For a moment they stared at one another; then Peter began to laugh. Mr. Ernest Titmarsh, far from being offended, beamed affably upon him. Peter pulled himself together as soon as he could, and said with a quiver in his voice: "I beg your pardon, but really it's rather funny. You see, whenever we catch sight of anyone wandering about in our grounds we think he's a ghost."
Mr. Titmarsh blinked at him. "Dear me, is that so indeed? A ghost, did you say?"
"Yes," Charles said gravely. "It's - it's an idiosyncrasy of ours."
Mr. Titmarsh replaced his hat upon his head, and seemed to give the matter some thought. Light broke upon him. "Of course, of course!" he said. "This is the Priory!"
"Didn't you know?" asked Peter, somewhat surprised.
"Now I come to look about me, yes," replied their eccentric visitor. "But I fear I am very absent-minded. Yes, yes, indeed, I owe you an apology. You are not, I suppose, interested in entomology?"
"I'm afraid I know very little about it," confessed Peter.
"An absorbing study," Mr. Titmarsh said with enthusiasm. "But it leads one into committing acts of trespass, as you perceive. Yes, I am much to blame. I will at once depart."
"Oh, don't do that!" Charles interposed. "We haven't the smallest objection to you - er - catching moths in our grounds. Now we know who you are we shan't take you for a ghost again."
"Really," said Mr. Titmarsh, "this is most kind. I repeat, most kind. Am I to understand that I have your permission to pursue my studies in your grounds? Tuttut, this puts me under quite an obligation. Two evenings since, I observed what I believe to be an oleander hawkmoth. Yes, my dear sir, actually that rarest of specimens. I have great hopes of adding it to my collection. That will be indeed a triumph."
"Well, in that case, we won't interrupt you any longer," Charles said. "We'll just wish you luck, and retire."
Mr. Titmarsh bowed with old-world courtesy, and as though his hobby suddenly called him, turned, and darted back amongst the trees.
"And there we are," said Charles. "Might as well live in a public park, as far as I can see. I wish I'd remembered to ask him if he was interested in skeletons."
"I admit it looked a bit fishy, finding him snooping about just at this moment," said Peter, "but somehow I see him in the role of house-breaker. We'd better go in and reassure the girls."
In the garden-hall they found Bowers, who had watched their proceedings with a gradual return to calm. He looked slightly sheepish when he learned who was the visiter, but he advanced the opinion that they had not heard the last of the Monk yet. This they were inclined to believe, but when they rejoined the girls they assumed the manner of those who had successfully laid a ghost.
Celia was not convinced, however. The discovery of the skeleton, she said, accounted for every strange noise they had heard, since its unquiet spirit was obviously haunting the scene of its ghastly end.
"I don't know about that," said Mrs. Bosanquet firmly, "but I do know that it is most unhygienic to have dead bodies walled up in the house, and unless it is at once removed, and the place thoroughly fumigated, I shall return to town tomorrow."
"Oh!" said Celia, shuddering, "you don't suppose I'm going to stay here any longer do you, Aunt? We shall all go home to-morrow. I only wish we'd sold the place when we had the offer."
"Look here, Celia," Peter said. "If the ghost of that poor devil really has been haunting the place it's ten to one it'll stop bothering us once we've buried the remains. Don't fuss, Aunt Lilian. Of course we're going to bury the skeleton, and you can fumigate as much as you like. But I do think we oughtn't to throw up the sponge quite so easily."
"Easily!" said Celia. "I don't know what more you're waiting for! I shan't know a quiet moment if I have to stay in this place another day."
Margaret was looking from Charles to her brother. "Go on, Peter. You think we ought to give the place another chance?"
"I do. Hang it all, we shall look a pretty good set of asses if we bunk back to town simply because we've heard a few odd noises, and discovered a skeleton in a priest's hole."
"Shall we?" said Celia, with awful irony. "I suppose we ought to have expected an ordinary little thing like a skeleton?"
