“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?”
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 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 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.”