such names as these:  “Blue Chamber,” “Library,” “Flower Parlor,” “Shell Cabinet,” “Dark Parlor” ­all of which was very suggestive, and, to an antiquarian like myself, most alluring.

But it was upon a key marked “A” I first fixed my attention.  This, I had been told, would open the large door at the extremity of the upper hall, and when I made a trial with it I found it to move easily, though somewhat gratingly, in the lock, releasing the great doors, which in another moment swung inward with a growling sound which might have been startling to a nervous person filled with the legends of the place.

But in me the only emotion awakened was one of disgust at the nauseous character of the air which instantly enveloped me.  Had I wished for any further proof than was afforded by the warning given me by the condition of the hinges, that the foot of man had not lately invaded these precincts, I would have had it in the mouldy atmosphere and smell of dust that greeted me on the threshold.  Neither human breath nor a ray of outdoor sunshine seemed to have disturbed its gloomy quiet for years, and when I moved, as I presently did, to open one of the windows I dimly discerned at my right, I felt such a movement of something foul and noisome amid the decaying rags of the carpet through which I was stumbling that I had to call into use the stronger elements of my character not to back out of a place so given over to rot and the creatures that infest it.

“What a spot,” thought I, “for Amelia Butterworth to find herself in!” and wondered if I could ever wear again the three-dollar-a-yard silk dress in which I was then enveloped.  Of my shoes I took no account.  They were ruined, of course.

I reached the window in safety, but could not open it; neither could I move the adjoining one.  There were sixteen in all, or so I afterwards found, and not till I reached the last (you see, I am very persistent) did I succeed in loosening the bar that held its inner shutter in place.  This done, I was able to lift the window, and for the first time in years, perhaps, let in a ray of light into this desolated apartment.

The result was disappointing.  Mouldy walls, worm-eaten hangings, two very ancient and quaint fireplaces, met my eyes, and nothing more.  The room was absolutely empty.  For a few minutes I allowed my eyes to roam over the great rectangular space in which so much that was curious and interesting had once taken place, and then, with a vague sense of defeat, turned my eyes outward, anxious to see what view could be obtained from the window I had opened.  To my astonishment, I saw before me a high wall with here and there a window in it, all tightly barred and closed, till by a careful inspection about me I realized that I was looking upon the other wing of the building, and that between these wings extended a court so narrow and long that it gave to the building the shape, as I have before said, of the letter U. A dreary prospect, reminding one of the view from a prison, but it had its point of interest, for in the court below me, the brick pavement of which was half obliterated by grass, I caught sight of William in an attitude so different from any I had hitherto seen him assume that I found it difficult to account for it till I caught sight of the jaws of a dog protruding from under his arms, and then I realized he was hugging Saracen.

The dog was tied, but the comfort which William seemed to take in just this physical contact with his rough skin was something worth seeing.  It made me quite thoughtful for a moment.

I detest dogs, and it gives me a creepy sensation to see them fondled, but sincerity of feeling appeals to me, and no one could watch William Knollys with his dogs without seeing that he really loved the brutes.  Thus in one day I had witnessed the best and worst side of this man.  But wait!  Had I seen the worst?  I was not so sure that I had.

He had not noticed my peering, for which I was duly thankful, and after another fruitless survey of the windows in the wall before me, I drew back and prepared to leave the place.  This was by no means a pleasant undertaking.  I could now see what I had only felt before, and to traverse the space before me amid beetles and spiders required a determination of no ordinary nature.  I was glad when I reached the great doors and more than glad when they closed behind me.

“So much for Room A,” thought I.

The next most promising apartment was in the same corridor as the dining-room.  It was called the Dark Parlor.  Entering it, I found it dark indeed, but not because of lack of light, but because its hangings were all of a dismal red and its furniture of the blackest ebony.  As this mainly consisted of shelves and cabinets placed against three of its four walls, the effect was gloomy indeed, and fully accounted for the name which the room had received.  I lingered in it, however, longer than I had in the big drawing-room, chiefly because the shelves contained books.

Had anything better offered I might not have continued my explorations, but not seeing exactly how I could pass away the time more profitably, I chose out another key and began to search for the Flower Parlor.  I found it beyond the dining-room in the same hall as the Dark Parlor.

It was, as I might have expected from the name, the brightest and most cheerful spot I had yet found in the whole house.  The air in it was even good, as if sunshine and breeze had not been altogether shut out of it, yet I had no sooner taken one look at its flower-painted walls and pretty furniture than I felt an oppression difficult to account for.  Something was wrong about this room.  I am not superstitious and have no faith in premonitions, but once seized by a conviction, I have never known myself to be mistaken as to its import.  Something was wrong about this room ­what, it was my business to discover.

Letting in more light, I took a closer survey of the objects I had hitherto seen but dimly.  They were many and somewhat contradictory in character.  The floor was bare ­the first bare floor I had come upon ­but the shades in the windows, the chintz-covered lounges drawn up beside tables bestrewn with books and other objects of comfort and luxury, bespoke a place in common if not every-day use.

A faint smell of tobacco assured me in whose use, and from the minute I recognized that this was William’s sanctum, my curiosity grew unbounded and I neglected nothing which would be likely to attract the keenest-eyed detective in Mr. Gryce’s force.  There were several things to be noted there:  First, that this lumbering lout of a man read, but only on one topic ­vivisection; secondly, that he was not a reader merely, for there were instruments in the cases heaped up on the tables about me, and in one corner ­it made me a little sick, but I persevered in searching out the corners ­a glass case with certain horrors in it which I took care to note, but which it is not necessary for me to describe.  Another corner was blocked up by a closet which stood out in the room in a way to convince me it had been built in after the room was otherwise finished.  As I crossed over to examine the door, which did not appear to me to be quite closed, I noticed on the floor at my feet a huge discoloration.  This was the worst thing I had yet encountered, and while I did not feel quite justified in giving it a name, I could not but feel some regret for the worm-eaten rags of the drawing-room, which, after all, are more comfortable underfoot than bare boards with such suggestive marks upon them as these.

The door to the closet was, as I had expected, slightly ajar, a fact for which I was profoundly grateful, for, set it down to breeding or a natural recognition of other people’s rights, I would have found it most difficult to turn the knob of a closet door, inspection of which had not been offered me.

But finding it open, I gave it just a little pull and found ­well, it was a surprise, much more so than the sight of a skeleton would have been ­that the whole interior was taken up by a small circular staircase such as you find in public libraries where the books are piled up in tiers.  It stretched from the floor to the ceiling, and dark as it was I thought I detected the outlines of a trap-door by means of which communication was established with the room above.  Anxious to be convinced of this, I consulted with myself as to what a detective would do in my place.  The answer came readily enough:  “Mount the stairs and feel for yourself whether there is a lock there.”  But my delicacy or ­shall I acknowledge it for once? ­an instinct of timidity seemed to restrain me, till a remembrance of Mr. Gryce’s sarcastic look which I had seen honoring lesser occasions than these, came to nerve me, and I put foot on the stairs which had last been trod ­by whom, shall I say?  William?  Let us hope by William, and William only.

Being tall, I had to mount but a few steps before reaching the ceiling.  Pausing for breath, the air being close and the stairs steep, I reached up and felt for the hinge or clasp I had every reason to expect to encounter.  I found it almost immediately, and, satisfied now that nothing but a board separated me from the room above, I tried that board with my finger and was astonished to feel it yield.  As this was a wholly unexpected discovery I drew back and asked myself if it would be wise to pursue it to the point of raising this door, and had hardly settled the question in my own mind, when the sound of a voice raised in a soothing murmur, revealed the fact that the room above was not empty, and that I would be committing a grave indiscretion in thus tampering with a means of entrance possibly under the very eye of the person speaking.