"Not the skeleton, but we might have guessed there'd be a priest's hole. Be a sport, Celia! If you actually see a ghost, or if any more skulls fall out of cupboards I'll give in, and take you back to town myself."
Celia looked imploringly at her husband. "I can't, Chas. You know what I am, and I can't help it if I'm stupid about these things, but every time I open my wardrobe I shall be terrified of what may be inside."
"All right, darling," Charles replied. "You shan't be martyred. I suggest you and Margaret and Aunt Lilian clear out to-morrow. I'll run you up to town, and…'
Celia sat bolt upright. "Do you mean you'll stay here?"
"That's rather the idea," he admitted.
"Charles, you can't!" she said, agitated. "I won't let you!"
"I shan't be alone. Peter's staying too."
Celia clasped his arm. "NO, don't, Charles. You don't know what might happen, and how on earth could I go away like that, and leave you here?"
Margaret's clear voice made itself heard. "Why are you so keen to stay?" she asked.
"Pride, my dear," Charles said. "Of course, with me it's natural heroism. Peter's trying to live up to me."
She shook her head. "You've got something up your sleeve. Neither of you would be so silly as to stay on here, mucking up your holiday, just to prove you weren't afraid of ghosts."
"But it's getting worse!" Celia cried. "What have you got up your sleeve? I insist on knowing! Chas! Peter!"
Peter hesitated. "To tell you the truth, Sis, I don't quite know. As far as I can make out, Chas has got an idea someone's at the root of all this ghost business."
With great deliberation Mrs. Bosanquet put down her Patience pack. "I may be stupid," she said, "but I don't understand what you're talking about. Who is at the back of what you call this "ghost business," and why?"
"Dear Aunt," said Charles, "that is precisely the problem we hope to solve by staying here."
"All those noises? The picture falling down?" Margaret said eagerly. "You think someone did it all? Someone real?"
"I don't know, but I think it's possible. I may be wrong, in which case I'll eat my disbelief, and go about henceforward swearing there are such things as ghosts."
"Yes, that's all very well," objected Celia, "but why on earth should anyone want to make ghost-noises and things at us? And who could have done it? Neither of the Bowers would, and how could anyone else get into the house without us knowing?"
"Easily," said Charles. "There's more thann one way in, besides windows."
"That quite decides me," Mrs. Bosanquet announced. "No one is a greater believer in fresh air than I am, but if I am to remain in this house, I shall sleep with my windows securely bolted."
"I still don't quite see it," Margaret said. "I suppose it would be fairly easy to get into the house, but you haven't explained why anyone should want to."
"Don't run away with the idea that I'm wedded to this notion!" Charles warned her. "I admit it sounds farfetched, but it has occurred to me that someone for reasons which I can't explain - may be trying to scare us out of this place."
There was a short silence. Celia broke it. "That's just like you!" she said indignantly. "Sooner than own you've been wrong all these years about ghosts you make up a much more improbable story to account for the manifestations. I never heard such rot in all my life!"
"Thank you, darling, thank you," Charles said gravely.
"Hold on a minute!" interrupted Margaret. "Perhaps Chas is right."
Celia almost snorted. "Don't you pay any attention to him, my dear. He'll tell us next it's the man who wanted to buy the Priory from us trying to get us out of it."
"Well, while we're on the improbable lay, what about that for a theory?" demanded Peter. "Resourceful sort of bloke, what?"
Mrs. Bosanquet resumed her Patience. "Whoever it may be, it's a piece of gross impertinence," she said. "You are quite right, Charles. Iam certainly not going to leave the place because some ill-bred person is trying to frighten me away. The proper course is to inform the police at once."
"From my small experience of local constabulary I don't think that'd be much use," said Charles. "Moreover what with Margaret's sinister pal and the egregious Mr. Titmarsh, we've got quite enough people littered about the grounds without adding a flat-footed bobby to the collection."
"Further," added Peter, "I for one have little or no desire to figure as the laughing-stock of the village. I move that we keep this thing quiet, and do a little sleuthing on our own."
