"What has frightened you?" inquired that meanest of men.

"I was in my studio--and I must first explain to you that for weeks and
weeks I--I have imagined I heard sounds--" She looked carefully around
her; nothing animate was visible. "Sounds," she repeated, swallowing a
little lump in her white throat, "like the faint squealing and squeaking
and sniffing and scratching of--of live things. I asked the janitor, and
he said the house was not very well built and that the beams and
wainscoting were shrinking."

"Did he say that?" inquired the young man, thinking of the bribes.

"Yes, and I tried to believe him. And one day I thought I heard about one
hundred canaries singing, and I know I did, but that idiot janitor said
they were the sparrows under the eaves. Then one day when your door was
open, and I was coming up the stairway, and it was dark in the entry,
something big and soft flopped across the carpet, and--it being
exceedingly common to scream--I didn't, but managed to get past it, and"--
her violet eyes widened with horror--"do you know what that soft, floppy
thing was? It was an owl!"

He was aware of it; he had managed to secure the escaped bird before her
electric summons could arouse the janitor.

"I called the janitor," she said, "and he came and we searched the entry;
but there was no owl."

He appeared to be greatly impressed; she recognized the sympathy in his
brown eyes.