le uncertainly, but as he strode
through the kitchen garden and around to the front door, followed
closely by Miss Copley, he decided with pardonable pride that he had
extricated himself from an embarrassing position with his accustomed
masterful dexterity. The thought comforted him, for he vaguely
realized that he had come close to experiencing a nervous panic during
those minutes in the woods.

A white-haired man, still lithe, erect and agile despite his years,
opened the door for them as their steps sounded on the planking of the
veranda. This was Bates, the butler, a faithful retainer who had
served the father of Lucy Varr and her sister a full decade before
passing with the house and land into the keeping of the younger
daughter and her husband. At the time of Mr. Copley's death, Varr had
tentatively suggested letting the man go, but his wife had protested
against that idea and had gained her point by shrewdly convincing her
husband that good servants were becoming increasingly difficult to find
and that Bates could never be replaced for less than twice his wages.
It was one of the very rare occasions when Simon had credited the
gentle, self-effacing lady with showing sound sense.

The butler had just lighted the big lamp in the hall--electricity had
not yet found its way into the old house--and the warm cheerfulness of
the homely scene went far to rehabilitating Simon's convalescent nerve.
Ghosts did not fit into this atmosphere. Bates did--Bates was almost
as satisfying as a cabbage. Of course, Ocky would promptly do her best
to spoil it--! He could have dispensed willingly with the examination
to which she immediately subjected the servant.

"Bates, has any one called?"

"No, Miss Ocky."

"No one at all?"

"No, Miss Ocky." His wrinkled face showed his surprise at the
repetition.

"How about the back door? Any one come there?"

"No one, Miss Ocky."

"Well, have you seen any one around the grounds? A man dressed like a
monk? Wearing a mask?"

"A monk? In a mask?" The old man smiled indulgently at this quaint
whimsy, which might have come more suitably from the little girl with
flying pigtails whom he used to chase out of his pantry than from this
sensible, middle-aged woman who was waiting with apparent seriousness
for his answer. "A monk in a mask? Good gracious, no, Miss Ocky!"

"All right." Miss Copley sent a significant glance at Varr, which he
acknowledged by wrinkling his nose d