did want to, Wynne, when I was upstairs. But, now, with people all about,—if Norma will stay here, too, I’d rather stay with you. When are you going down, Wynne?”
“I don’t know, dear. We’ll have to see how things turn out. Well, you go ahead, Rudolph, you’ll have to hustle to get over to the train. And there are a few matters I wish you’d look after for me.”
The two men went off to discuss these matters, and then Doctor Wayburn, who had been telephoning, announced that the coroner could not come until the next day, as he was in another township attending to some duties.
“And I’m glad of it,” said Eve, “for we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
And so, by ten or eleven o’clock, the house was locked up and the members of the household gone to bed, all except old Thorpe, who sat in the great hall, with the two doors open into the rooms where the still, tragic figures lay. Before him, on a table, Hester had placed coffee and sandwiches, and the old man sat, brooding on the awful events of the afternoon.
Chapter VIII.
By What Means
The night was full of restlessness. Tracy and Professor Hardwick, in their adjoining rooms, were the only ones in the wing that had the night before also housed Braye and Gifford Bruce.
“Shall we leave the door between open?” Tracy asked, more out of consideration for the Professor’s nerves than his own.
“Yes, if you will. And don’t go to bed yet. I can’t sleep, I know, and I must discuss this thing with somebody, or go mad!”
“All right, sir,” and Tracy took off his coat and donned an old-fashioned dressing-gown.
Hardwick smiled. “That’s the first ministerial garb I’ve seen you wear,” he said. “I’d pick that up for a dominie’s negligé every time!”
“I’m rather attached to the old dud,” and Tracy patted it affectionately. “Queer, how one comes to love a worn garment. No, I don’t wear clerical togs when off on a vacation. I used to, till some one told me it cast a restraint over the others, and I hate to feel I’m doing that.”
“You’d never do that, my friend. You’ve a natural tact that ought to carry you far toward general popularity. But, tell me, as man to man, how do you size up this awful mystery?”
“I don’t know, Professor. At times my mind’s a blank,—and then, I get a hint or,—well, I can’t call it a suspicion,—but a thought, say, in one direction, and it’s so fearfully absurd, I discard it at once. Then comes another idea, only to be dismissed like the first. What do you think?”
“I am a complete convert to the supernatural. You know, Sir Oliver Lodge and many other scientists only believed after they had had undeniable personal experience. Now, here were warnings,—definite, positive prophecies, and they were fulfilled. What more can any one ask?”
Tracy mused over this. “I know that,” he said, at last, “but I can’t quite swallow it whole, like that. Do you mean there was no physical cause? Such as fright, expectant attention,——”
“Expectant attention is a fine phrase,—much like auto-suggestion. They are all right as far as they go, but they can’t go to the extent of killing people. Then again, suggest even a theory, even a possible means of the death of those two by any human agency. Murder is out of the question,—suicide even more so. And they had no desire to end their lives. A young girl, happily looking forward to gaiety and pleasure,—a man in the prime of life, hale, rich, prosperous—no, they had no wish to die!”
“True enough; but I can’t quite see it. Why did the spirits want to kill them? if spirits did kill them?”
“For interfering with this haunted house,—in a frivolous and flippant way. I’ve always heard that departed souls bitterly resent scoffing, or merely curious investigation.”
“But why choose those two? Or Vernie, anyway? Perhaps Mr. Bruce was needlessly sarcastic and sceptical.”
“So was the child——”
“Oh, but in such an innocent, harmless way! However, Professor, I’ve nothing to offer in place of your argument. My creed does not admit of my subscribing to your theory, but I confess I’m unable to suggest any other. As you say, it couldn’t have been suicide, and there’s no possibility of foul play.”
The two men talked on, or sat in silent thought, far into the night. The clock struck twelve before they at last retired, leaving open their communication door, and securely locking their hall doors.
Less than an hour later, a slender white-robed figure tiptoed from one of the bedrooms and looked over the banisters. Peering down through the darkness, the dim outline of old Thorpe’s form was visible. He was huddled in his chair, his head fallen forward on the table. Softly returning to her room for a wrap, Eve again stealthily came to the staircase, and sat down on the uppermost step.
Later still, another door silently opened, and a pair of surprised blue eyes saw Eve sitting there. Suppressing a startled exclamation, Norma scurried back to her room, but Eve did not hear her.
Milly was wakeful and restless. Several times she declared she heard sounds, but when Wynne wanted to go and investigate, she refused to let him do so.
The house surely seemed haunted. The aspens brushed against the windows with their eternal soughing, their leaves whispering,—hissing creepy secrets, and their branches tapping eerily on the panes. The halls were full of shadows, vague, indistinct, fading to nothingness.
At four o’clock the great clock tolled the hour, and every one in the house heard it. No one was asleep, every heart was beating fast, every eye wide open, every nerve tense.
But nothing happened; no shriek rent the silence, no unusual or terrifying sound was heard.
Relieved, some went to sleep again, some tossed restlessly on their pillows until rising time.
At breakfast all looked haggard and worn. The day was cool and pleasant, the dining room bright with sunshine, and old Hester’s viands most appetizing.
Thorpe had closed the doors of the rooms given over to the presence of death, and as the various members of the party came down the staircase quick apprehensive glances were followed by a look of relief.
Elijah Stebbins came while breakfast was in progress, and at Milly’s invitation took a seat at the board.
“Well,” he said heavily, “you folks wanted spooks, I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Don’t use that tone, Mr. Stebbins,” Landon reproved him. “A dreadful thing has happened. I cannot think it is by supernatural causes nor can I see any other explanation. But that is no reason for you to speak flippantly of our investigations of your so-called haunted house.”
“No offence meant,” and Stebbins cringed. “But I’m thinkin’ you folks had better go away from here, or there’s no tellin’ what might happen.”
“Do you know anything about the mystery?” Professor Hardwick shot out the question so suddenly that Stebbins jumped.
“No, sir, of course I don’t, sir! How could I?”
“Then why do you warn us off the premises?”
“I don’t exactly do that, but I’d think you’d reason for yourselves that what happens once can happen ag’in.”
The dogged look on the man’s face seemed portentous of evil, and Milly began to cry.
“Oh, take me home, Wynne,” she begged; “I don’t want to stay here!”
“Come