Jamieson was
examining the locks of the windows. Halsey dropped into a chair
in the living-room, and stared moodily ahead. Once he roused.
"What sort of a looking chap is that Walker, Gertrude?" he asked!
"Rather tall, very dark, smooth-shaven. Not bad looking,"
Gertrude said, putting down the book she had been pretending to
read. Halsey kicked a taboret viciously.
"Lovely place this village must be in the winter," he said
irrelevantly. "A girl would be buried alive here."
It was then some one rapped at the knocker on the heavy front
door. Halsey got up leisurely and opened it, admitting Warner.
He was out of breath from running, and he looked half abashed.
"I am sorry to disturb you," he said. "But I didn't know what
else to do. It's about Thomas."
"What about Thomas?" I asked. Mr. Jamieson had come into the
hall and we all stared at Warner.
"He's acting queer," Warner explained. "He's sitting down there
on the edge of the porch, and he says he has seen a ghost. The
old man looks bad, too; he can scarcely speak."
"He's as full of superstition as an egg is of meat," I said.
"Halsey, bring some whisky and we will all go down."
No one moved to get the whisky, from which I judged there were
three pocket flasks ready for emergency. Gertrude threw a
shawl around my shoulders, and we all started down over the hill:
I had made so many nocturnal excursions around the place that I
knew my way perfectly. But Thomas was not on the veranda, nor
was he inside the house.
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