One Mystery for Another

"Thomas ill?" he said, over his shoulder. "Why, I thought I saw
Thomas out there as you made that cyclonic break out of the door and
over the porch."

I could see that under pretense of examining his injury he was watching
her through the mirror.

"Is this one of the servants' blankets, Mrs. Watson?" I asked, holding
up its luxurious folds to the light.

"Everything else is locked away," she replied. Which was true enough,
no doubt. I had rented the house without bed furnishings.

"If Thomas is ill," Halsey said, "some member of the family ought to go
down to see him. You needn't bother, Mrs. Watson. I will take the
blanket."

She drew herself up quickly, as if in protest, but she found nothing to
say. She stood smoothing the folds of her dead black dress, her face
as white as chalk above it. Then she seemed to make up her mind.

"Very well, Mr. Innes," she said. "Perhaps you would better go. I have
done all I could."

And then she turned and went up the circular staircase, moving slowly
and with a certain dignity. Below, the three of us stared at one
another across the intervening white blanket.

"Upon my word," Halsey broke out, "this place is a walking nightmare.
I have the feeling that we three outsiders who have paid our money for
the privilege of staying in this spook-factory, are living on the very
top of things. We're on the lid, so to speak. Now and then we get a
sight of the things inside, but we are not a part of them."