Margaret waved a hand aloft at once. "Rather! I say, this is getting really thrilling. Come on, Celia, don't be snitchy!"
"All right," Celia said reluctantly. "I can't go away and leave you here, so I suppose I've got to give in. But I won't go upstairs alone after dark, and I won't be left for one moment by myself in this house, day or night, and Charles isn't to do anything foolhardy, and if anything awful happens we all of us clear out without any further argument."
"Agreed," Peter said. "What about you, Aunt Lilian?"
"Provided the dead body is decently interred, and a secure bolt fixed to my door, I shall certainly remain," answered Mrs. Bosanquet.
"What could be fairer than that?" said Charles. "If you like you can even superintend the burial."
"No, thank you, my dear," she replied. "I have never yet attended a funeral, and I don't propose to start with this body in which I have not the smallest interest. Not but what I am very sorry that whoever it was died in such unpleasant circumstances, but I do not feel that it has anything to do with me, and I could wish it had happened elsewhere."
"Well, since we're all making stipulations," Margaret put in, "I can't help feeling that I should rather like to have the door between Peter's room and mine open. D'you mind, Peter?"
"I can bear it," he answered. "As for the bones, Chas and I will bury them tomorrow, and we'll say nothing about them, any of us. See?"
"Just as you please, my dear," Mrs. Bosanquet replied. "But I cannot help feeling that the police should be told. However, that is for you to decide. Celia, you had better come up to bed. I am coming too, so there is nothing to be alarmed about."
"I hate the idea of going up those stairs," Celia shuddered.
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Bosanquet, and bore her inexorably away.
The two men's task next morning was sufficiently gruesome to throw a cloud of depression over their spirits. Not even the sight of Mrs. Bosanquet sprinkling Lysol in the priest's hole could lighten the general gloom, and when, after lunch, Charles suggested that he and Peter might go out fishing it was with somewhat forced cheerfulness that Peter agreed.
But an afternoon spent by the trout stream did much to restore their spirits. The fish were rising well, and the weather conditions were ideal.
They worked some way down the stream, and when they at last set out to return to the Priory they found themselves a considerable distance away from it. Charles' bump of locality, however, served them well, and he was able to lead the way home across country, by a route that brought them eventually to the footpath Michael Strange had so unaccountably failed to find.
It was already nearly time for dinner, and the two men quickened their steps. They had left the footpath, and were just skirting the ruined chapel when the sound of footsteps made them glance back towards the right of way. Where they stood they were more or less hidden from the path by a portion of the chapel wall.
Thinking the pedestrian one of the villagers on his way home, they were about to continue on their way when the man came into sight round a bend in the path, and they saw that it was none other than the commercial gentleman they had first seen in the taproom of the Bell Inn. This in itself was not very surprising, but the stranger's behaviour caused both men, as though by tacit consent, to draw farther into the lee of the chapel wall. The small stranger was proceeding rather cautiously, and looking about him as though he expected to meet someone. He paused as he came abreast of the chapel, and peeped into the ruins. Then, after hesitating for a moment he gave a surprisingly sweet whistle, rather like the notes of a thrush. This was answered almost at once from somewhere near at hand; there came a rustling amongst the bushes, and Michael Strange stepped out on to the path from the direction of the Priory gardens.
Charles placed a warning hand on Peter's arm; Peter nodded, and stayed very still.
"Any luck?" inquired the small man, in a low voice.
Strange shook his head. "No. We shall have to try the other way again."
"Ah!" said the other gloomily. "I don't half like it, guv'nor, and that's the truth. Supposing we was to be seen? It would look a bit unnatural, wouldn't it? It's risky, that's what it is. One of them might wake up, and I don't see myself doing no spook stunts. Clean out of my line, that is. I done some jobs in my time, as you know, but I don't like this one. It's one thing to crack a crib, but this job ain't what I'd call straightforward."
