Haufmann looked rather blank when we told him.
“Just my luck!” he commented. “Greta’s read your book, Mr. Klaw, and
if she hasn’t fixed it yet she’s sure to come to it that The Park and
The Grove are one and the same. It was largely because of her I
arranged this trip,” he added. “The trouble I’ve told you about got on
her nerves and she had the idea some guy was tracking her around. The
medicos said it was a common enough symptom and ordered a change.
Anyhow, I quitted, to give her a chance to tone up. Confound this
business!”
He ultimately left quite determined to change his place of residence.
But so averse was his practical mind from the idea of inconveniencing
oneself on such ghostly grounds, that two weeks slipped by, and still
the Haufmanns occupied The Grove. The decoration of Moris Klaw’s
establishment being presumably still in progress, Klaw accompanied me
on more than one other occasion to visit Shan Haufmann and the girls.
At last, one afternoon, Greta asked him point-blank if he thought the
house to be that dealt with in “Psychic Angles.”
Of course, he had to admit that it was so; but far from exhibiting any
signs of alarm, the girl appeared to be delighted.
“How dense I have been!” she cried. “I should have known it from the
description! As a matter of fact, I might never have found out, but
this morning the servants resigned unanimously!”
Klaw looked at me significantly. All was befalling as we had foreseen.
“They told you, then!” he said. “Yes? No?”
“They said the house was haunted,” she replied, “but they didn’t seem
to know much more about it. That simple fact was enough for them!”
Haufmann came in and in answer to our queries declared himself
helpless.
“Lal and Greta won’t quit,” he declared; “so what’s to do? I’ve cabled
for servants from home. Meanwhile, we’re at the mercy of day girls and
charwomen!”
The concern evinced by Moris Klaw was very great. He seized an early
opportunity of taking Haufmann aside and questioning him relative to
the situation of the rooms occupied by the family.
“My room overlooks the avenue,” replied Haufmann, “and so does
Greta’s. Lal’s is on the opposite side. Come up and see them!”
Klaw and I accompanied him. It was a beautiful clear day, and from his
window we gazed along the majestic ranks of poplars, motionless as a
giant guard, in the still summer air. It was difficult to conjure up a
glamour of the uncanny, with the bright sunlight pouring gladness upon
trees, flowers, shrubs, and lawn.
“This is the room from which the whisper is the most clearly audible!”
said Moris Klaw. “I could tell you--ah! I spent several nights here!”
“The devil you did,” rapped Haufmann. “I must sleep pretty soundly.
I’ve never heard a thing. Greta’s room is next on the right. She has
said nothing.”
Klaw looked troubled.
“There is no sound unusual to hear,” he answered. “I quite convinced
myself of that. But it is the tradition that speaks, Mr. Haufmann! In
those silent watches, even so insensible an old fool as I can imagine
almost anything, aided by such gruesome memories. Excepting the monk,
who probably fell foul of a prowler thief, the tragedies are easily to
be explained. The old antiquarian died of syncope, and the poor girl,
in all probability, fell from the balcony in her sleep. She had a
tremendously neurotic temperament.”
“It’s bad, now Greta knows,” mused Haufmann. “Her nerves are all
unstrung. It’s just the thing I wanted to avoid!”
“Can’t you induce her at any rate to change her room?” I suggested.
“No! She’s as obstinate as a pony! Her poor mother was the same. It’s
the Irish blood!”
Such was the situation when we left. No development took place for a
couple of days or so, then that befell which we had feared and half
expected.
Haufmann walked into my office with:
“It’s started! Greta says she hears it every night!”
Prepared though I had been for the news, his harshly spoken words sent
a cold shudder through me.
“Haufmann!” I said, sternly. “There must be no more of this. Get the
girls away at once. On top of her previous nerve trouble this morbid
imagining may affect her mind.”
“You haven’t heard me out,” he went on, more slowly than was his wont.
“You talk of morbid imagining. What about this: _I’ve_ heard it!”