eems a pity to have such a long walk--with nothin' at the end of it."

"I don't mind it in the least," gasped Peter. "And if you don't object
to my asking you just one more question," he went on grimly, "I'd like
you to tell me what is frightening Mr. Jonathan K. McGuire?"

"Oh, McGuire. I don't know. Nobody does. He's been here a couple of
weeks now, cooped up in the big house. Never comes out. They say he
sees ghosts and things."

"Ghosts!"

She nodded. "He's hired some of the men around here to keep watch for
them and they say some detectives are coming. You'll help too, I guess."

"That should be easy."

"Maybe. I don't know. My aunt works there. She's housekeeper. It's
spooky, she says, but she can't afford to quit."

"But they haven't _seen_ anything?" asked Peter incredulously.

"No. Not yet. I guess it might relieve 'em some if they did. It's only
the things you don't see that scare you."

"It sounds like a great deal of nonsense about nothing," muttered Peter.

"All right. Wait until you get there before you do much talkin'."

"I will, but I'm not afraid of ghosts." And then, as an afterthought,
"Are you?"

"Not in daylight. But from what Aunt Tillie says, it must be something
more than a ghost that's frightenin' Jonathan K. McGuire."

"What does she think it is?"

"She doesn't know. Mr. McGuire won't say. He won't allow anybody around
the house without a pass. Oh, he's scared all right and he's got most of
Black Rock scared too. He was never like this before."

"Are you scared?" asked Peter.

"No. I don't think I am really. But it's spooky, and I don't care much
for shootin'."

"What makes you think there will be shooting?"

"On account of the guns and pistols. Whatever the thing is he's afraid
of, he's not goin' to let it come near him if he can help it. Aunt
Tillie says that what with loaded rifles, shotguns and pistols lyin'
loose in every room in the house, it's as much as your life is worth to
do a bit of dustin'. And the men--Shad Wells, Jesse Brown, they all
carry automatics. First thing they know they'll be killin' somebody,"
she finished with conviction.

"Who is Shad Wells----?"

"My cousin, Shadrack E. Wells. He was triplets. The other two died."

"Shad," mused Peter.

"Sounds like a fish, doesn't it? But he isn't." And then more slowly,
"Shad's all right. He's just a plain woodsman, but he doesn't know
anything about making the trees grow," she put in with prim irony.
"Y