"You'll be all right," Strange said rather impatiently. "If you'd remember not to waylay me where we might easily be seen together. Go on ahead. I'll follow."
"All right, guv'nor: just as you say," the small man replied, unabashed, and moved off down the path.
When Strange had gone Charles looked at Peter. "Very interesting," he said. "What did you make of it?"
"God knows. It sounded as though they were going to burgle the place, but I suppose it's not that. It looks very much as though one or both of them were responsible for last night's picnic."
"And they'll have to "try the other way again,"' mused Charles. "Look here, Peter, are you game to sit up tonight with me, and see what happens?"
"Of course, but Celia'll throw a fit."
"I'll join you as soon as she's asleep. If nothing happens we've simply got to repeat the performance till something does. I wish I knew what they were after."
"Meanwhile," said Peter, consulting his wrist-watch, "it's already half-past seven, and we're dining with old Ackerley at eight." He stopped suddenly. "By Jove! Think that mysterious pair will get going in the house while we're out? I hadn't thought of that."
"No," said Charles. "The little chap spoke of one of us "waking up."'
"All the same," Peter said, "I move that we don't stay late at the White House."
In spite of what Charles said, Peter felt ill at ease about leaving the Priory in the sole charge of the Bowers. Clever crooks, he was sure, would know the movements of their prospective victims. Yet if burglary were mediated surely these particular crooks would find it an easy enough task to break into the Priory without shadowing the place at all hours, and searching for - what? There he found himself up against a blank wall again. Strange and his odd companion had certainly been looking for something, but what it was, or what connexion it could have with a possible burglary he had no idea.
He realised that his mind harped all the time on burglary, and was forced to admit to himself that it was an improbable solution. There was very little of value in the house, and if anything so unlikely as hidden treasure were being sought for it was incredible that the thieves should have waited until the house was tenanted before they made an attempt to find it.
Charles obviously connected the affair of the previous evening with Strange, in which case it looked as though Strange's primary object was to frighten the tenants out of the house. He wondered whether he would seize the opportunity this dinner-party afforded to stage another, and even more nerve-racking, booby-trap.
Peter arrived at the White House with the rest of his family just as eight o'clock struck. His sisters, who had reviled both him and Charles for staying out so late, drew two sighs of relief.
"Scaremongers," said Charles. "I told you it wouldn't take us ten minutes to get here."
They had walked to the White House across their own grounds, a proceeding which Celia had condemned, dreading the return late at night, but which had been forced on them, not only on account of its convenience, but on account also of the car, which had developed slight magneto trouble, and refused to start.
They entered the drawing-room to find that Mr. Titmarsh, and Dr Roote and his wife, fellow-guests, had already arrived, and Celia was just telling her host laughingly that if they were late he must blame her menfolk, when the Colonel's butler opened the door to announce yet another guest. To Peter's amazement Michael Strange walked into the room.
"I don't think you know Strange, do you?" the Colonel said, to the room at large. He began to introduce the dark young man.
"Yes, we've met twice," Margaret said, when it came to her turn. She smiled at Strange. "How do you do? How's the fishing?"
"Splendid!" he said. He turned to Charles. "Have you tried the streams here yet?"
Seen in such civilised surroundings it was hard to believe that this young man was the same who had, not an hour ago, held a furtive conversation with a character whose own words proclaimed him to be a member of the criminal classes. Feeling more completely at sea than ever, Charles answered his question with a description of the afternoon's sport. Dinner was announced almost immediately, and the Colonel began to marshal his guests.
"I must apologise for our uneven numbers," he said breezily. "Four ladies to six men! Well, I think we'd better go in all together. Mrs. Bosanquet, let me show you the way."
"Too many men is a fault on the good side, anyway, isn't it?" Mrs. Roote said. She was a good-looking blonde, grown a little haggard, and with a rather harsh voice. Her husband was an untidy individual of some forty years whose huskiness of speech and rather hazy eye betrayed his weakness. His address, however, was pleasant, and he seemed to be getting on well with Celia, whom he took in to dinner behind the Colonel and Mrs. Bosanquet.
