"That's the Professor's," he said, trying to speak unconcernedly. "I remember seeing him in it, many a time."
Armathwaite noticed the action, and was aware of a peculiar timbre in Walker's voice.
"Now, suppose we lay that ghost, and have done with it," he said quietly. "Where did my worthy and retrospective landlord hang himself?"
"There," said Walker, indicating a solitary hook screwed through the china shelf near the clock. "That bronze thing," pointing to a Burmese gong lying on the floor, "used to hang there. He took it down, tied the rope to the hook, and kicked a chair away. … If you come here," and he advanced a few paces, "you'll see why a ghost appears."
"Mr. Walker," bleated someone timidly.
Mr. Walker unquestionably jumped, and quite as unquestionably swore, even when he recognized Betty Jackson, standing in the porch.
"Well, what is it?" he cried gruffly, hoping his companion has missed that display of nerves.
"Please, sir, mother thought—" began the girl; but the startled "nut" was annoyed, and showed it.
"I don't care what your mother thinks," he shouted. "Refusing me the keys, indeed! What next? I've a good mind to report her to Messrs. Holloway & Dobb."
"But, sir, she only wanted to make the house a bit more tidy. It's dusty and stuffy. If you gentlemen would be kind enough to wait in the garden five minutes, I'd open up the rooms, and raise a window here and there."
Betty, tearful and repentant, had entered the hall in her eagerness to serve. Walker weakened; he had a soft spot in his heart for girls.
"No matter now," he said. "We shan't be here long. This gentleman is just going to look round and see if the place suits him."
"The best bedroom is all upside down," she persisted. "If you'd give me three minutes——"
"Run away and play, and don't bother us," he answered off-handedly. "As I was about to say, Mr. Armathwaite, someone in the old days put stained glass in that window on the landing. You'll notice it shows a knight in black armor—Edward, the Black Prince, it's believed to be—and, when the sun sets in the nor' west, it casts a strong shadow on the paneling beside the clock. Of course, it can be seen from the porch, and it accounts for this silly story about the ghost——"
"Oh!" screamed the girl. "Why talk of such horrid things? There's no ghost!"
Her cry was so unexpectedly shrill that Walker yielded to an anger almost as loud-voiced.
"Confound you!" he stormed at her; "take yourself off! One more word from you, and your mother loses her job."
Armathwaite looked into the girl's troubled face and saw there a fear, a foreboding, which were very real, if not to be accounted for readily.
"Kindly leave us," he said. "If I want Mrs. Jackson, or you, I'll call at the cottage."
There was an air of authority about Mr. Armathwaite that disconcerted Betty more than Walker's bluster. She went out and closed the front door. The agent ran and opened it again. The girl was standing on the path, clear of the porch, and gazing wistfully at the house.
"Will you mind your own business?" he grumbled. "The deuce take it, what's come to you to-day? You and your mother seem half crazy."
"We don't like folk to see the place at its worst," she said, rather defiantly.
"You're doing your best to turn Mr. Armathwaite against it, I should think," was the angry comment. "Now, don't touch this door again, and clear out, d'ye hear?"
Betty flushed. She was distressed, but dales' blood boils quickly when subjected to the fire of contumely.
"I haven't asked such a favor," she said. "And you might keep a civil tongue in your head."
Walker sniffed his annoyance. But why bandy words with this aggressive young woman? He swung on his heel.
"Sorry you should have met with such a queer reception, Mr. Armathwaite," he said. "I can't account for it. I really can't. Perhaps Mrs. Jackson feels hurt that I didn't let her know you were coming, but——"
"Never mind Mrs. Jackson or her daughter," said Armathwaite placidly. "I'll soon settle matters with them. Now, you have an inventory, I believe? Suppose we start here."
"Then you've decided to take the house, sir?"
"Yes, two hours ago, in Nuttonby."
"I wish all our clients were like you," laughed Walker. "You know what you want and see that you get it. … Well, sir, as it happens, the inventory begins with the hall. I'll read, and you might note the items, stopping me if there's any doubt."
The agent rattled through his task, but was pulled up several times in dining-room and drawing-room, when a picture or two, some Sheffield plate, and various bits of china were missing. Black doubt seized the sharp Walker when this had happened for the fourth time. In all, there were seven disappearances, and, in each instance, the article was old and fairly valuable. Country villages, he reflected, were ransacked nowadays by collectors of curios. When opportunity served, he and Mrs. Jackson would have some earnest words.
But surprise and relief came in the discovery of the seven; they were piled, with a number of books, on a table in the library.
"I suppose some kind of spring cleaning is going on," he said sheepishly. "Now the cat is out of the bag. Why the deuce didn't Betty say so, and have done with it!"
"I imagine she was trying to tell us something of the sort," smiled the other unconcernedly. "Surely we have not got to check the titles of all these books?"
"No, sir. They're lumped together—about eight hundred volumes."
Armathwaite surveyed the shelves with the eye of a reader.
"That must be nearly right," he said, after a little pause. "I must not get mine mixed with my predecessor's. I've brought nearly two hundred myself."
Walker thought of the brown paper parcel, which seemed to have a certain solidity, but said nothing. In the first place, if eight hundred books occupied so much space, a quarter of that number would fit in no ordinary sheet of brown paper. Secondly, Mr. Armathwaite's manner did not invite unnecessary questions. The kitchen and scullery were soon dealt with. There was coal in a cellar, and a supply of wood, and a number of lamps drew attention to some tins of oil.
"How much for this lot?" inquired the would-be tenant.
"Nothing," said Walker, in a sudden fit of generosity. "These stores were left by Mrs. Wilkins, and lost sight of during the row. My, what a bother she raised!"
"Yet there is no ghost; we have Betty's word for it. Now—the bedrooms."
The "best" bedroom—that in the south-east angle—was certainly not in disorder. Indeed, it looked fresher and cleaner than any of the others; the bed was spotless; even the window-sill had been dusted recently.
"Of course," said the agent, "those two silly women have been tidying things up a bit for the season. I'm getting the hang of things by degrees. They're afraid I might think it should have been done sooner."
"Probably," agreed Armathwaite, who, however, held a somewhat different view. The girl was not afraid of Mr. James Walker. Of whom, then, or of what? If the inquiry interested him he would find out.
The remaining bedrooms held at least one year's dust.
A box-room, lumber-room, and servant's bedroom occupied the second floor. In the ceiling of a small lobby there was a trap-door.
"That leads to a space beneath the roof," said Walker. "By the way, there ought to be a ladder. It's gone."
Being, as has been seen, of active habit, he brought a chair from the bedroom, stood on it, pushed up the flap, and peered into the semi-obscurity of a triangular, rafter-lined