She glanced around her fearfully, and I said quickly, "Oh well, it doesn't really matter. You've probably slept in a good many rooms where people have died."
"Yes, but an ordinary death. This is different. The servants covered him with a sheet and left him, but when they showed the undertaker in early the following morning, they found, to their horror, that the old man was lying on the floor over on the other side of the room. They sent for the doctor, but the doctor said, again, that he was dead, and swore that he had been dead the first time."
She fell silent, and I moved uncomfortably. "The doctor was probably saving his own face," I said flatly.
She shrugged. "In any case, the story goes that if ever there is a dragging noise across the attic floor it means that a Ballinger will meet with a fatal accident, and if you don't watch the body until it is buried, it will walk."
"Walk?"
"Walk," she repeated firmly. "Where?" I asked, feeling silly.
She became more normal then. "How do I know?" she said impatiently. "It just walks, that's all. You'd better go to bed now. I'm going to lock my door, and I advise you to do the same. Good night."
I went out, wondering vaguely what good a locked door was supposed to be against a hundred-year-old ghost. The absurdity of it made me feel better.
I stood in the hall for a while, looking uncertainly down its dim length. I wanted to slide quickly into my room and lock the door, but I was in the habit of going down to the kitchen each night after Mrs. Ballinger went to bed and making myself a little supper, and I felt that it would be pure sissy to give in.
I squared my shoulders and went to the kitchen. I turned on all the lights and made quite a clatter and tried not to think about how ghastly it would be if an old man came sidling through the swinging door from the pantry.
I ate my supper quickly and told myself that it was because I was hungry. I was clearing away the few dishes, when an unmistakable sound from the front of the house caused me to stand stockstill.
I distinctly heard cautious footsteps descend the stairs and cross the hall—and then the front door was opened and closed again with a faint click.
CHAPTER 2
My courage deserted me, and leaving the dishes where they were, I flew upstairs and locked myself in my room. I sat on my bed and pictured an old, old man, with a broken leg, walking down the stairs and out the front door. It was so silly that I laughed at it, and then found I was laughing a bit too heartily, so I pulled myself up and went to bed.
The sun shining in my window the following morning half convinced me that I had only imagined that quiet exit from the house. I told Mrs. Ballinger about it, but she merely said, "Nonsense. You were nervous after hearing that noise in the attic." While the sun continued to shine, I believed her, but nightfall made me uneasy again.
There was a great deal of work to do that week. The house had to be cleaned up a bit. I didn't bother with dark corners or getting behind the ancient upright piano, but Doris and I tried to polish the parts that showed.
Doris was sent out to chop down a fir tree, and I was delegated to buy some cheap gifts, which I tried to choose carefully so that they would look more expensive. Mrs. Ballinger wanted to string popcorn as sole trimming for the tree, but I told her that popcorn was very high right now and that people were economizing by buying their trimmings at the five-and-ten.
I shopped carefully and bought wrapping paper and decorations, and Doris and I worked hard for several days fixing things up. By Wednesday, December 23, the place looked almost festive. Mrs. Ballinger was pleased because it looked as though a lot more money had been spent than she had actually parted with. I was pleased too and felt that I had latent talent as a magician.
We were in good spirits that night at dinner and were actually chatting amiably when the first telegram arrived. Mrs. Ballinger took it over the telephone, and I could tell by her voice that something had upset her badly. She came back to the table with an air of tragedy, and I felt sure that one of the nieces or nephews had been injured.
"Bad news?" I asked, bracing myself for the worst.
"Yes." She sat down heavily and stared dully at her coffee.
"Who—?"
"Berg."
"Oh. I'm sorry." I really meant it. Berg was always so gay, laughing and carrying on.
"What—what happened?" I asked timidly.
"He's bringing a friend with him."
"He's—what?" I gasped, staring at her.
"He's bringing a friend. He has absolutely no right to do it. I never said he could, and I resent it." She rattled her spoon violently in her coffee cup. "Jones," she muttered. "Such a common name."