If the voice I had heard had been all that had come to my ears, I might have ventured after a moment of hesitation to brave the displeasure of Miss Knollys by an attempt which would have at once satisfied me as to the correctness of the suspicions which were congealing my blood as I stood there, but another voice ­the heavy and threatening voice of William ­had broken into this murmur, and I knew that if I so much as awakened in him the least suspicion of my whereabouts, I would have to dread an anger that might not know where to stop.

I therefore rested from further efforts in this direction, and fearing he might bethink him of some errand which would bring him to the trap-door himself, I began a retreat which I made slow only from my desire not to make any noise.  I succeeded as well as if my feet had been shod in velvet and my dress had been made of wool instead of a rustling silk, and when once again I found myself planted in the centre of the Flower Parlor, the closet door closed, and no evidence remaining of my late attempt to probe this family secret, I drew a deep breath of relief that was but a symbol of my devout thankfulness.

I did not mean to remain much longer in this spot of evil suggestions, but spying the corner of a book protruding from under a cushion of one of the lounges, I had a curiosity to see if it were similar to the others I had handled.  Drawing it out, I took one look at it.

I need not tell what it was, but after a hasty glance here and there through its pages, I put it back, shuddering.  If any doubt remained in my breast that William was one of those monsters who feed their morbid cravings by experiments upon the weak and defenceless, it had been dispelled by what I had just seen in this book.

However, I did not leave the room immediately.  As it was of the greatest importance that I should be able to locate in which of the many apartments on the floor above, the supposed prisoner was lodged, I cast about me for the means of doing this through the location of the room in which I then was.  As this could only be done by affixing some token to the window, which could be recognized from without, I thought, first, of thrusting the end of my handkerchief through one of the slats of the outside blinds; secondly, of simply leaving one of these blinds ajar; and finally, of chipping off a piece with the penknife I always carry with innumerable other small things in the bag I invariably wear at my side. (Fashion, I hold, counts for nothing against convenience.)

This last seemed by much the best device.  A handkerchief could be discovered and pulled out, an open blind could be shut, but a sliver once separated from the wood of the casement, nothing could replace it or even cover it up without itself attracting attention.

Taking out my knife, I glanced at the door leading into the hall, found it still shut and everything quiet behind it.  Then I took a look into the shrubs and bushes of the yard outside, and, observing nothing to disturb me, snipped off a bit from one of the outer edges of the slats and then carefully reclosed the blinds and the window.

I was crossing the threshold when I heard a rapid footstep in the hall.  Miss Knollys was hastening down the hall to my side.

“Oh, Miss Butterworth,” she exclaimed, with one quick look into the room I was leaving, “this is William’s den, the one spot he never allows any of us to enter.  I don’t know how the key came to be upon the string.  It never was before, and I am afraid he never will forgive me.”

“He need never know that I have been the victim of such a mistake,” said I.  “My feet leave no trail, and as I use no perfumes he will never suspect that I have enjoyed a glimpse of these old-fashioned walls and ancient cabinets.”

“The slats of the blinds are a little open,” she remarked, her eyes searching my face for some sign that I am sure she did not find there.  “Were they so when you came in?”

“I hardly think so; it was very dark.  Shall I put them as I found them?”

“No.  He will not notice.”  And she hurried me out, still eying me breathlessly as if she half distrusted my composure.

“Come, Amelia,” I now whispered in self-admonition, “the time for exertion has come.  Show this young woman, who is not much behind you in self-control, some of the lighter phases of your character.  Charm her, Amelia, charm her, or you may live to rue this invasion into family secrets more than you may like to acknowledge at the present moment.”

A task of some difficulty, but I rejoice in difficult tasks, and before another half-hour had passed, I had the satisfaction of seeing Miss Knollys entirely restored to that state of placid melancholy which was the natural expression of her calm but unhappy nature.

We visited the Shell Cabinet, the Blue Parlor, and another room, the peculiarities of which I have forgotten.  Frightened by the result of leaving me to my own devices, she did not quit me for an instant, and when, my curiosity quite satisfied, I hinted that a short nap in my own room would rest me for the evening, she proceeded with me to the door of my apartment.

“The locksmith whom I saw this morning has not kept his word,” I remarked as she was turning away.

“None of the tradesmen here do that,” was her cold answer.  “I have given up expecting having any attention paid to my wants.”

“Humph,” thought I.  “Another pleasant admission.  Amelia Butterworth, this has not been a cheerful day.”

CHAPTER IV - THE SECOND NIGHT

I cannot say that I looked forward to the night with any very cheerful anticipations.  The locksmith having failed to keep his appointment, I was likely to have no more protection against intrusion than I had had the night before, and while I cannot say that I especially feared any unwelcome entrance into my apartment, I should have gone to my rest with a greater sense of satisfaction if a key had been in the lock and that key had been turned by my own hand on my own side of the door.

The atmosphere of gloom which settled down over the household after the evening meal, seemed like the warning note of something strange and evil awaiting us.  So marked was this, that many in my situation would have further disturbed these girls by some allusion to the fact.  But that was not the rôle I had set myself to play at this crisis.  I remembered what Mr. Gryce had said about winning their confidence, and though the turmoil evident in Lucetta’s mind and the distraction visible even in the careful Miss Knollys led me to expect a culmination of some kind before the night was over, I not only hid my recognition of this fact, but succeeded in sufficiently impressing them with the contentment which my own petty employments afforded me (I am never idle even in other persons’ houses) for them to spare me the harassment of their alternate visits, which, in their present mood and mine promised little in the way of increased knowledge of their purposes and much in the way of distraction and the loss of that nerve upon which I calculated for a successful issue out of the possible difficulties of this night.

Had I been a woman of ordinary courage, I would have sounded three premonitory notes upon my whistle before blowing out my candle, but while I am not lacking, I hope, in many of the finer feminine qualities which link me to my sex, I have but few of that sex’s weaknesses and none of its instinctive reliance upon others which leads it so often to neglect its own resources.  Till I saw good reasons for summoning the police, I proposed to preserve a discreet silence, a premature alarm being in their eyes, as I knew from many talks with Mr. Gryce, the one thing suggestive of a timid and inexperienced mind.

Hannah had brought me a delicious cup of tea at ten, the influence of which was to make me very drowsy at eleven, but I shook this weakness off and began my night’s watch in a state of stern composure which I verily believe would have awakened Mr. Gryce’s admiration had it been consonant with the proprieties for him to have seen it.  Indeed the very seriousness of the occasion was such that I could not have trembled if I would, every nerve and faculty being strained to their utmost to make the most of every sound which might arise in the now silent and discreetly darkened house.

I had purposely omitted the precaution of pushing my bed against the door of my room, as I had done the night before, being anxious to find myself in a position to cross its threshold at the least alarm.  That this would come, I felt positive, for Hannah in leaving my room had taken pains to say, in unconscious imitation of what Miss Knollys had remarked the night before: 

“Don’t let any queer sounds you may hear disturb you, Miss Butterworth.  There’s nothing to hurt you in this house; nothing at all.”  An admonition which I am sure her young mistresses would not have allowed her to utter if they had been made acquainted with her intention.

