He straightened his shoulders, threw up his dark head, and opened the
door leading to the narrow walk at the side of the house. In another
moment the watching boy and girl at the window saw him dart into the
hedge and a minute later emerge through it, picking his way among the
ancient graves. Suddenly from behind a tall monument stole a figure, and
as it approached the solemn eyes of the apparition smiled in dull wonder
on Everett Brimbecomb.

Scraggy held out her hands. "Don't run away, little 'un," she whispered.
"There be bats flyin' about in my head; but my cat won't hurt ye."

She passed one arm about the snarling creature perched on her shoulder;
but the cat with a hiss only raised himself higher.

"Don't spit at the pretty boy, Kitty--pretty pussy, black pussy!"
wheedled the woman. "He won't hurt ye, childy. Come nearer, will ye?
This be a good cat."

"Are you a ghost?" demanded Everett, edging into the light.

"Nope, I ain't no ghost. I love ye, pretty boy. Ye won't tell no one
that I speak to ye, will ye? I ain't doin' no hurt."

"What do you carry that cat for, and what's your name?" demanded Everett
insolently; for the proud young eyes had noticed the disheveled figure.
"If any one of our men see you about here, they'll shoot you. I'd shoot
you and your cat, too, if I had my father's gun!"

Scraggy smiled wanly. "Screech Owl's my name," said she. "They call me