'Jones?" I repeated feebly. I was still trying to readjust my mental picture of Berg lying near death on a hospital cot.
"Berg's friend. His name is Richard Jones. I'd have changed it if it were mine."
I elevated my nose and made no reply. My name is Leigh Smith.
She glanced up at me. "You might as well take that expression off your face, my dear. I know your name is Smith, and I would have changed that too."
"How about Schmaltz?" I said bitterly.
"Save your sarcasm." She finished her coffee and set the cup down with a bang. "Well, we've plenty of bedrooms, and we'll simply have to serve the food out in smaller portions, for I won't buy more."
She cheered up a bit after that, and we shifted to the living room But she was in for a bad time. Two telegrams followed in swift succession.
The first was from Rhynda, stating briefly that she was bringing a Mrs. Rosalie Hannahs. The second informed us that Amy would be accompanied by a Mr. Donald Tait.
Mrs. Ballinger was almost hysterical. "I'll have to phone them," she said wildly. "I can't possibly have all those extra people."
"The phone bills," I said hastily. "They'd come to more than the extra food."
She admitted it quite simply and sat down heavily on a chair, with despair on her face. She was silent for some time, and I reflected pleasantly that it would be nice to see some new faces, but I kept my expression grave and a little sad.
Mrs. Ballinger spoke suddenly. "I'll send them all telegrams—or night letters. Aren't night letters cheaper? That'll get them in time."
"You can't," I said desperately. "They'll merely pretend that they never received them. Or they'll get mad and won't come themselves, and all this food and stuff will be wasted. And the roof will still leak."
She glared at me angrily and then resumed her look of despair.
"Look here," I said, after a moment, "I have it all figured out. You give me four dollars and thirty-nine cents, and I'll get the extra food and three gifts, and that will be the entire outlay."
She said three times that it could not be done, and then she handed out the money and cheered up.
I took the bus into the village the following morning and spent fifteen dollars. I used my own money to make up the difference— kissed it good-by and hoped the party would be worth it.
I hurried home, wrapped up the three gifts, and then flew around getting the extra bedrooms ready. After a bite of lunch, I dressed myself nicely, and thoroughly enjoyed having something to dress for again. I got downstairs just in time to greet the first arrivals. They were John and Rhynda Ballinger, Freda Ballinger, and Rhynda's friend Mrs. Rosalie Hannahs.
Freda kissed her aunt, shook hands with me, and then stepped to one side. People rarely noticed her much. She was not good-looking, she did not dress well, and her personality was rather colorless. I did observe, though, that she had done herself up a bit this time. She wore a bright green coat, orange wool scarf and gloves, and a multicolored woolen cap in which the predominant color, unfortunately, was blue.
Rhynda, of course, looked smart and attractive as always. She was dressed in darkish, expensive-looking tweeds, and her auburn hair, under a striking felt hat, gave a more effective color note than all Freda's ensemble.
Mrs. Hannahs appeared to be somewhere in her forties, and her cl
othes were fussy and far too young for her. She dripped honey on Mrs. Ballinger and said it was sweet of her to put up with a perfect stranger in her lovely old house.
Mrs. Ballinger's smile looked as though she had dropped her face and cracked it. She said, "Not at all," stiffly, and turned immediately to John, who was her favorite.
He was a nice fellow, pleasant and quiet. He would not go out enough to suit Rhynda, and so she had to go with other men, but John never seemed to mind.
In the past six months he had repaired practically the entire house for his aunt and was more firmly her favorite than ever. I think his fondness for tools and the repair jobs he did were his form of recreation. He seemed to find it more restful after business than the social life that interested Rhynda. He often wandered off and set to work as soon as he had taken off his hat and coat. He was good-looking enough, tall and dark, but faintly like Freda—a bit colorless.
Mrs. Ballinger kissed him and patted his shoulder. "Where's Berg?" she asked.
