THE HAUNTED WOMAN (Unabridged). David Lindsay

lived here long enough,” she whispered to Marshall. “I am sure I should begin to see things, myself, from the very first night . . . But he must be mad — what do you think?”

      “Probably. Should you like to meet him, and judge for yourself?”

      “Yes, Marshall!”

      “I’ll see if I can arrange it.”

      “Please try. I’m certain he’s an extraordinary man, quite apart from the question of hallucinations.”

      The others by this time were in the library, where the younger couple hastened to join them. Mrs. Moor at once drew Isbel into a corner of the room.

      “We’ve seen practically everything that counts now. How are we to decide?”

      “I don’t think I could live here, aunt, but don’t settle anything in a hurry. You can’t imagine what strange thought I have. At one time I feel I hate and loathe the place, and at another — I can’t express what I feel. There’s something very uncanny about it all, and yet it isn’t ghostly, in that sense . . . There’s some living influence . . . I do wish we hadn’t parted from Mr. Sherrup so abruptly. I feel positive he could have thrown some light on it.”

      “Your nerves must be desperately out of order, child, and, that being the case, I strongly doubt whether such a house as this is suitable for you. However, as you say, nothing need be decided on the spur of the moment . . . now we’ll see upstairs, and then go home.”

      It was nearly one o’clock.

      The upper landing had a low, sloping roof. It was lighted by a gable window facing the south-west. Opposite to the head of the stairs were two servants; rooms, while on the right hand a passage ran through to the other end of the house, dimly lighted along its entire length by skylights. Doors opened out here and there from both sides; those on the right were dark lumber-rooms, the others were the remaining servants; bedrooms, possessing windows which faced the back of the house. At the far end of the building the servants’ staircase came up from the ground floor.

      After a cursory walk through, the party returned to the other landing.

      “Now, is that all?” demanded Mrs. Moor.

      “Yes, madam.”

      Marshall pinched his chin thoughtfully. “Which is the East Room?”

      “It’s locked, sir.”

      “Locked, is it? But Mr. Judge told me he was giving instructions to have it opened.”

      “I don’t know anything about that, sir. It’s locked.”

      “That’s unfortunate. At all events, show us where it is.”

      Mrs. Moor cast him a keen glance, but held her tongue.

      “We shall have to go through a rather dark passage, sir — if you don’t mind that. It’s this way.”

      Parallel with and overlooking the stairs was another little corridor, stretching to the front of the house and lighted by a dormer-window at the end. Along this Mrs. Priday conducted them. When they could nearly touch the sloping roof, the corridor turned sharply to the left and became a sort of tunnel. Marshall begin to strike matches.

      “By Jove, it is dark!”

      “It gets lighter directly, sir.”

      After twenty paces or so, there came another twist. A couple of shallow stairs brought them up into a widening of the passage which might almost be described as a room. Its rafters were the interior of a great gable, through the high-set window of which the sun was slanting. Everything had been scrubbed clean, but there was not a stick of furniture.

      “The man who designed this house must have had a queer brain,” remarked Isbel, with a smile. “Do you mean to tell me that all this leads only to the one room?”

      “That’s all, miss.”

      They had paused for a minute to take advantage of the light, before plunging into the next section of night-like corridor. While they stood there, a look of perplexity appeared on Isbel’s face, as she seemed to listen to something.

      “What’s that?” she whispered.

      “What?” asked her aunt.

      “Can’t you hear a sound?”

      They all listened.

      “What’s it like, Isbel?” inquired Marshall.

      “Surely you can hear it! . . . a find of low, vibrating hum . . . like a telephone wire while you’re waiting for a connection . . . ”

      But no one else could catch the noise.

      “Judge spoke of some sound in a corridor,” said Marshall. “He told me everyone couldn’t hear it. Kind of a thunder, is it?”

      “Yes . . . yes, perhaps . . . It keeps coming and going . . . A low buzz . . . ”

      “That must be it, then — unless, of course, it’s a ringing in your ears.”

      Isbel uttered a short laugh of annoyance. “Oh, surely I can tell a sound when I hear one? It’s exactly as if I were listening on the telephone for an answer to a call. A voice might speak at any moment.”

      “Foolishness!” said her aunt irritably. “If it’s anything at all, it’s probably an outside wire of some sort . . . Come along!”

      “I can’t understand why nobody else hears it. It’s so unmistakable.”

      “Well, nobody else does, child — that’s enough. Are you coming, or are you not?”

      “It’s really quite impressive, though. Like an orchestra heard through a thick wall.”

      “The question is, are we to stay here until you’ve succeeded in working yourself up into a fit of enthusiasm over it?”

      “I wonder if this is what Mr. Sherrup heard? Very likely it is. It certainly does give one the idea of a preparation for something. It’s exciting . . . oh, don’t glare at me, aunt, as if I were some wild animal — I’m quite in my right senses, I assure you.”

      “That may be so; but if it’s a joke I don’t know why you should fix on lunch-time for it. How much longer do you propose to keep us here, may I ask?”

      Isbel at last consented to proceed, but there was a strange look in her eyes for all the rest of the time she was upstairs.

      The second section of unlighted passage led to another gable-room, and this in turn was succeeded by a third, but shorter, tunnel. Towards the end it was dimly illuminated by a skylight. The passage was terminated by a plain oak door.

      “Is this the East Room?” asked Marshall.

      “Yes, sir.”

      He tried the handle, but the door was locked.

      “Well, that’s no go, then!”

      “Why is it kept locked?” asked Mrs. Moor.

      “Because Mr. Judge wishes it, madam.”

      They could not tell from Mrs. Priday’s expression whether she were being impertinent, or merely simple. Isbel, however, hazarded another question:

      “Is the room haunted?”

      “Please?”

      “I say, is the room haunted?”

      The caretaker smiled, as she wrapped her hands in the apron she wore. “If you mean ghosts, miss, I’ve never heard of any such.”

      “I’m simply asking of it has the reputation of being queer in any way?”

      “Well, for one thing, miss, it’s very old. Priday says it’s far and away the oldest part of the house — all this end is. It wouldn’t be natural if no stories was told about an ancient room