Within That Room!. John Russell Fearn

doors leading off either side of it. A huge stained-glass window provided illumination. Being at a higher elevation the sun was casting its last rays through in an uncertain spectrum.

      “This, Miss Grantham, is the east wing,” Mrs. Falworth said. “The west wing is not used.”

      Vera said nothing. She felt rather like a new girl in a college as she followed the housekeeper to the third doorway on the left. It was opened for her and she stepped into a huge bedroom. It took her breath away for the moment. There was a vast fireplace and two windows of mullion pattern with ivy fringing their edges. There were rugs on the stone floor. The furniture was old, with a four-poster bed.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      ANOTHER WARNING

      “This—is my room?” Vera asked, turning.

      Mrs. Falworth inclined her dark head gravely.

      “Yes, miss. I trust it meets with your approval?”

      “Oh, yes—yes, surely. Only it’s a bit—stuffy.”

      “Stuffy, miss?”

      “Well, old-fashioned. I prefer modern things. I’m a modern girl, you know, and I’ve learned to appreciate streamlining.”

      Not a trace of expression showed on the housekeeper’s Red Indian features, but she did condescend to gesture slightly.

      “I am afraid that your uncle was not abreast of the times. He preferred antiques to modernity. Whatever changes you may wish to make I shall be happy to discuss with you later. Dinner will be served in the dining-hall at nine o’clock. Usually, it is at seven.”

      Vera nodded slowly. “Thanks. Oh, where is there a bathroom in this wilderness?”

      “There are three in this wing—down the corridor which branches to the left. They are all contained in what used to be an outlook tower. However, that door over there,” the housekeeper said indicating one in a corner of the bedroom, “opens into your private bathroom and dressing room. I think you will find everything in order.”

      Mrs. Falworth seemed to think that she had done all that was needful, for she gave a slight inclination of the head and went out. Vera stood looking about her for a moment, then she pulled off her hat and coat and tossed them on the bed. Pondering, she began to walk round—until she caught sight of her dishevelled appearance in the mirror.

      “Good heavens, Vera, is that you?” she asked her reflection.

      Sitting down at the dressing table, she picked up the brush and comb and began her activities, pausing presently as there came a knock at the door. In response to her invitation to come in an elderly man entered—square-shouldered, gray-haired, with a crinkled face. He conveyed with him an air of heavy trouble—a definitely henpecked look. Carefully he set down Vera’s suitcase at the foot of the bed.

      “You’ll be Mr. Falworth?” Vera asked him, smiling.

      “That’s right, miss, I am. Happy I am to welcome you, too, only—only I’d be much happier if you were leaving instead.”

      “I suppose,” Vera said slowly, “you are not related to the old man down at the station? The one who takes the tickets?”

      “Sam Hitchin? No, I’m not related, miss.”

      “I just wondered because he said the same thing as you’ve just said—that I’d be better off going than coming. Some nonsense about this place being haunted.”

      Old man Falworth looked troubled.

      “That’s just it, miss. It isn’t nonsense—it’s horribly true. A ghost does exist, and there is an evil presence throughout this whole house. It isn’t my place to say too much, and I know my wife won’t because she believes in the supernatural. I’m just a plain, honest man, miss, and I’m telling you—do not stay here.”

      Vera hesitated, a question in the back of her mind. Then she shrugged it away, and picked up the brush and comb again.

      “Ghosts don’t worry me. And thanks for bringing my bag.”

      “If you want me just pull one of the bell cords,” Falworth said, and went shuffling out.

      Vera, from that moment, began turning things over in her mind. She meditated while she tied up her yellow tresses into a tight knob; she still meditated while she bathed in tepid water in the bathroom adjoining—and by the time she had changed her attire and restored her hair to its normal waves and curls her thoughts had ended in a blank wall.

      Definitely, though, her interest was aroused. The bunkum of ghosts she did not credit for a moment—yet she could not rid herself of the sense of brooding horror the castle possessed. Her common sense told her that a phantom must have a logical explanation which she ought to discover; but her inner fears at being forced to solve the problem alone led her to ponder the advantages of selling the whole antique pile and netting a small fortune in consequence.

      She was in a pensive mood as she made her way downstairs and, after some difficulty, found her way to the dining room. Like everything else it was huge—literally a baronial hall with the usual Gothic type of ceiling, two fireplaces—both empty—an enormous sideboard and an immense table laid for one.

      Feeling very small and remote, she sat down and waited for the impassive Mrs. Falworth to go into action. And Mrs. Falworth did, first placing a bowl of steaming soup on the table.

      “Bit dark in here, isn’t it?” Vera murmured, tasting the soup and finding it excellent.

      “I will light the lamps if you wish, miss.”

      “Lamps? Great Scott!” Vera looked above her, and then about her. Over her head hung a wrought iron chandelier with three oil lamps. On the walls were similar lamps fitted into universal sockets.

      “Usually I do not light them until the last spark of daylight has gone,” Mrs. Falworth explained. “Your uncle believed—as I do—that it is the twilight when this world and the next are almost in contact!”

      Vera swallowed some soup so hastily that she burned her tongue. It snapped her out of her attitude of calm wonder.

      “Mrs. Falworth,” she said, “I’ve no intention of sitting here in the dark for spooks or anything else! Turn the lamps on! I—I mean light them. And why on earth isn’t there some electricity in the place?”

      “Your uncle, miss, did not—“

      “I know, he didn’t approve! I was always told that he was a trifle eccentric; now I’m sure that he was plain crazy! Don’t you realize that this is a modern age? Or didn’t you ever hear of the war that was just fought?”

      “Our communication with the outside world has certainly not been very extensive,” the housekeeper admitted. “We have no radio, no telephone, no car, no electric light—”

      “And no hot water,” said Vera. “If it hadn’t have been a summer evening I’d have frozen to death when I bathed just now.”

      “I am sorry, miss. The water heater in the kitchen is not as efficient as it might be— You are enjoying your soup?”

      “Yes,” Vera admitted. “You’re a first-class cook.”

      “I am so glad there is something which pleases you, miss.”

      With this doubtful observation, Mrs. Falworth struck a match, and then lighted a long, waxed stick. Holding it like a torch, she went around the array of lamps and lighted them. An uncertain yellow glimmer set the shadows flickering as the daylight fled. But Vera was not too scared to enjoy her meal. Nor was there any fault to find with it. From beginning to end it was a masterpiece of cookery art.

      “Now,” Vera said, when it was over, “I want a word with you, Mrs. Falworth....” She sat back in the hard chair and lit a cigarette. “I want to know why people shy away when this place is mentioned. What is the matter with it?”

      “An