But though in a state of high expectation, and listening, as I supposed, with every faculty alert, the sounds I apprehended delayed so long that I began after an hour or two unaccountably to nod in my chair, and before I knew it I was asleep, with the whistle in my hand and my feet pressed against the panels of the door I had set myself to guard.  How deep that sleep was or how long I indulged in it, I can only judge from the state of emotion in which I found myself when I suddenly woke.  I was sitting there still, but my usually calm frame was in a violent tremble, and I found it difficult to stir, much more to speak.  Some one or something was at my door.

An instant and my powerful nature would have asserted itself, but before this could happen the stealthy step drew nearer, and I heard the quiet, almost noiseless, insertion of a key into the lock, and the quick turn which made me a prisoner.

This, with the indignation it caused, brought me quickly to myself.  So the door had a key after all, and this was the use it was reserved for.  Rising quickly to my feet, I shouted out the names of Loreen, Lucetta, and William, but received no other response than the rapid withdrawal of feet down the corridor.  Then I felt for the whistle, which had somehow slipped from my hand, but failed to find it in the darkness, nor when I went to search for the matches to relight the candle I had left standing on a table near by, could I by any means succeed in igniting one, so that I presently had the pleasure of finding myself shut up in my room, with no means of communicating with the world outside and with no light to render the situation tolerable.  This was having the tables turned upon me with a vengeance and in a way for which I could not account.  I could understand why they had locked me in the room and why they had not heeded my cry of indignant appeal, but I could not comprehend how my whistle came to be gone, nor why the matches, which were sufficiently plentiful in the safe, refused one and all to perform their office.

On these points I felt it necessary to come to some sort of conclusion before I proceeded to invent some way out of my difficulties.  So, dropping on my knees by the chair in which I had been sitting, I began a quiet search for the petty object upon which, nevertheless, hung not my safety perhaps, but all chances of success in an undertaking which was every moment growing more serious.  I did not find it, but I did find where it had gone.  In the floor near the door, my hand encountered a hole which had been covered up by a rug early in the evening, but which I now distinctly remembered having pushed aside with my feet when I took my seat there.  This aperture was not large, but it was so deep that my hand failed to reach to the bottom of it; and into this hole by some freak of chance had slipped the small whistle I had so indiscreetly taken into my hand.  The mystery of the matches was less easy of solution; so I let it go after a moment of indecisive thought and bent my energies once again to listen, when suddenly and without the least warning there rose from somewhere in the house a cry so wild and unearthly that I started up appalled, and for a moment could not tell whether I was laboring under some fearful dream or a still more fearful reality.

A rushing of feet in the distance and an involuntary murmur of voices soon satisfied me, however, on this score, and drawing upon every energy I possessed, I listened for a renewal of the cry which was yet curdling my blood.  But none came, and presently all was as still as if no sound had arisen to disturb the midnight, though every fibre in my body told me that the event I had feared ­the event of which I hardly dared mention the character even to myself ­had taken place, and that I, who was sent there to forestall it, was not only a prisoner in my room, but a prisoner through my own folly and my inordinate love of tea.

The anger with which I contemplated this fact, and the remorse I felt at the consequences which had befallen the innocent victim whose scream I had just heard, made me very wide-awake indeed, and after an ineffectual effort to make my voice heard from the window, I called my usual philosophy to my aid and decided that since the worst had happened and I, a prisoner, had to await events like any other weak and defenceless woman, I might as well do it with calmness and in a way to win my own approval at least.  The dupe of William and his sisters, I would not be the dupe of my own fears or even of my own regrets.

The consequence was a renewed equanimity and a gentle brooding over the one event of the day which brought no regret in its train.  The ride with Mr. Trohm, and the acquaintanceship to which it had led, were topics upon which I could rest with great soothing effect through the weary hours stretching between me and daylight.  Consequently of Mr. Trohm I thought.

Whether the almost deathly quiet into which the house had now fallen, or the comforting nature of my meditations held inexorably to the topic I had chosen, acted as a soporific upon me I cannot tell, but greatly as I dislike to admit it, feeling sure that you will expect to hear I kept myself awake all that night, I insensibly sank from great alertness to an easy indifference to my surroundings, and from that to vague dreams in which beds of lilies and trellises covered with roses mingled strangely with narrow, winding staircases whose tops ended in the swaying branches of great trees; and so, into quiet and a nothingness that were only broken into by a rap at my door and a cheerful: 

“Eight o’clock, ma’am.  The young ladies are waiting.”

I bounded, literally bounded from my chair.  Such a summons, after such a night!  What did it mean?  I was sitting half dressed in my chair before my door in a straightened and uncomfortable attitude, and therefore had not dreamed that I had been upon the watch all night, yet the sunshine in the room, the cheery tones such as I had not heard even from this woman before, seemed to argue that my imagination had played me false and that no horrors had come to disturb my rest or render my waking distressing.

Stretching out my hand toward the door, I was about to open it, when I bethought me.

“Turn the key in the lock,” said I.  “Somebody was careful enough of my safety to fasten me in last night.”

An exclamation of astonishment came from outside the door.

“There is no key here, ma’am.  The door is not locked.  Shall I open it and come in?”

I was about to say yes in my anxiety to talk to the woman, but remembering that nothing was to be gained by letting it be seen to what an extent I had carried my suspicions, I hastily disrobed and crept into bed.  Pulling the coverings about me, I assumed a comfortable attitude and then cried: 

“Come in.”

The door immediately opened.

“There, ma’am!  What did I tell you?  Locked? ­this door?  Why, the key has been lost for months.”

“I cannot help it,” I protested, but with little if any asperity, for it did not suit me that she should see I was moved by any extraordinary feeling.  “A key was put in that lock about midnight, and I was locked in.  It was about the time some one screamed in your own part of the house.”

“Screamed?” Her brows took a fine pucker of perplexity.  “Oh, that must have been Miss Lucetta.”

“Lucetta?”

“Yes, ma’am; she had an attack, I believe.  Poor Miss Lucetta!  She often has attacks like that.”

Confounded, for the woman spoke so naturally that only a suspicious nature like mine would fail to have been deceived by it, I raised myself on my elbow and gave her an indignant look.

“Yet you said just now that the young ladies were expecting me to breakfast.”

“Yes, and why not?” Her look was absolutely guileless.  “Miss Lucetta sometimes keeps us up half the night, but she does not miss breakfast on that account.  When the turn is over, she is as well as ever she was.  A fine young lady, Miss Lucetta.  I’d lose my two hands for her any day.”

“She certainly is a remarkable girl,” I declared, not, however, as dryly as I felt.  “I can hardly believe I dreamed about the key.  Let me feel of your pocket,” I laughed.

She, without the smallest hesitancy, pulled aside her apron.

“I am sorry you put so little confidence in my word, ma’am, but Lor’ me, what you heard is nothing to what some of our guests have complained of ­in the days, I mean, when we did have guests.  I have known them to scream out themselves in the middle of the night and vow they saw white figures creeping up and down the halls ­all nonsense, ma’am, but believed in by some folks.  You don’t look as if you believed in ghosts.”

“And I don’t,” I said, “not a whit.  It would be a poor way to try to frighten me.  How is Mr. William this morning?”

“Oh, he’s well and feeding the dogs, ma’am.  What made you think of him?”

“Politeness, Hannah,” I found myself forced to say.  “He’s the only man in the house.  Why shouldn’t I think of him?”

She fingered her apron a minute and laughed.

“I didn’t know you liked him.  He’s so rough, it isn’t everybody who understands him,” she said.

“Must one understand a person to like him?” I queried good-humoredly.  I was beginning to think I might have dreamed about that key.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t always understand Miss Lucetta, but I like her through and through, ma’am, as I like this little finger,” and holding up this member to my inspection, she crossed the room for my water-pitcher, which she proposed to fill with hot water.