The White House was a solid Victorian building, with large airy rooms, and the boon of electric light. It was furnished in good if rather characterless style, but evidence of the Colonel's ownership existed in the various trophies that adorned the dining-room walls. Mrs. Bosanquet remarked as she took her seat at the round table that it was pleasant to find herself in an upto-date house again.
"Oh, I'm afraid the White House is a very dull affair after the Priory," Colonel Ackerley replied. "Suits me, you know; never had much use for old buildings. Full of draughts and inconvenience, I always say, but I'm afraid I'm a regular vandal. I can see Mrs. Malcolm shaking her head at me."
Celia laughed. "I wasn't," she assured him. "I was shaking it at Mr. Titmarsh." She turned to her other neighbour again. "No, I'm absolutely ignorant about butterflies and things, but it sounds most interesting. Do…'
Mr. Titmarsh eyed her severely. "Moths, madam!" he said.
"Yes, moths. I meant moths. I've noticed quite a number here. They will fly into our candles."
Margaret, who was seated between her brother and Strange, said softly: "Do listen to my sister floundering hopelessly!" She shook out her table-napkin, and began to drink her soup. "You know, you're a fraud," she said. "You told me you didn't know anyone in Framley."
"Honestly, it was quite true," Michael replied. "I only met the Colonel last night. He blew into the Bell, and we got talking, and he very kindly asked me to dine with him. In fact' - his eyes twinkled -'he wouldn't take No for an answer."
"I think you must be a recluse, or something," Margaret teased him. "Why should you want him to take No for an answer?"
"I didn't," said Strange, looking down at her, with a smile. "He told me you were coming."
Margaret blushed at that, but laughed. "I feel I ought to get up and bow," she said.
Peter, who had heard, leaned forward to speak to Strange across his sister. "Were you on the right-of-way late this afternoon?" he asked. "I thought I caught a glimpse of you."
If he hoped that Michael Strange would betray uneasiness he was disappointed. "Yes," Strange said tranquilly. "I was fishing the Crewel again today. I didn't see you."
"Oh, I was some way off," Peter answered.
In a momentary lull in the general conversation Celia's voice was heard. "And you saw this rare moth in our grounds? How exciting! Tell me what it looks like."
"Ah, that oleander hawk-moth," said Charles. "Did you have any luck, sir?"
"Not yet," Mr. Titmarsh said. "Not yet, but I do not despair."
The Colonel broke off in the middle of what he was saying to Mrs. Bosanquet to exclaim: "Hullo, have you been chasing moths at the Priory, Titmarsh? Never shall forget how I took you for a burglar when I first found you in my garden."
His hearty laugh was echoed more mildly by the entomologist, who said: "I fear I am somewhat remiss in asking the permission of my good neighbours if I may trespass harmlessly on their land. Your husband," he added, looking at Celia, "mistook me for a ghost."
"Oh, have you seen the Priory ghost yet?" Mrs. Roote inquired. "Do harrow us! I adore having my flesh made to creep."
Strange, who had looked directly across the table at Mr. Titmarsh from under his black brows, said quietly to Margaret: "Is that really true? Does he prowl round the countryside looking for moths?"
"Yes, so they all say. Charles and Peter saw him in our garden last night. He's rather eccentric, I think."
"What with myself and - what's his name? Titmarsh? - you seem to be beset by people who roam about your grounds at will," Strange remarked. "If I remember rightly you said you took me for the ghost as well."
"Ah, that was just a joke," Margaret answered. "I didn't really. And of course Charles and Peter wouldn't have taken Mr. Titmarsh for one in the ordinary course of events."
"You mean that you all rather expect to see the famous Monk?"
"No, but that was the night…' She broke off.
Strange looked inquiringly down at her. "Yes?"
"Nothing," Margaret said rather lamely.
"That sounds very mysterious," Strange said. "Have you been having trouble with the Monk?"
