her spiritualistic guest, and the
quiet man was obliged to transact his business with the handsome Belle
Ruggles. He was a pleasant, winning sort of a fellow, young, shapely,
and adapted to immediately gaining confidence and esteem.

From a little conversation with her the quiet man, who was none other
than Detective Pinkham from my Chicago Agency, was sure that he could
trust the girl, whom he at once saw had no sympathy with these people or
their crazy antics. He saw that she was full of spirit, too, capable of
carrying out any resolve she had made, and altogether the single oasis
of good sense in this great desert of unbalanced minds.

So it was not long before he had her sentiments on Spiritualism, on
Spiritualists, and on Mrs. Winslow, whom she denounced with tears of
anger in her eyes as a disgrace to womanhood and to their place, and he
had not been three hours in the house before the young lady and himself
had entered into a conspiracy to give the woman such a scare as she had
not recently had, and drive her from the pleasant though quaint old home
her presence was contaminating.

The snow and the night came together, and the storm shook the old house
until its weak, loose joints creaked, and every cranny and crevice
wailed a dismal protest to the wind and the driving snow. It would take
more than that though to keep people of one idea at home, and the entire
household departed at an early hour for Pence's Hall, from which,
whatever occurred there, Mrs. Deck's large family did not return until
nearly midnight, by which time Operative Pinkham and Belle Ruggles had
concluded their hasty preparations for a little dramatic entertainment
of their own, and were properly stationed and accoutred to make it a
brilliant success.

"Good-night, my poor dear!" said the kind-hearted old body as she
ushered Mrs. Winslow into her best room, a long antiquated chamber,
full of panels, wardrobes set in the wall, and ghostly, creaking
furniture. "I have to give you this room, we are so full. My first
husband died there, but you don't care for anything like _that_. I never
sleep there, the place scares me; but I know you will like it, you are
so brave!"

Whether brave or not, Mrs. Winslow seemed all of a shiver when she had
entered the room where Mrs. Deck's first husband had died.

She closed the door carefully, and putting her candle upon a grim old
bureau, began a thorough and seemingly frightened examination of the
room.