I followed her closely with my eyes.  When she came back, I saw her attention caught by the break in the flooring, which she had not noticed on entering.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “what a shame!” her honest face coloring as she drew the rug back over the small black gap.  “I am sure, ma’am,” she cried, “you must think very poorly of us.  But I assure you, ma’am, it’s honest poverty, nothing but honest poverty as makes them so neglectful,” and with an air as far removed from mystery as her frank, good-natured manner seemed to be from falsehood, she slid from the room with a kind: 

“Don’t hurry, ma’am.  It is Miss Knollys’ turn in the kitchen, and she isn’t as quick as Miss Lucetta.”

“Humph,” thought I, “supposing I had called in the police.”

But by the time she had returned with the water, my doubts had reawakened.  She was not changed in manner, though I have no doubt she had recounted all that I had said, below, but I was, for I remembered the matches and thought I saw a way of tripping her up in her self-complacency.

Just as she was leaving me for the second time I called her back.

“What is the matter with your matches?” I asked.  “I couldn’t make them light last night.”

With a wholly undisturbed countenance she turned toward the bureau and took up the china trinket that held the few remaining matches I had not scraped on the piece of sandpaper I myself had fastened up alongside the door.  A sheepish cry of dismay at once escaped her.

“Why, these are old matches!” she declared, showing me the box in which a half-dozen or so burned matches stood with their burned tops all turned down.

“I thought they were all right.  I’m afraid we are a little short of matches.”

I did not like to tell her what I thought about it, but it made me doubly anxious to join the young ladies at breakfast and judge for myself from their conduct and expression if I had been deceived by my own fears into taking for realities the phantasies of a nightmare, or whether I was correct in ascribing to fact that episode of the key with all the possibilities that lay behind it.

I did not let my anxiety, however, stand in the way of my duty.  Mr. Gryce had bid me carry the whistle he had sent me constantly about my person, and I felt that he would have the right to reproach me if I left my room without making some endeavor to recover this lost article.  How to do this without aid or appliances of any kind was a problem.  I knew where it was, but I could not see it, much less reach it.  Besides, they were waiting for me ­never a pleasant thought.  It occurred to me that I might lower into the hole a lighted candle hung by a string.

Looking over my effects, I chose out a hairpin, a candle, and two corset laces, (Pardon me.  I am as modest as most of my sex, but I am not squeamish.  Corset laces are strings, and as such only I present them to your notice.) I should like to have added a button-hook to my collection, but not having as yet discarded the neatly laced boot of my ancestor, I could only produce a small article from my toilet-service which shall remain unmentioned, as I presently discarded it and turned my whole attention to the other objects I have named.  A poor array, but out of them I hoped to find the means of fishing up my lost whistle.

My intention was to lower first a lighted candle into the hole by means of a string tied about its middle, then to drop a line on the whistle thus discovered and draw it up with the point of a bent hairpin, which I fondly hoped I could make do the service of a hook.  To think was to try.  The candle was soon down in the hole, and by its light the whistle was easily seen.  The string and bent hairpin went down next.  I was successful in hooking the prize and proceeded to pull it up with great care.  For an instant I realized what a ridiculous figure I was cutting, stooping over a hole in the floor on both knees, a string in each hand, leading apparently to nowhere, and I at work cautiously steadying one and as carefully pulling on the other.  Having hooked the string holding the whistle over the first finger of the hand holding the candle, I may have become too self-conscious to notice the slight release of weight on the whistle hand.  Whatever the reason, when the end of the string came in sight there was no whistle on it.  The charred end showed me that the candle had burned the cord, letting the whistle fall again out of reach.  Down went the candle again.  It touched bottom, but no whistle was to be seen.  After a long and fruitless search, I concluded to abandon my whistle-fishing excursion, and, rising from my cramped and undignified position, I proceeded to pull up the candle.  To my surprise and delight, I found the whistle firmly stuck to the lower side of it.  Some drops of candle grease had fallen upon the whistle where it lay.  The candle coming in contact with it, the two had adhered, and I became indebted to accident rather than to acumen for the restoration of the precious article.

CHAPTER V - A KNOT OF CRAPE

I was prepared for some change in the appearance of my young hostesses, but not for so great a one as I saw on entering the dining-room that memorable morning.  The blinds, which were always half closed, were now wide open, and under the cheerful influence of the light which was thus allowed to enter, the table and all its appointments had a much less dreary look than before.  Behind the urn sat Miss Knollys, with a smile on her lips, and in the window William stood whistling a cheerful air, unrebuked.  Lucetta was not present, but to my great astonishment she presently walked in with her hands laden with sprays of morning-glory, which she flung down in the centre of the board.  It was the first time I had seen any attempt made by any of them to lighten the sombreness of their surroundings, and it was also the first time I had seen the three together.

I was more disconcerted by this simple show of improved spirits than I like to acknowledge.  In the first place, they were natural and not forced; and, secondly, they were to all appearance unconscious.

They were not marked enough to show relief, and in Lucetta especially did not serve to hide the underlying melancholy of a disappointed girl, yet it was not what I expected from my supposed experiences of the night, and led me to answer a little warily when, with a frank laugh, Loreen exclaimed: 

“So you have lost your character as a practical woman, Miss Butterworth?  Hannah tells me you were the victim of a ghostly visit last night.”

“Hannah gossips unmercifully,” was my cautious and somewhat peevish reply.  “If I chose to dream that I was locked into my room by some erratic spectre, I cannot see why she should take the confession of my folly out of my mouth.  I was going to relate the fact myself, with all the accompaniments of rushing steps and wild and unearthly cries which are expected by the listeners to a veritable ghost story.  But now I have simply to defend myself from a charge of credulity.  It’s too bad, Miss Knollys, much too bad.  I did not come to a haunted house for this.”

My manner, rather than my words, seemed to completely deceive them.  Perhaps it deceived myself, for I began to feel a loss of the depression which had weighed upon me ever since that scream rang in my ears at midnight.  It disappeared still further when Lucetta said: 

“If your ramblings through the old rooms on this floor were the occasion of this nightmare, you must be prepared for a recurrence of the same to-night, for I am going to take you through the upper rooms myself this morning.  Isn’t that the programme, Loreen?  Or have you changed your mind and planned a drive for Miss Butterworth?”

“She shall do both,” Loreen answered.  “When she is tired of tramping through dusty chambers and examining the decayed remnants of old furniture which encumber them, William stands ready to drive her over the hills, where she will find views well worth her attention.”

“Thank you,” said I.  “It is a pleasant prospect.”  But inwardly I uttered anything but thanks; rather asked myself if I had not played the part of a fool in ascribing so much importance to the events of the past night, and decided almost without an argument that I had.

However, beliefs die hard in a mind like mine, and though I was ready to consider that an inflamed imagination may often carry us beyond the bounds of fact and even into the realm of fancy and misconception, I yet was not ready to give up my suspicions altogether, or to acknowledge that I had no foundation for the fear that something uncanny if not awful had taken place under this roof the night before.  The very naturalness I observed in this hitherto restrained trio might be the result of the removal of some great strain, and if that was the case ­Ah, well, alertness is the motto of the truly wise.  It is when vigilance sleeps that the enemy gains the victory.  I would not let myself be deceived even at the cost of a little ridicule.  Amelia Butterworth was still awake, even under a semblance of well-laid suspicion.