She shook her head. Colonel Ackerley called across the table: "What's that? Talking about the Priory ghost? These fair ladies are much too stout-hearted to believe in it, Strange. It would take more than the Monk to shake your nerve, Mrs. Bosanquet, wouldn't it?"
"I am thankful to say I have never suffered from nerves," Mrs. Bosanquet responded. "But it is certainly very disturbing when…' She encountered Charles' eye and blinked. "When the servants are afraid to stay in the house after dark," she concluded placidly.
"I'm sure you've seen something!" chattered Mrs. Roote. "Or at least heard awful noises. Now haven't you, Mrs.. Bosanquet?"
"Unfortunately," replied Mrs. Bosanquet, "I suffer from slight deafness."
"I see you're all of you determined not to satisfy our morbid curiosity," said Strange.
Mr. Titmarsh took off his spectacles and polished them. "On the subject of ghosts," he said, "I am a confirmed sceptic. I am devoid of curiosity."
"Well, I don't know so much about that," said Dr Roote. "I remember a very queer experience that happened to a friend of mine once. Now, he was one of the most matter-of-fact people I know…' He embarked on a long and rather involved ghost story, interrupted and prompted at intervals by his wife, and it only ended with the departure of the ladies from the dining-room.
Two bridge tables were formed presently, but the party broke up shortly before eleven. The Rootes were the first to leave, and they were soon followed by the Priory party and Strange. Strange's two-seater stood at the door, and when he found that the others were walking back across the park he promptly offered to take the three women in his car.
Celia, who had already begun to peer fearfully into the darkness, jumped at the offer, but stipulated that Strange should not leave them until Charles and Peter had reached the house. "You'll think me a fool," she said, "but the Priory after dark is more than I can bear. Can we really all get into your car?"
"If one of you doesn't mind sitting in the dickey I think it can be managed," Strange replied. "And of course I'll wait till your husband gets back. I'm only sorry I can't take you all."
"Well, really, this is most opportune," said Mrs. Bosanquet, getting into the little car. "I notice that there is quite a heavy dew on the ground."
Whatever Strange's wishes may have been it was Margaret who sat in the dickey, while Celia managed to insert her slim person between Mrs. Bosanquet and the door.
"We've no business to impose on you like this, of course," Celia said, as the car slid out of the White House gates. "It's only a step, across the park, but I do so hate the dark."
"It's not an imposition at all," Michael answered. He drove down the road for the short distance that separated the White House from the Priory, and turned carefully in at the rather awkward entrance to the long avenue. The headlights showed the drive winding ahead, and made the tall trees on either side look like walls of darkness. The house came presently into sight, and in a few moments they were all inside the softly-lighted hall.
Celia stood for an instant as though listening. The house seemed to be wrapped in stillness. "I love it by day," she said abruptly. "It's only at night it gets different. Like this. Can't you feel it? A sort of boding."
"Why are you so afraid of it?" Strange asked her. "You must have some reason other than village-gossip. Has anything happened to alarm you?"
She gave a tiny shiver. "I'm a fool, that's all," she answered. "Let's go into the library." A tray with drinks had been set out there. "Do help yourself," she said. "There's whisky, or a soft drink, whichever you prefer."
"Can I bring you anything?"
"I'd like some lemonade, please."
Mrs. Bosanquet emerged from the cloud of tulle she had swathed round her head. "My own opinion is, and always will be," she said firmly, "that there are no such things as ghosts. And if - mind you, I only say if - I thought there was anything odd about a house, I, personally, should inform the police."
Strange carried a glass over to where Celia was sitting. "Is that what you've done?" he asked.
"Not at all," she replied. "I said "if."'
"Would you do that, Mr. Strange?" Margaret inquired. Just supposing you heard weird sounds and things?"
"No, I don't think I should," he said. "I'm afraid I haven't much opinion of village policemen."
"My husband hasn't either," Celia said. She heard a latchkey grate in the lock. "Here he is!" she said. "Is that you, Charles?"
