up town girls, too superior to be friendly with Seagate fishermen. They've only one complaint so far."
"Aye!"
"They say Troon's dark. Grumble about the windows—that the glass is always gray and clouded even when the sun's shining outside."
"Darkness. 'Thing of Darkness'—that's what parson called it the day he buried Joe Dawlish."
"Thing of Darkness." Doctor Dick rose. His face was drawn and stern. "Well, I must be off. I'm dining at Troon. A house-warming. I'll call in again after it's over. It's likely to be a house-warming that'll leave me cold."
The heavy door clanged behind him.
"He'll not come back this night." Mrs. Burden turned a solemn face to her husband. He sat in his favorite chair, drawing on his churchwarden. "Friday, 'tis! And full moon. And—I didn't tell Doctor Dick purposely—he's enough on his mind—but it's the anniversary of the day Lizzie Werne disappeared. It's written in that old book I told you of. December 2nd, 1636."
"You think old Werne'll?"
"Aye. I think he will."
"You must excuse this picnic meal." Edith's eyes were ablaze with triumph. Hard bright color dyed her thin cheeks. "I warned you it would be a case of roughing it. The maids have done their best, but you know what they are!"
Four sat at the gate-legged table of Jacobean oak for dinner that night, the seventh night of the Kinlochs' arrival at Troon. Edith had worked like a beaver, had driven cook and housemaid before her whirl of energy like galley-slaves. The big gaunt house was furnished from wide shadowy attics to scrubbed and scoured kitchens and pantries.
Doctor Dick remembered the Biblical story of the man possessed of a devil, who swept and garnished his house. He remembered and shivered.
He made the reply his hostess expected of him. The well-appointed table, the gleaming silver and Wedgwood dinner-service chosen to harmonize with the house, the five-course dinner, the well-trained maids imported from town, were all elaborate and over-emphatic in perfection. Not the natural and dignified background of a well-bred hostess, but a show. Herself the blatant complacent showman!
"Alone I did it," her voice, manner, and conversation implied.
"You know," she reproached the visitor, "I really believe you're disappointed. I think I see—yes, I'm sure I do—a sort of 'I'd rather that my friend should die than my prediction prove a lie' expression on your face."
Alec intervened. He, at least, had the advantage of early discipline that had planted certain fixed rules of conduct in him. Doctor Dick looked ill at ease. He must be soothed. Hang it all! you didn't rub things in at your own dinner-table. Edith was a bit above herself tonight. She'd got her way. They were living at Troon. Things were all right too—at least He brushed away suspicion. Just an effect of lighting. He wasn't used to the queer old house yet.
"Noticed the fireplace?" he asked. "It's part of the original tavern. Sort of bakehouse. The whole inglenook, arches and chimney breast and the little iron door to shove ashes through, were covered up by a kitchen-range. Lovely old stuff that brick—three hundred years old."
Thankfully, the guest accepted the diversion.
"Makes a wonderful dining-room. That window too, I like the square panes—different from the silly imitations they