My footsteps were not dogged after this as they had hitherto been in my movements about the house.  I was allowed to go and come and even to stray into the second long corridor, without any other let than my own discretion and good breeding.  Lucetta joined me, to be sure, after a while, but only as guide and companion.  She took me into rooms I forgot the next minute, and into others I remember to this day as quaint memorials of a past ever and always interesting to me.  We ransacked the house, yet after all was over and I sat down to rest in my own room, two formidable questions rose in my mind for which I found no satisfactory answer.  Why, with so many more or less attractive bedchambers at their command, had they chosen to put me into a hole, where the very flooring was unsafe, and the outlook the most dismal that could be imagined? and why, in all our peregrinations in and out of rooms, had we always passed one door without entering?  She had said that it was William’s ­a sufficient explanation, if true, and I have no doubt it was, ­but the change of countenance with which she passed it and the sudden lightening of her tread (so instinctive that she was totally unconscious of it) marked that door as one it would be my duty to enter if fate should yet give me the opportunity.  That it was the one in communication with the Flower Parlor I felt satisfied, but in order to make assurance doubly sure I resolved upon a tour through the shrubbery outside, that I might compare the location of the window having the chipped blind with that of this room, which was, as well as I could calculate, the third from the rear on the left-hand side.

When, therefore, William called up to know if I was ready for my drive, I answered back that I found myself very tired and would be glad to exchange the pleasure he offered, for a visit to the stables.

This, as I expected, caused considerable comment and some disturbance.  They wanted me to repeat my experience of the day before and spend two if not more hours of the morning out of the house.  But I did not mean to gratify them.  Indeed I felt that my duty held me to the house, and was so persistent in my wishes, or rather in my declaration of them, that all opposition had to give way, even in the stubborn William.

“I thought you had a dread of dogs,” was the final remark with which he endeavored to turn me aside from my purpose.  “I have three in the barn and two in the stable, and they make a great fuss when I come around, I assure you.”

“Then they will have enough to do without noticing me,” said I, with a brazen assumption of courage sufficiently surprising if I had had any real intention of invading a place so guarded.  But I had not.  I no more meant to enter the stables than to jump off the housetop, but it was necessary that I should start for them and make the start from the left wing of the house.

How I managed the intractable William and led him as I did from bush to bush and shrub to shrub, up and down the length of that interminable façade of the left wing, would make an interesting story in itself.  The curiosity I showed in plants, even such plants as had survived the neglect that had made a wilderness of this old-time garden; the indifference which, contrary to all my habits, I persisted in manifesting to every inconvenience I encountered in the way of straightforward walking to any object I set my fancy upon examining; the knowledge I exhibited, and the interest which I took it for granted he felt in all I discovered and all I imparted to him, would form the basis of a farce of no ordinary merit had it not had its birth in interests and intents bordering on the tragic.

A row of bushes of various species ran along the wall and covered in some instances the lower ledges of the first row of windows.  As I made for a certain shrub which I had observed growing near what I supposed to be the casement from whose blind I had chipped a small sliver, I allowed my enthusiasm to bubble over, in my evident desire to display my erudition.

“This,” said I, “is, without any doubt at all, a stunted but undoubted specimen of that rare tree found seldom north of the thirtieth degree, the Magnolia grandiflora.  I have never seen it but once before, and that was in the botanical gardens in Washington.  Note its leaves.  You have noted its flowers, smaller undoubtedly than they should be ­but then you must acknowledge it has been in a measure neglected ­are they not fine?”

Here I pulled a branch down which interfered with my view of the window.  There was no chip visible in the blinds thus discovered.  Seeing this, I let the branch go.  “But the oddest feature of this tree and one with which you are perhaps not acquainted” (I wonder if anybody is?) “is that it will not grow within twenty feet of any plant which scatters pollen.  See for yourself.  This next shrub bears no flower” (I was moving along the wall), “nor this.”  I drew down a branch as I spoke, caught sight of the mark I was looking for, and let the bough spring back.  I had found the window I wanted.

His grunts and groans during all this formed a running accompaniment which would have afforded me great secret amusement had my purpose been less serious.  As it was, I could pay but little attention to him, especially after I had stepped back far enough to take a glance at the window over the one I had just located as that of the Flower Parlor.  It was, as I expected, the third one from the rear corner; but it was not this fact which gave me a thrill of feeling so strong that I have never had harder work to preserve my equanimity. It was the knot of black crape with which the shutters were tied together.

CHAPTER VI - QUESTIONS

I kept the promise I had made to myself and did not go to the stables.  Had I intended to go there, I could not have done so after the discovery I have just mentioned.  It awakened too many thoughts and contradictory surmises.  If this knot was a signal, for whom was this signal meant?  If it was a mere acknowledgment of death, how reconcile the sentimentality which prompted such an acknowledgment with the monstrous and diseased passions lying at the base of the whole dreadful occurrence?  Lastly, if it was the result of pure carelessness, a bit of crape having been caught up and used for a purpose for which any ordinary string would have answered, what a wonderful coincidence between it and my thoughts, ­a coincidence, indeed, amounting almost to miracle!

Marvelling at the whole affair and deciding nothing, I allowed myself to stroll down alone to the gate, William having left me at my peremptory refusal to drag my skirts any longer through the briers.  The day being bright and the sunshine warm, the road looked less gloomy than usual, especially in the direction of the village and Deacon Spear’s cottage.  The fact is, that anything seemed better than the grim and lowering walls of the house behind me.  If my home was there, so was my dread, and I welcomed the sight of Mother Jane’s heavy figure bent over her herbs at the door of her hut, a few paces to my left, where the road turned.

Had she not been deaf, I believed I would have called her.  As it was, I contented myself with watching the awkward swayings of her body as she pottered to and fro among her turnips and carrots.  My eyes were still on her when I suddenly heard the clatter of a horse’s hoofs on the highway.  Looking up, I encountered the trim figure of Mr. Trohm, bending to me from a fine sorrel.

“Good morning, Miss Butterworth.  It’s a great relief to me to see you in such good health and spirits this morning,” were the pleasant words with which he endeavored, perhaps, to explain his presence in a spot more or less under a ban.

It was certainly a surprise.  What right had I to look for such attentions from a man whose acquaintance I had made only the day before?  It touched me, little as I am in the habit of allowing myself to be ruled by trivial sentimentalities, and though I was discreet enough to avoid any further recognition of his kindness than was his due from a lady of great self-respect, he was evidently sufficiently gratified by my response to draw rein and pause for a moment’s conversation under the pine trees.  This for the moment seemed so natural that I forgot that more than one pair of eyes might be watching me from the windows behind us ­eyes which might wonder at a meeting which to the foolish understandings of the young might have the look of premeditation.  But, pshaw!  I am talking as if I were twenty instead of ­Well, I will leave you to consult our family record on that point.  There are certain secrets which even the wisest among us cannot be blamed for preserving.

“How did you pass the night?” was Mr. Trohm’s first question.  “I hope in all due peace and quiet.”

“Thank you,” I returned, not seeing why I should increase his anxiety in my regard.  “I have nothing to complain of.  I had a dream; but dreams are to be expected where one has to pass a half-dozen empty rooms to one’s apartment.”

He could not restrain his curiosity.

“A dream!” he repeated.  “I do not believe in sleep that is broken by dreams, unless they are of the most cheerful sort possible.  And I judge from what you say that yours were not cheerful.”

I wanted to confide in him.  I felt that in a way he had a right to know what had happened to me, or what I thought had happened to me, under this roof.  And yet I did not speak.  What I could tell would sound so puerile in the broad sunshine that enveloped us.  I merely remarked that cheerfulness was not to be expected in a domicile so given over to the ravages of time, and then with that lightness and versatility which characterize me under certain exigencies, I introduced a topic we could discuss without any embarrassment to himself or me.

