the drawing-room. The lights came on then, and, with the long
French windows unshuttered, I had a creepy feeling that each one
sheltered a peering face. In fact, in the light of what happened
afterward, I am pretty certain we were under surveillance during
the entire ghostly evening. We hurried over the rest of
the locking-up and got upstairs as quickly as we could. I left
the lights all on, and our footsteps echoed cavernously. Liddy
had a stiff neck the next morning, from looking back over her
shoulder, and she refused to go to bed.

"Let me stay in your dressing-room, Miss Rachel," she begged.
"If you don't, I'll sit in the hall outside the door. I'm not
going to be murdered with my eyes shut."

"If you're going to be murdered," I retorted, "it won't make any
difference whether they are shut or open. But you may stay in
the dressing-room, if you will lie on the couch: when you sleep
in a chair you snore."

She was too far gone to be indignant, but after a while she came
to the door and looked in to where I was composing myself for
sleep with Drummond's Spiritual Life.

"That wasn't a woman, Miss Rachel," she said, with her shoes in
her hand. "It was a man in a long coat."

"What woman was a man?" I discouraged her without looking up,
and she went back to the couch.

It was eleven o'clock when I finally prepared for bed. In