"I'm not quite sure," came the answer. "It used to be, but since the experiences of the last ten minutes…'
"Good heavens, you haven't seen the ghost, have you?" cried Margaret.
Charles appeared in the doorway, minus his shoes. Over his shoulder Peter said, grinning: "He encountered a little mud, that's all."
"If you want to know the truth," said Charles, "I have narrowly escaped death by drowning in quicksands. Thank you, yes, and don't overdo the soda! Too much of water hast thou, poor Charles Malcolm."
"Oh, I know! You must have found that boggy patch," said Margaret.
"I trust it was not the cesspool," Mrs. Bosanquet said, in mild concern.
"So do I," Charles said. "That thought had not so far occurred to me, but - but I do hope it wasn't."
"Take heart," said Strange, setting down his glass. "I think your cesspool is more likely to be down near the river." He went up to Celia, and held out his hand. "I'm sure you're longing to get to bed, Mrs. Malcolm, so I'll say good-night."
He took his leave of them all. Peter escorted him to the front door, and when the two of them had left the room Charles said: "Well, of all the miserable conspirators commend me to you three! I should think by to-morrow the whole countryside will know that something has happened here."
"Really, Charles!" Mrs. Bosanquet expostulated. "It is true that I was about to make a reference to what happened last night, but I am sure I covered it up most naturally.,
"Dear Aunt," said Charles frankly, "not one of you would have deceived an oyster."
Peter came back into the room. "You seem to be getting very thick with Strange," he said to his sister. "Did you happen to find out what he is, or anything about him?"
"He's a surveyor," said Charles, finishing what was left of his whisky and soda.
"A surveyor?" echoed Margaret. "How do you know? Did he tell you so?"
"To the deductive mind," said Charles airily, "his profession was obvious from his knowledge of the probable whereabouts of our cesspool."
"Ass!" said Celia. "Come on up to bed. What does it matter what he is? He's nice, that's all I know."
It was two hours later when Charles came downstairs again, and he had changed into a tweed suit, and was wearing rubber-soled shoes. Peter was already in the library, reading by the light of one lamp. He looked up as Charles came in. "Celia asleep?" he asked.
"She was when I left her; but I've trod on nineteen creaking boards since then. Have you been round the house?"
"I have, and I defy anyone to get in without us hearing."
Charles went across to draw the heavy curtains still more closely together over the windows. "If Strange really means to try and get in to-night, he won't risk it for another hour or two," he prophesied. "Hanged if I can make that fellow out!"
"From what I could gather," Peter said, "he did his best to pump Margaret. Seemed to want to find out how we were getting on here."
Charles grunted, and drew a chair up to the desk and proceeded to study a brief which had been sent on from town that morning. Peter retired into his book again, and for a long while no sound broke the silence save the crackle of the papers under Charles' hand, and the measured tick of the old grandfather clock in the hall. At last Peter came to the end of his novel, and closed it. He yawned, and looked at his wrist-watch. "Good Lord! two o'clock already! Do we sit here till breakfast-time? I've an idea I shan't feel quite so fresh to-morrow night."
Charles pushed his papers from him with a short sigh of exasperation. "I don't know why people go to law," he said gloomily. "More money than sense."
"Got a difficult case?" inquired Peter.
"I haven't got a case at all," was the withering retort. "And that's counsel's learned opinion. Would you like to go and fetch me something to eat from thee larder?"
"No," said Peter, "since you put it like that, I shouldn't."
"Then I shall have to go myself," said Charles, getting up. "There was a peculiarly succulent pie if I remember rightly."
"Well, bring it in here, and I'll help you eat it," Peter offered. "And don't forget the bread!"
Before Charles could open his mouth to deliver a suitable reply a sound broke the quiet of the house, and brought Peter to his feet in one startled bound. For the sound was that same eerie groan which they had heard before, and which seemed to rise shuddering from somewhere beneath their feet.