“Do you see Mother Jane over there?” I asked.  “I had some talk with her yesterday.  She seems like a harmless imbecile.”

“Very harmless,” he acquiesced; “her only fault is greed; that is insatiable.  Yet it is not strong enough to take her a quarter of a mile from this place.  Nothing could do that, I think.  She believes that her daughter Lizzie is still alive and will come back to the hut some day.  It’s very sad when you think that the girl’s dead, and has been dead nearly forty years.”

“Why does she harp on numbers?” I asked.  “I heard her mutter certain ones over and over.”

“That is a mystery none of us have ever been able to solve,” said he.  “Possibly she has no reason for it.  The vagaries of the witless are often quite unaccountable.”

He remained looking at me long after he had finished speaking, not, I felt sure, from any connection he found between what he had just said and anything to be observed in me, but from ­Well, I was glad that I had been carefully trained in my youth to pay the greatest attention to my morning toilets.  Any woman can look well at night and many women in the flush of a bright afternoon, but the woman who looks well in the morning needs not always to be young to attract the appreciative gaze of a man of real penetration.  Mr. Trohm was such a man, and I did not begrudge him the pleasure he showed in my neat gray silk and carefully adjusted collar.  But he said nothing, and a short silence ensued, which was perhaps more of a compliment than otherwise.  Then he uttered a short sigh and lifted the reins.

“If only I were not debarred from entering,” he smiled, with a short gesture toward the house.

I did not answer.  Even I understand that on occasion the tongue plays but a sorry part in interviews of this nature.

He sighed again and uttered some short encouragement to his horse, which started that animal up and sent him slowly pacing down the road toward the cheerful clearing whither my own eyes were looking with what I was determined should not be construed even by the most sanguine into a glance of anything like wistfulness.  As he went he made a bow I have never seen surpassed in my own parlor in Gramercy Park, and upon my bestowing upon him a return nod, glanced up at the house with an intentness which seemed to increase as some object, invisible to me at that moment, caught his eye.  As that eye was directed toward the left wing, and lifted as far as the second row of windows, I could not help asking myself if he had seen the knot of crape which had produced upon me so lugubrious an impression.  Before I could make sure of this he had passed from sight, and the highway fell again into shadow ­why, I hardly knew, for the sun certainly had been shining a few minutes before.

CHAPTER VII - MOTHER JANE

“Well, well, what did Trohm want here this morning?” cried a harsh voice from amid the tangled walks behind me.  “Seems to me he finds this place pretty interesting all of a sudden.”

I turned upon the intruder with a look that should have daunted him.  I had recognized William’s courteous tones and was in no mood to endure a questioning so unbecoming in one of his age to one of mine.  But as I met his eye, which had something in it besides anger and suspicion ­something that was quizzical if not impertinent ­I changed my intention and bestowed upon him a conciliatory smile, which I hope escaped the eye of the good angel who records against man all his small hypocrisies and petty deceits.

“Mr. Trohm rides for his health,” said I.  “Seeing me looking up the road at Mother Jane, he stopped to tell me some of the idiosyncrasies of that old woman.  A very harmless courtesy, Mr. Knollys.”

“Very,” he echoed, not without a touch of sarcasm.  “I only hope that is all,” he muttered, with a sidelong look back at the house.  “Lucetta hasn’t a particle of belief in that man’s friendship, or, rather, she believes he never goes anywhere without a particular intention, and I do believe she’s right, or why should he come spying around here just at a time when” ­he caught himself up with almost a look of terror ­“when ­when you are here?” he completed lamely.

“I do not think,” I retorted, more angrily than the occasion perhaps warranted, “that the word spying applies to Mr. Trohm.  But if it does, what has he to gain from a pause at the gate and a word to such a new acquaintance as I am?”

“I don’t know,” William persisted suspiciously.  “Trohm’s a sharp fellow.  If there was anything to see, he would see it without half looking.  But there isn’t.  You don’t know of anything wrong here, do you, which such a man as that, hand in glove with the police as we know him to be, might consider himself interested in?”

Astonished both at this blundering committal of himself and at the certain sort of anxious confidence he showed in me, I hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment, since, if half my suspicions were true, this man must not know that my perspicacity was more to be feared than even Mr. Trohm’s was.

“If Mr. Trohm shows an increased interest in this household during the last two days,” said I, with a heroic defiance of ridicule which I hope Mr. Gryce has duly appreciated, “I beg leave to call your attention to the fact that on yesterday morning he came to deliver a letter addressed to me which had inadvertently been left at his house, and that this morning he called to inquire how I had spent the night, which, in consideration of the ghosts which are said to haunt this house and the strange and uncanny apparitions which only three nights ago made the entrance to this lane hideous to one pair of eyes at least, should not cause a gentleman’s son like yourself any astonishment.  It does not seem odd to me, I assure you.”

He laughed.  I meant he should, and, losing almost instantly his air of doubt and suspicion, turned toward the gate from which I had just moved away, muttering: 

“Well, it’s a small matter to me anyway.  It’s only the girls that are afraid of Mr. Trohm.  I am not afraid of anything but losing Saracen, who has pined like the deuce at his long confinement in the court.  Hear him now; just hear him.”

And I could hear the low and unhappy moaning of the hound distinctly.  It was not a pleasant sound, and I was almost tempted to bid William unloose the dog, but thought better of it.

“By the way,” said he, “speaking of Mother Jane, I have a message to her from the girls.  You will excuse me if I speak to the poor woman.”

Alarmed by his politeness more than I ever have been by his roughness and inconsiderate sarcasms, I surveyed him inquiringly as he left the gate, and did not know whether to stand my ground or retreat to the house.  I decided to stand my ground; a message to this woman seeming to me a matter of some interest.

I was glad I did, for after some five minutes’ absence, during which he had followed her into the house, I saw him come back again in a state of sullen displeasure, which, however, partially disappeared when he saw me still standing by the gate.

“Ah, Miss Butterworth, you can do me a favor.  The old creature is in one of her stubborn fits to-day, and won’t give me a hearing.  She may not be so deaf to you; she isn’t apt to be to women.  Will you cross the road and speak to her?  I will go with you.  You needn’t be afraid.”

The way he said this, the confidence he expected to inspire, had almost a ghastly effect upon me.  Did he know or suspect that the only thing I feared in this lane was he?  Evidently not, for he met my eye quite confidently.

It would not do to shake his faith at such a moment as this, so calling upon Providence to see me safely through this adventure, I stepped into the highway and went with him into Mother Jane’s cottage.

Had I been favored with any other companion than himself, I should have been glad of this opportunity.  As it was, I found myself ignoring any possible danger I might be running, in my interest in the remarkable interior to which I was thus introduced.

Having been told that Mother Jane was poor, I had expected to confront squalor and possibly filth, but I never have entered a cleaner place or one in which order made the poorest belongings look more decent.  The four walls were unfinished, and so were the rafters which formed the ceiling, but the floor, neatly laid in brick, was spotless, and the fireplace, also of brick, was as deftly swept as one could expect from the little scrub I saw hanging by its side.  Crouched within this fireplace sat the old woman we had come to interview.  Her back was to us, and she looked helplessly and hopelessly deaf.

“Ask her,” said William, pointing towards her with a rude gesture, “if she will come to the house at sunset.  My sisters have some work for her to do.  They will pay her well.”

