some time after four o’clock my door was unlocked from without; the bolt slipped as noiselessly as it had been shot. i got a little sleep until seven, when the boys trotted into my room in their bathrobes and slippers and perched on my bed.
“it’s a nice day,” observed harry, the elder. “is that bump your feet?”
i wriggled my toes and assured him he had surmised correctly.
“you’re pretty long, aren’t you? do you think we can play in the fountain to-day?”
“we’ll make a try for it, son. it will do us all good to get out into the sunshine.”
“we always took chang for a walk every day, mademoiselle and chang and freddie and i.”
freddie had found my cap on the dressing table and had put it on his yellow head. but now, on hearing the beloved name of his pet, he burst into loud grief-stricken howls.
“want mam’selle,” he cried. “want chang too. poor freddie!”
the children were adorable. i bathed and dressed them and, mindful of my predecessor’s story of crackers and milk, prepared for an excursion kitchenward. the nights might be full of mystery, murder might romp from room to room, but i intended to see that the youngsters 24 breakfasted. but before i was ready to go down breakfast arrived.
perhaps the other nurse had told the reeds a few plain truths before she left; perhaps, and this i think was the case, the cloud had lifted just a little. whatever it may have been, two rather flushed and blistered young people tapped at the door that morning and were admitted, mr. reed first, with a tray, mrs. reed following with a coffee-pot and cream.
the little nursery table was small for five, but we made room somehow. what if the eggs were underdone and the toast dry? the children munched blissfully. what if mr. reed’s face was still drawn and haggard and his wife a limp little huddle on the floor? she sat with her head against his knee and her eyes on the little boys, and drank her pale coffee slowly. she was very tired, poor thing. she dropped asleep sitting there, and he sat for a long time, not liking to disturb her.
it made me feel homesick for the home i didn’t have. i’ve had the same feeling before, of being a rank outsider, a sort of defrauded feeling. i’ve had it when i’ve seen the look in a man’s eyes when his wife comes-to after an operation. and i’ve had it, for that matter, when i’ve put a new baby in its mother’s arms for the first time. i had it for sure that morning, while she slept there and he stroked her pretty hair.
i put in my plea for the children then.
“it’s bright and sunny,” i argued. “and if you are nervous i’ll keep them away from other children. but if you want to keep them well you must give them exercise.”
it was the argument about keeping them well that 25 influenced him, i think. he sat silent for a long time. his wife was still asleep, her lips parted.
“very well,” he said finally, “from two to three, miss adams. but not in the garden back of the house. take them on the street.”
i agreed to that.
“i shall want a short walk every evening myself,” i added. “that is a rule of mine. i am a more useful person and a more agreeable one if i have it.”
i think he would have demurred if he dared. but one does not easily deny so sane a request. he yielded grudgingly.
that first day was calm and quiet enough. had it not been for the strange condition of the house and the necessity for keeping the children locked in i would have smiled at my terror of the night. luncheon was sent in; so was dinner. the children and i lunched and supped alone. as far as i could see, mrs. reed made no attempt at housework; but the cot at the head of the stairs disappeared in the early morning and the dog did not howl again.
i took the boys out for an hour in the early afternoon. two incidents occurred, both of them significant. i bought myself a screw driver—that was one. the other was our meeting with a slender young woman in black who knew the boys and stopped them. she proved to be one of the dismissed servants—the waitress, she said.
“why, freddie!” she cried. “and harry too! aren’t you going to speak to nora?”
after a moment or two she turned to me, and i felt she wanted to say something, but hardly dared.
“how is mrs. reed?” she asked. “not sick, i hope?”
26
she glanced at my st. luke’s cloak and bonnet.
“no, she is quite well.”
“and mr. reed?”
“quite well also.”
“is mademoiselle still there?”
“no, there is no one there but the family. there are no maids in the house.”
she stared at me curiously.
“mademoiselle has gone? are you cer—— excuse me, miss. but i thought she would never go. the children were like her own.”
“she is not there, nora.”
she stood for a moment debating, i thought. then she burst out:
“mr. reed made a mistake, miss. you can’t take a houseful of first-class servants and dismiss them the way he did, without half an hour to get out bag and baggage, without making talk. and there’s talk enough all through the neighborhood.”
“what sort of talk?”
