corporations--witness the way we beat railroads and street-car
companies when we can--so I called up the club, and about eight
o'clock Thomas Johnson came to see me. Poor Thomas!

Well, it ended by my engaging Thomas on the spot, at outrageous
wages, and with permission to sleep in the gardener's lodge,
empty since the house was rented. The old man--he was white-
haired and a little stooped, but with an immense idea of his
personal dignity--gave me his reasons hesitatingly.

"I ain't sayin' nothin', Mis' Innes," he said, with his hand on
the door-knob, "but there's been goin's-on here this las' few
months as ain't natchal. 'Tain't one thing an' 'tain't another--
it's jest a door squealin' here, an' a winder closin' there, but
when doors an' winders gets to cuttin' up capers and there's
nobody nigh 'em, it's time Thomas Johnson sleeps somewhar's
else."

Liddy, who seemed to be never more than ten feet away from me
that night, and was afraid of her shadow in that great barn of a
place, screamed a little, and turned a yellow-green. But I am
not easily alarmed.

It was entirely in vain; I represented to Thomas that we were
alone, and that he would have to stay in the house that night.
He was politely firm, but he would come over early the next
morning, and if I gave him a key, he would come in time to get
some sort of breakfast. I stood on the huge veranda and
watched him shuffle along down the shadowy drive, with mingled
feelings--irritation at his cowardice and thankfulness at getting