face, hear the anxious voice of Freddie Rooke--then
fourteen and for the first time the owner of a camera--imploring her
to stand just like that because he wouldn't be half a minute only some
rotten thing had stuck or something. Then the sharp click, the
doubtful assurance of Freddie that he thought it was all right if he
hadn't forgotten to shift the film (in which case she might expect to
appear in combination with a cow which he had snapped on his way to
the house), and the relieved disappearance of Pat, the terrier, who
didn't understand photography. How many years ago had that been? She
could not remember. But Freddie had grown to long-legged manhood, she
to an age of discretion and full-length frocks, Pat had died, the old
house was inhabited by strangers ... and here was the silent record of
that sun-lit afternoon, three thousand miles away from the English
garden in which it had come into existence.

The shadows deepened. The top of the great building swayed gently,
causing the pendulum of the grandfather-clock to knock against the
sides of its wooden case. Jill started. The noise, coming after the
dead silence, frightened her till she realized what it was. She had a
nervous feeling of not being alone. It was as if the shadows held
goblins that peered out at the intruder. She darted to the mantelpiece
and replaced the photograph. She felt like some heroine of a
fairy-story meddling with the contents of the giant's castle. Soon
there would come the sound of a great footstep thud--thud....

_Thud._

Jill's heart gave another leap. She was perfectly sure she had heard a
sound. It had been just like the banging of a door. She braced
herself, listening, every muscle tense. And then, cleaving the
stillness, came a voice from down the passage--

"Just see them Pullman porters,
Dolled up with scented waters
Bought with their dimes and quarters!
See, here they come! Here they come!"

For an instant Jill could not have said whether she was relieved or
more frightened than ever. True, that numbing sense of the uncanny had
ceased to grip her, for Reason told her that spectres do not sing
rag-time songs. On the other hand, owners of apartments do, and she
would almost as readily have faced a spectre as the owner of this
apartment. Dizzily, she wondered how in the world she was to explain
her presence. Suppose he turned out to be some awful-choleric person
who would listen to no explanations.

"