Advancing at his bidding, I passed a rocking-chair, in the cushion of which a dozen patches met my eye.  This drew my eyes toward a bed, over which a counterpane was drawn, made up of a thousand or more pieces of colored calico, and noticing their varied shapes and the intricacy with which they were put together, I wondered whether she ever counted them.  The next moment I was at her back.

“Seventy,” burst from her lips as I leaned over her shoulder and showed her the coin which I had taken pains to have in my hand.

“Yours,” I announced, pointing in the direction of the house, “if you will do some work for Miss Knollys to-night.”

Slowly she shook her head before burying it deeper in the shawl she wore wrapped about her shoulders.  Listening a minute, I thought I heard her mutter:  “Twenty-eight, ten, but no more.  I can count no more.  Go away!”

But I’m nothing if not persistent.  Feeling for her hands, which were hidden away somewhere under her shawl, I touched them with the coin and cried again: 

“This and more for a small piece of work to-night.  Come, you are strong; earn it.”

“What kind of work is it?” I asked innocently, or it must have appeared innocently, of Mr. Knollys, who was standing at my back.

He frowned, all the black devils in his heart coming into his look at once.

“How do I know!  Ask Loreen; she’s the one who sent me.  I don’t take account of what goes on in the kitchen.”

I begged his pardon, somewhat sarcastically I own, and made another attempt to attract the attention of the old crone, who had remained perfectly callous to my allurements.

“I thought you liked money,” I said.  “For Lizzie, you know, for Lizzie.”

But she only muttered in lower and lower gutturals, “I can count no more”; and, disgusted at my failure, being one who accounts failure as little short of disgrace, I drew back and made my way toward the door, saying:  “She’s in a different mood from what she was yesterday when she snatched a quarter from me at the first intimation it was hers.  I don’t think you can get her to do any work to-night.  Innocents take these freaks.  Isn’t there some one else you can call in?”

The scowl that disfigured his none too handsome features was a fitting prelude to his words.

“You talk,” said he, “as if we had the whole village at our command.  How did you succeed with the locksmith yesterday?  Came, didn’t he?  Well, that’s what we have to expect whenever we want any help.”

Whirling on his heel, he led the way out of the hut, whither I would have immediately followed him if I had not stopped to take another look at the room, which struck me, even upon a second scrutiny, as one of the best ordered and best kept I had ever entered.  Even the strings and strings of dried fruits and vegetables, which hung in festoons from every beam of the roof, were free from dust and cobwebs, and though the dishes were few and the pans scarce, they were bright and speckless, giving to the shelf along which they were ranged a semblance of ornament.

“Wise enough to keep her house in order,” thought I, and actually found it hard to leave, so attractive to my eyes are absolute neatness and order.

William was pushing at his own gate when I joined him.  He looked as if he wished I had spent the morning with Mother Jane, and was barely civil in our walk up to the house.  I was not, therefore, surprised when he burst into a volley of oaths at the doorway and turned upon me almost as if he would forbid me the house, for tap, tap, tap, from some distant quarter came a distinct sound like that of nails being driven into a plank.

CHAPTER VIII - THE THIRD NIGHT

Mother Jane must have changed her mind after we left her.  For late in the evening I caught a glimpse of her burly figure in the kitchen as I went to give Hannah some instructions concerning certain little changes in the housekeeping arrangements which the girls and I had agreed were necessary to our mutual comfort.

I wished to address the old crone, but warned, by the ill-concealed defiance with which Hannah met my advances, that any such attempt on my part would be met by anything but her accustomed good-nature, I refrained from showing my interest in her strange visitor, or from even appearing conscious of her own secret anxieties and evident preoccupation.

Loreen and Lucetta exchanged a meaning look as I rejoined them in the sitting-room; but my volubility in regard to the domestic affair which had just taken me to the kitchen seemed to speedily reassure them, and when a few minutes later I said good-night and prepared to leave the room, it was with the conviction that I had relieved their mind at the expense of my own.  Mother Jane in the kitchen at this late hour meant business.  What that business was, I seemed to know only too well.

I had formed a plan for the night which required some courage.  Recalling Lucetta’s expression of the morning, that I might expect a repetition of the former night’s experiences, I prepared to profit by the warning in a way she little meant.  Satisfied that if there was any truth in the suspicions I had formed, there would be an act performed in this house to-night which, if seen by me, would forever settle the question agitating the whole countryside, I made up my mind that no locked door should interfere with my opportunity of doing so.  How I effected this result I will presently relate.

Lucetta had accompanied me to my door with a lighted candle.

“I hear you had some trouble with matches last night,” said she.  “You will find them all right now.  Hannah must be blamed for some of this carelessness.”  Then as I began some reassuring reply, she turned upon me with a look that was almost fond, and, throwing out her arms, cried entreatingly:  “Won’t you give me a little kiss, Miss Butterworth?  We have not given you the best of welcomes, but you are my mother’s old friend, and sometimes I feel a little lonely.”

I could easily believe that, and yet I found it hard to embrace her.  Too many shadows swam between Althea’s children and myself.  She saw my hesitancy (a hesitancy I could not but have shown even at the risk of losing her confidence), and, paling slightly, dropped her hands with a pitiful smile.

“You don’t like me,” she said.  “I do not wonder, but I was in hopes you would for my mother’s sake.  I have no claims myself.”

“You are an interesting girl, and you have, what your mother had not, a serious side to your nature that is anything but displeasing to me.  But my kisses, Lucetta, are as rare as my tears.  I had rather give you good advice, and that is a fact.  Perhaps it is as strong a proof of affection as any ordinary caress would be.”

“Perhaps,” she assented, but she did not encourage me to give it to her notwithstanding.  Instead of that, she drew back and bade me a gentle good-night, which for some reason made me sadder than I wished to be at a crisis demanding so much nerve.  Then she walked quickly away, and I was left to face the night alone.

Knowing that I should be rather weakened than helped by the omission of any of the little acts of preparation with which I am accustomed to calm my spirits for the night, I went through them all, with just as much precision as if I had expected to spend the ensuing hours in rest.  When all was done and only my cup of tea remained to be quaffed, I had a little struggle with myself, which ended in my not drinking it at all.  Nothing, not even this comfortable solace for an unsatisfactory day, should stand in the way of my being the complete mistress of my wits this night.  Had I known that this tea contained a soporific in the shape of a little harmless morphine, I would have found this act of self-denial much easier.

It was now eleven.  Confident that nothing would be done while my light was burning, I blew it out, and, taking a candle and some matches in my hand, softly opened my door and, after a moment of intense listening, stepped out and closed it carefully behind me.  Nothing could be stiller than the house or darker than the corridor.

“Am I watched or am I not watched?” I queried, and for an instant stood undecided.  Then, seeing nothing and hearing nothing, I slipped down the hall to the door beyond mine and, opening it with all the care possible, stepped inside.

I knew the room.  I had taken especial note of it in my visit of the morning.  I knew that it was nearly empty and that there was a key in the lock which I could turn.  I therefore felt more or less safe in it, especially as its window was undarkened by the branches that hung so thickly across my own casement, shutting me in, or seeming to shut me in, from all communication with the outside world and the unknown guardian which I had been assured constantly attended my summons.

That I might strengthen my spirits by one glimpse of this same outside world, before settling down for the watch I had set for myself, I stepped softly to the window and took one lingering look without.  A belt of forest illumined by a gibbous moon met my eyes; nothing else.  Yet this sight was welcome, and it was only after I had been struck by the possibility of my own figure being seen at the casement by some possible watcher in the shadows below, that I found the hardihood necessary to withdraw into the darker precincts of the room, and begin that lonely watch which my doubts and expectations rendered necessary.

