outside. It was raised in anger, but I could not distinguish the words.
The next moment the door burst open, and a girl closed it behind her and locked it. For a moment she stood there, breathing hard. Then she came forward and said:
"You must think we're all mad in this house."
"Oh, no," I laughed—"not all of you."
She was evidently frightened or angry, but she was the sort of girl that made a man feel pleased with himself. She was very young and slim, and beautiful, with her golden brown hair and gray eyes and perfectly poised head. It would have been a pleasure to protect her from anyone who had frightened her, to save her from any danger, to make her smiling and happy. And it would have been equally pleasant to have just sat and looked at her, laughing, as I was sure she generally laughed, and glad to be alive.
"One does not usually enter a room in this way," she explained, "but I wanted to talk to you, and Brike—well, Brike wanted to take you away upstairs at once. He's outside—now—listening. You are Mr. Hart, aren't you?"
"Yes—and you?"
She came forward; and she did not speak until she was close to me.
"I only came here this afternoon," she said, "and my arrival was in keeping with everything else in this queer house, I left the train at the junction, and Brike rowed me down the creek with my little box. And I landed at the bottom of the garden. I don't think anyone in the village knows I'm here."
"I did not," I replied. "And you are—"
"Audrey Pinson; I'm Mr. Arum's niece, his only relative. My mother was his sister. She died twenty years ago—well, it doesn't matter about all that, Mr. Hart. It's that horrible man—"
"You mean Brike?" I queried.
"Yes. He didn't want me to come in here just now. But I heard the car stop outside the garden door, and I saw you both come up the path. And I made up my mind that I would see you."
"Splendid idea of yours," I said with a smile.
She flushed and an angry sparkle came into her eyes. One could just see it by the light of the two candles.
"Oh, if you're going to treat me as a silly child," she said; and then, after a pause, she added, "I'm sorry. I have no right to talk to you like that. But I don't think you understand how serious it all is. My uncle is very ill, and he will not see a doctor. I don't know why he sent for you, but I implore you to use your influence with him, and get him to have a doctor. I believe that horrible man Brike is keeping everyone away from him."
I interrupted her to point out that if Brike had wished to do that, Brike need not have fetched me.
"And remember," I continued, "that most likely Brike sent the telegram or posted the letter that brought you here."
"Well, in any case," she continued, "Brike did not wish me to talk to you. I have seen my uncle for a few minutes, and it seemed to me that he thinks all the world of Brike. And there is something wrong. I'm sure of that."
I asked her why she imagined anything of the sort, and she merely answered:
"The man isn't a servant at all. He's the master."
There was a gentle knock upon the door.
"He is going to take you upstairs," she whispered, "but when you are in the room, you must get rid of him. I want you to talk to my uncle alone. You can open the door."
I crossed the long, dimly-lighted room, and, turning the key in the lock, swung back the door.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Brike said humbly, "but my master particularly. wants to see you at once. I have been upstairs with him, and you must please to come and see him at once."
He held a lighted candle in his hand. He had changed his heavy boots for a pair of felt slippers. He had removed his overcoat, and his crinkled black hair was neatly oiled and brushed. In spite of his coloring and deformity, he seemed to be a very superior servant. And he could not have been outside the door all the time.
"I hope I have not offended Miss Pinson, sir," he said, when he had closed the door. "The fact is, sir, that the master did not wish her to see you or know anything about your visit. Sometimes he gets queer ideas like that into his head."
I made no reply; I followed the man up the broad shallow stairs, and when he paused on the spacious landing, I walked past him and examined a very beautiful picture, which was hanging on the white paneled walls. It was the portrait of a young and handsome woman in the costume of the eighteenth century, and looked to me very like a Romney. I was not really very interested in the picture just then, but I though it as well to show Brike that my thoughts were not entirely occupied with his affairs.
"The master's great-grandmother, sir," he said, coming to my side, and he held up the candle so that I could get a better view of the portrait.
And then, after a pause: "Will you please step this way, sir."
CHAPTER THREE
I FOLLOWED Brike to the other side of the landing, and he knocked on a door. I heard a voice call out:
"Come in—come in."
Brike entered the room, turned and beckoned to me. I followed and found myself, not in a bedroom, as I had expected, but in a very comfortably furnished sitting-room.
The cold severity of the eighteenth century had been subordinated to more modern ideas of comfort. There were fine pictures on the walls, two magnificent pieces of lacquer—one a chest and the other a cabinet, a Heppelwhite bookcase, several exquisite Chippendale chairs. But there were also big Chesterfields and armchairs, and novels littered about on little tables, and pipes and tobacco jars, and all the little odds and ends that a man likes to gather round him in his "den."
Of course, I did not take everything in at a glance, and I am recounting what I saw during my interview. Indeed, directly I entered the room, I saw only Mr. Arum sitting by the fire, with a rug drawn up over his knees. He was a good-looking man of about sixty with a pale clean-shaven face, and restless gray eyes. There was not much light in the room, and it was all behind him, where six candles burnt in six silver candlesticks. Yet I could see his face clearly enough in the firelight.
"Thank you so much for coming," he said in a slow, quiet voice, "I was rather afraid you would not come. You can go, Brike. I'll ring when I want you."
Brike left the room without a word, and I smiled as I thought of what the girl had said to me. There was nothing mysterious about this part of the business, at any rate. I had expected a certain unwillingness on the part of Brike to leave his master alone with me. I had even invented a plan whereby I could get rid of Brike. But here was Brike perfectly willing to go, and Jacob Arum just an ordinary gentleman, ill, no doubt, or he would not have kept that rug over his knees, but receiving me courteously, and behaving just as any other man would have behaved under the circumstances.
"If I can be of any service to you," I said, "I shall be glad."
Arum laughed.
"Take a cigar," he said, "and you will find whisky and soda on that table behind me. You will excuse me sitting
