He rang and sent for the cook Clara, unaware that a new and significant surprise awaited him in this dreary room. The girl, when she came, was young, and, in a coarse mold, pretty. When she sat down the light disclosed a tremulousness as pronounced as McDonald's. Before Garth could question her she burst out hysterically:
"I am going to leave this house. I was going to leave to-day, anyway."
Garth pitched his voice on a cold, even note.
"For the present you'll stay. Mr. Taylor didn't kill himself. He was murdered."
She covered her face with her hands, shivering.
"I didn't kill him. I didn't—"
"But," Garth snapped, "you know who did."
She shook her head with stubborn vehemence.
"I don't know anything," she answered, "except that I must leave this house."
"Why? Because you think the old lady's crazy, and she frightens you? I want to know about that."
As Clara lowered her hands the increased fear, rather than the tears in her eyes, held Garth. She shook her head again.
"I've only been here a week. I haven't seen much of her. She's only been to meals once or twice, and then she's scarcely said a word."
She glanced about the room with its small paned windows, its deep embrasures, its shallow ceiling.
"It isn't that," she whispered. "It's because the house is full of queer things. The servants all felt it. They talked about spirits and left. Five have
