Part 19 (1/2)

”No. He's thar yet, I reckon.”

Peter ran out to the garage to verify this statement. By the light of a lantern the chauffeur in his rubber boots was was.h.i.+ng the two cars.

”Have you been up to the house lately?”

”Why, no,” said the man, in surprise.

”You're sure?” asked Peter excitedly.

”Sure----”

”Then come with me. There's something on.”

The man dropped his sponge and followed Peter, who had run back quickly to the house.

It was now after eleven. From the drawing-room came the distracting sounds from the tortured piano, but there was no one on the portico. So Peter, with Jesse, Andy and the chauffeur made a careful round of the house, examining every bush, every tree, within a circle of a hundred yards, exhausting every possibility for concealment. When they reached the kitchen door again, Peter rubbed his head and gave it up. A screech owl somewhere off in the woods jeered at him. All the men, except Jesse, were plainly skeptical. But he sent them back to their posts and, still pondering the situation, went into the house.

It was extraordinary how the visitor, whoever he was, could have gotten away without having been observed, for though the night was black the eyes of the men outside were accustomed to it and the lights from the windows sent a glimmer into the obscurity. Of one thing Peter was now certain, that the prowler was no ghost or banshee, but a man, and that he had gone as mysteriously as he had come.

Peter knew that his employer would be anxious until he returned to him, but he hadn't quite decided to tell McGuire of the housekeeper's share in the adventure. He had a desire to verify his belief that Mrs. Bergen was frightened by the visitor for a reason of her own which had nothing to do with Jonathan McGuire. Any woman alarmed by a possible burglar or other miscreant would have come running and crying for help. Mrs. Bergen had been doggedly silent, as though, rather than utter her thoughts, she would have bitten out her tongue. It was curious. She had seemed to be talking as though to herself at the door, and then, at the sound of footsteps in the kitchen behind her, had turned and fallen limp in the nearest chair. The look in her face, as in McGuire's, was that of terror, but there was something of bewilderment in both of them too, like that of a solitary sniper in the first shock of a shrapnel wound, a look of anguish that seemed to have no outlet, save in speech, which was denied.

To tell McGuire what had happened in the kitchen meant to alarm him further. Peter decided for the present to keep the matter from him, giving the housekeeper the opportunity of telling the truth on the morrow if she wished.

He crossed the kitchen and servants' dining-room and just at the foot of the back stairs met Mrs. Bergen and Beth coming down. So he retraced his steps into the kitchen, curious as to the meaning of her reappearance.

At least she had recovered the use of her tongue.

”I couldn't go to bed, just yet, Mr. Nichols,” she said in reply to Peter's question. ”I just couldn't.”

Peter gazed at her steadily. This woman held a clew to the mystery. She glanced at him uncertainly but she had recovered her self-possession, and her replies to his questions, if anything, were more obstinate than before.

”I saw nothin', Mr. Nichols--nothin'. I was just a bit upset. I'm all right now. An' I want Beth to go home. That's why I came down.”

”But, Aunt Tillie, if you're not well, I'm going to stay----”

”No. Ye can't stay here. I want ye to go.” And then, turning excitedly to Peter, ”Can't ye let somebody see her home, Mr. Nichols?”

”Of course,” said Peter. ”But I don't think she's in any danger.”

”No, but she can't stay here. She just can't.”

Beth put her arm around the old woman's shoulder.

”I'm not afraid.”

Aunt Tillie was already untying Beth's ap.r.o.n.

”I know ye're not, dearie. But ye can't stay here. I don't want ye to. I don't want ye to.”

”But if you're afraid of something----”