This was the third I had been forced to keep, and it was by far the most dismal; for though the bolted door between me and the hall promised me personal safety, there presently rose in some far-off place a smothered repetition of that same tap, tap, tap which had sent the shudders over me upon my sudden entrance into the house early in the morning.  Heard now, it caused me to tremble in a way I had not supposed possible to one of my hardy nature, and while with this recognition of my feminine susceptibility to impressions there came a certain pride in the stanchness of purpose which led me to restrain all acknowledgment of fear, by any recourse to my whistle, I was more than glad when even this sound ceased, and I had only to expect the swishing noise of a skirt down the hall, and that stealthy locking of the door of the room I had taken the precaution of leaving.

It came sooner than I expected, came just in the way it had previously done, only that the person paused a moment to listen before hastening back.  The silence within must have satisfied her, for I heard a low sigh like that of relief, before the steps took themselves back.  That they would turn my way gave me a momentary concern, but I had too completely lulled my young hostesses’ suspicions, or (let me be faithful to all the possibilities of the case) they had put too much confidence in the powder with which they had seasoned my nightly cup of tea, for them to doubt that I was soundly asleep in my own quarters.

Three minutes later I followed those steps as far down the corridor as I dared to go.  For, since my last appearance in it, a candle had been lit in the main hall, and faint as was its glimmer, it was still a glimmer into the circle of which I felt it would be foolhardiness for me to step.  At some twenty paces, then, from the opening, I paused and gave myself up to listening.  Alas, there was plenty now for me to hear.

You have heard the sound; we all have heard the sound, but few of us in such a desolate structure and at the hour and under the influences of midnight!  The measured tread of men struggling under a heavy weight, and that weight ­how well I knew it! as well as if I had seen it, as I really did in my imagination.

They advanced from the adjoining corridor, from the room I had as yet found no opportunity of entering, and they approached surely and slowly the main hall near which I was standing in such a position as rendered it impossible for me to see anything if they took the direct course to the head of the stairs and so down, as there was every reason to expect they would.  I did not dare to draw nearer, however, so concentrated my faculties anew upon listening, when suddenly I perceived on the great white wall in front of me ­the wall of the main hall, I mean, toward which the opening looked ­the shapeless outline of a drooping head, and realized that the candle had been placed in such a position that the wall must receive the full shadow of the passing cortege.

And thus it was I saw it, huge, distorted, and suggestive beyond any picture I ever beheld, ­the passing of a body to its long home, carried by six anxious figures, four of which seemed to be those of women.

But that long home!  Where was it located ­in the house or in the grounds?  It was a question so important that for a moment I could think of nothing but how I could follow the small procession, without running the risk of discovery.  It had reached the head of the stairs by this time, and I heard Miss Knollys’ low, firm voice enjoining silence.  Then the six bearers began to descend with their burden.

Ere they reached the foot, a doubt struck me.  Would it be better to follow them or to take the opportunity afforded by every member of the household being engaged in this task, to take a peep into the room where the death had occurred?  I had not decided, when I heard them take the forward course from the foot of the stairs to what, to my straining ear, seemed to be the entrance to the dining-room corridor.  But as in my anxiety to determine this fact I slipped far enough forward to make sure that their destination lay somewhere within reach of the Flower Parlor, I was so struck by the advantages to be gained by a cautious use of the trap-door in William’s room, that I hesitated no longer, but sped with what swiftness I could toward the spot from which I had so lately heard this strange procession advance.

A narrow band of light lying across the upper end of the long corridor, proved that the door was not only ajar, but that a second candle was burning in the room I was about to invade; but this was scarcely to be regretted, since there could be no question of the emptiness of the room.  The six figures I had seen go by embraced every one who by any possibility could be considered as having part in this transaction ­William, Mr. Simsbury, Miss Knollys, Lucetta, Hannah, and Mother Jane.  No one else was left to guard this room, so I pushed the door open quite boldly and entered.

What I saw there I will relate later, or, rather, I will but hint at now.  A bed with a sheet thrown back, a stand covered with vials, a bureau with a man’s shaving paraphernalia upon it, and on the wall such pictures as only sporting gentlemen delight in.  The candle was guttering on a small table upon which, to my astonishment, a Bible lay open.  Not having my glasses with me, I could not see what portion of the sacred word was thus disclosed, but I took the precaution to indent the upper leaf with my thumb-nail, so that I might find it again in case of future opportunity.  My attention was attracted by other small matters that would be food for thought at a more propitious moment, but at that instant the sound of voices coming distinctly to my ear from below, warned me that a halt had been made at the Flower Parlor, and that the duty of the moment was to locate the trap-door and if possible determine the means of raising it.

This was less difficult than I anticipated.  Either this room was regarded as so safe from intrusion that a secret like this could be safely left unguarded, or the door which was plainly to be seen in one corner had been so lately lifted, that it had hardly sunk back into its place.  I found it, if the expression may be used of a horizontal object, slightly ajar and needing but the slightest pull to make it spring upright.

The hole thus disclosed was filled with the little staircase up which I had partly mounted in my daring explorations of the day before.  It was dark now, darker than it was then, but I felt that I must descend by it, for plainly to be heard now through the crack in the closet door, which seemed to have a knack of standing partly open, I could hear the heavy tread of the six bearers as they entered the parlor below, still carrying their burden, concerning the destination of which I was so anxious to be informed.

That it could be in the room itself was too improbable for consideration.  Yet if they took up their stand in this room it was for a purpose, and what that purpose was I was determined to know.  The noise their feet made on the bare boards of the floor and the few words I now heard uttered in William’s stolid tones and Lucetta’s musical treble assured me that my own light steps would no more be heard, than my dark gown of quiet wool would be seen through the narrow slit through which I was preparing to peer.  Yet it took no small degree of what my father used to call pluck, for me to put foot on this winding staircase and descend almost, as it were, into the midst of what I must regard as the last wicked act of a most cowardly and brutal murder.

I did it, however, and after a short but grim communion with my own heart, which would persist in beating somewhat noisily, I leaned forward with all the precaution possible and let my gaze traverse the chamber in which I had previously seen such horrors as should have prepared me for this last and greatest one.

In a moment I understood the whole.  A long square hole in the floor, lately sawed, provided an opening through which the plain plank coffin, of which I now caught sight, was to be lowered into the cellar and so into the grave which had doubtless been dug there.  The ropes in the hands of the six persons, in whose identity I had made no mistake, was proof enough of their intention; and, satisfied as I now was of the means and mode of the interment which had been such a boundless mystery to me, I shrank a step upward, fearing lest my indignation and the horror I could not but feel, from this moment on, of Althea’s children, would betray me into some exclamation which might lead to my discovery and a similar fate.

One other short glance, in which I saw them all ranged around the dark opening, and I was up out of their reach, Lucetta’s face and Lucetta’s one sob as the ropes began to creak, being the one memory which followed me the most persistently.  She, at least, was overwhelmed with remorse for a deed she was perhaps only answerable for in that she failed to make known to the world her brother’s madness and the horrible crimes to which it gave rise.

I took one other look around his room before I fled to my own, or rather, to the one in which I had taken refuge while my own was under lock and key.  That I spent the next two hours on my knees no one can wonder.  When my own room was unlocked, as it was before the day broke, I hastened to enter it and lay my head with all its unhappy knowledge on my pillow.  But I did not sleep; and, what was stranger still, never once thought of sounding a single note on the whistle which would have brought the police into this abode of crime.  Perhaps it was a wise omission.  I had seen enough that was horrible that night without beholding Althea’s children arrested before my eyes.