"Said he was catching the next train," he told her. "Fellow he's bringing down held him up or something." Mrs. Ballinger frowned briefly at this reference to the unwanted guest and glanced involuntarily at Mrs. Hannahs as being another of the same ilk.
Rhynda pulled off her hat and shook her bright, silky hair back from her face. "Don't worry about Berg. He'll show up sometime, even if it is four o'clock in the morning. Can't we go to our rooms? Maybe Leigh will show us where we belong."
"Of course," I said, and led the way upstairs.
I didn't particularly care for Rhynda, but at least she was amusing. As we marched along the upstairs hall Mrs. Hannahs said enthusiastically, "What a charming old place!"
"It's freezing up here," Rhynda declared, and pulled her coat around her. I visualized the flimsy, delicate underthings she was probably wearing and was glad I had come to realize, early on, that residence in Mrs. Ballinger's house and woolen underwear went strictly hand in hand. I put them into their rooms and hurried down again, for I had heard a car in the drive.
Amy and her Mr. Donald Tait were in the hall. They had driven up in Mr. Tait's car, and both the car and Mr. Tait were long, handsome, and well fitted out. I took them upstairs, and there was trouble immediately.
"I won't be all this distance from the bathroom, such as it is," Amy declared. "What else have you got?" She walked down the hall and went into the room connecting with Mr. Tait's that I had prepared for Mr. Jones. "What's wrong with this?"
"It's a man's room," I explained. "It was furnished for a man. The other has been furnished for a lady. Chintz curtains, you know, and a—a doll sitting on the bed. Mrs. Ballinger dressed it herself. I can't usher Mr. Jones into a room with a doll sitting on the bed."
"Then take the doll out," she said shortly. "I'm staying here."
Donald Tait walked through the connecting door at that point and dropped some of her baggage onto the floor. He disappeared again and returned shortly with another piece, which he threw onto the bed. He went back into his own room and banged the door smartly behind him.
"Seems a trifle put out," I suggested brightly.
"You mind your own business, and get out of here," she said viciously.
I went to the door and opened it. "Shall I bring you the doll? I don't believe Mr. Jones is going to care for it."
She opened her mouth, but I slid out quickly. I went along the hall feeling like a well-trained servant, and as such, meditating on the various merits of spitting in her soup, putting crumbs in her bed, and making the bed with the sheet hanging down on one side and the blanket on the other. I turned to descend the stairs, with my mouth watering, and bumped into a strange man.
I knew it must be the Jones man because Berg was right behind him.
Berg said, "Well, Smithy! How are you, darling?" and planted an audible kiss on my forehead.
He was different from his brother and sister, better looking and with much more personality. They were both dark and inclined to be heavy. His figure was slim and hard, and he had reddish hair.
Mr. Jones had dark hair, which was inclined to be curly, and very blue eyes. When Berg introduced us he bent low over my hand and murmured, "Charmed."
I patted his head and said, "What pretty curls. Are they natural?"
He straightened up and raised one eyebrow.
Berg shook his head. "You shouldn't have mentioned it, Smithy. He's needing a new permanent, and he's sensitive about it."
Berg always used the same room and even kept some of his things in it, and it suddenly occurred to me that it would be better to put the stranger into Berg's unquestionably masculine bedroom. Berg would understand about Amy. I touched his arm, and when he turned to me, whispered the situation into his ear. He merely laughed at me.
"My dear Smithy, I've done enough for Dick by smuggling him out here over Aunt Mabel's dead body. Let him take whatever room he can get, but it won't be mine."
"He's a low, common sort of fellow," Mr. Jones said easily. "Don't let him embarrass you, Miss Smith. Anything will do for me. If you haven't a bedroom, just give me a blanket and a coat hanger."
"It isn't that bad," I said, in some confusion. "I have a room for you, if you care to use it."
I threw open the door and ushered them in. They stood looking at it for a while in silence, and then they turned and looked at each other.
"The doll," said Mr. Jones gravely, "was very thoughtful. I can't sleep properly unless I take my dolly to bed with me."
"None of your foul saloon talk here," Berg said severely. "Not in front of the lady."