“different people say different things. they say mademoiselle is still there, locked in her room on the third floor. there’s a light there sometimes, but nobody sees her. and other folks say mr. reed is crazy. and there is worse being said than that.”
but she refused to tell me any more—evidently concluded she had said too much and got away as quickly as she could, looking rather worried.
i was a trifle over my hour getting back, but nothing was said. to leave the clean and tidy street for the disordered house was not pleasant. but once in the children’s suite, with the goldfish in the aquarium darting like 27 tongues of flame in the sunlight, with the tulips and hyacinths of the window-boxes glowing and the orderly toys on their white shelves, i felt comforted. after all, disorder and dust did not imply crime.
but one thing i did that afternoon—did it with firmness and no attempt at secrecy, and after asking permission of no one. i took the new screw driver and unfastened the bolt from the outside of my door.
i was prepared, if necessary, to make a stand on that issue. but although it was noticed, i knew, no mention of it was made to me.
mrs. reed pleaded a headache that evening, and i believe her husband ate alone in the dismantled dining room. for every room on the lower floor, i had discovered, was in the same curious disorder.
at seven mr. reed relieved me to go out. the children were in bed. he did not go into the day nursery, but placed a straight chair outside the door of the back room and sat there, bent over, elbows on knees, chin cupped in his palm, staring at the staircase. he roused enough to ask me to bring an evening paper when i returned.
when i am on a department case i always take my off-duty in the evening by arrangement and walk round the block. some time in my walk i am sure to see mr. patton himself if the case is big enough, or one of his agents if he cannot come. if i have nothing to communicate it resolves itself into a bow and nothing more.
i was nervous on this particular jaunt. for one thing my st. luke’s cloak and bonnet marked me at once, made me conspicuous; for another, i was afraid mr. patton 28 would think the reed house no place for a woman and order me home.
it was a quarter to eight and quite dark before he fell into step beside me.
“well,” i replied rather shakily; “i’m still alive, as you see.”
“then it is pretty bad?”
“it’s exceedingly queer,” i admitted, and told my story. i had meant to conceal the bolt on the outside of my door, and one or two other things, but i blurted them all out right then and there, and felt a lot better at once.
he listened intently.
“it’s fear of the deadliest sort,” i finished.
“fear of the police?”
“i—i think not. it is fear of something in the house. they are always listening and watching at the top of the front stairs. they have lifted all the carpets, so that every footstep echoes through the whole house. mrs. reed goes down to the first door, but never alone. to-day i found that the back staircase is locked off at top and bottom. there are doors.”
i gave him my rough diagram of the house. it was too dark to see it.
“it is only tentative,” i explained. “so much of the house is locked up, and every movement of mine is under surveillance. without baths there are about twelve large rooms, counting the third floor. i’ve not been able to get there, but i thought that to-night i’d try to look about.”
“you had no sleep last night?”
“three hours—from four to seven this morning.”
we had crossed into the public square and were walking 29 slowly under the trees. now he stopped and faced me.
“i don’t like the look of it, miss adams,” he said. “ordinary panic goes and hides. but here’s a fear that knows what it’s afraid of and takes methodical steps for protection. i didn’t want you to take the case, you know that; but now i’m not going to insult you by asking you to give it up. but i’m going to see that you are protected. there will be some one across the street every night as long as you are in the house.”
“have you any theory?” i asked him. he is not strong for theories generally. he is very practical. “that is, do you think the other nurse was right and there is some sort of crime being concealed?”
“well, think about it,” he prompted me. “if a murder has been committed, what are they afraid of? the police? then why a trained nurse and all this caution about the children? a ghost? would they lift the carpets so that they could hear the specter tramping about?”
“if there is no crime, but something—a lunatic perhaps?” i asked.
“possibly. but then why this secrecy and keeping out the police? it is, of course, possible that your respected employers have both gone off mentally, and the whole thing is a nightmare delusion. on my word it sounds like it. but it’s too much for credulity to believe they’ve both gone crazy with the same form of delusion.”
“perhaps i’m the lunatic,” i said despairingly. “when you reduce it like that to an absurdity i wonder if i didn’t imagine it all, the lights burning everywhere and the carpets up, and mrs. reed staring down the staircase, and 30 i locked in a room and hanging on by my nails to peer out through a closet transom.”
“perhaps. but how about the deadly sane young woman who preceded you? she had no imagination. now about reed and his wife—how do they strike you? they get along all right and that sort of thing, i suppose?”
“they are nice people,” i said emphatically. “he’s a gentleman and they’re devoted. he just looks like a big boy who’s got into an awful mess and doesn’t know how to get out. and she’s backing him up. she’s a dear.”
“humph!” said mr. patton. “don’t suppress any evidence because she’s a dear and he’s a handsome big boy!”
“i didn’t say he was handsome,” i snapped.
“did you ever see a ghost or think you saw one?” he inquired suddenly.
“no, but one of my aunts has. hers always carry their heads. she asked one a question once and the head nodded.”
“then you believe in things of that sort?”
“not a particle—but i’m afraid of them.”
he smiled, and shortly after that i went back to the house. i think he was sorry about the ghost question, for he explained that he had been trying me out, and that i looked well in my cloak and bonnet.
“i’m afraid of your chin generally,” he said; “but the white lawn ties have a softening effect. in view of the ties i have almost the courage——”
“yes?”
“i think not, after all.” he decided. “the chin is there, 31 ties or no ties. good-night, and—for heaven’s sake don’t run any unnecessary risks.”
the change from his facetious tone to earnestness was so unexpected that i was still standing there on the pavement when he plunged into the darkness of the square and disappeared.