"You can put the doll and the fancy cushions in the cupboard," I said hastily. "You're supposed to dress for dinner and be downstairs for tomato juice cocktails at a quarter to seven."
Mr. Jones turned a very blue stare on me and murmured, "A jest, Miss Smith?"
"Grim reality," said Berg gloomily. "There'll be no liquor while you're under this roof, unless it's bootleg."
"In that case," said Mr. Jones pleasantly, "I shall see you—and the tomato juice—at a quarter to seven."
I went off downstairs and collected Mrs. Ballinger, who was wandering around aimlessly, and brought her up to dress for dinner. I put her into her room and then raced for the bathroom, and just made it.
I hurried through the necessary ablutions, but when I opened the door I was shocked to find four people standing in line. Richard Jones was first, Berg stood behind him, Rhynda was behind Berg, sitting on a chair from Mr. Jones's room, and Donald Tait stood behind Rhynda. He appeared vastly more cheerful.
They surveyed me solemnly, and I said with dignity, "I'm sorry that most of you have to stand. I'll have a row of chairs put here tomorrow."
We all laughed then, and they tossed up to see whether Rhynda or the three men should get the bathroom next. Rhynda won, and the men marched down the back stairs in search of what they called the kitchen pump.
I hurried on down the hall, but as I was passing Amy's room I heard raised voices. I slowed down and distinctly heard Freda say, "Amy, you are one of the vilest creatures on God's earth. He will surely punish you, and so will I. So be prepared."
I thought I heard her coming towards the door then, so I went on quickly.
CHAPTER 3
I dressed quickly and with a feeling of pleasant excitement. It seemed to me that it might be quite a nice party.
I knew there would be a lot of work. All the bedrooms were occupied except the little room at the end of the hall, and it wasn't really a bedroom. We called it the sewing room, although nobody ever bothered to sew in it. Mrs. Ballinger had opened up the parlor, which was a young ballroom, and the dining room, which looked like an old-fashioned banqueting hall.
I brushed away the thought of all the housework that would have to be done and made up my mind to have a good time this one night, at any rate. I put on my best evening dress, a really good one that I had bought just before my father died, and I spent a lot of time on my hair and face.
As I d
escended the stairs, I couldn't help wishing that there was someone standing at the bottom to appreciate the picture I made. There was no one around, though, so I made for the kitchen to see how Doris was getting on with the dinner. She assured me that she had everything under control, but I lingered for a while because the stove made the room comfortably warm and I was chilled through.
Doris plodded about contentedly between stove and table. Nothing ever seemed to bother her much. She slept in a room off the kitchen and apparently spent most of her time between the two. She never went out unless it was absolutely necessary, and on her days off she usually had friends or relatives come to visit.
As I watched her, it suddenly occurred to me that it might have been one of her friends who had been in the attic that night and who had subsequently departed quietly by way of the front door. The idea relieved me vastly, for the thing had been nagging at my mind all the week.
I realized with satisfaction that the housework was all that need worry me. I had just turned to leave when I heard the sound of coal being shoveled in the cellar, and I spun around to stare at Doris in consternation.
She spread her hands out and shrugged. "I told them. I said nobody was supposed to touch the furnace, only you or me, but Mr. Berg said it wasn't any work for ladies, and that Mr. Jones backed him up. I told them there was only enough coal to the end of the week, but they just laughed and said they'd put back all they used."
I couldn't help laughing, although I knew we'd have to spend a week shivering in a cold house after they had left. However, the immediate prospect of adequate warmth was cheering, and I went on through the swinging door to the butler's pantry, humming to myself.
Unexpectedly, I came upon Mr. Jones mixing cocktails. I stopped short and stared at him.
"Where did you get it?" I whispered. "Bought it," he said cheerfully.
I thought of the grocery store that had Mrs. Ballinger's account and asked feebly, "Where?"
He glanced at me and smiled faintly. "At a liquor emporium in some small town on the way out."
"You came by car?"
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