He held open the door to the adjoining room. "Suppose we step in here? My stenographer is at lunch. There's no danger of our being disturbed."
Preceding him into the inner office, she bade him lock the door; and, thus assured of their safety from interruption, she sat nervously on the edge of a chair and faced him across the flat-top desk. There clung to her, somehow, a subtle suggestion of wealth and luxury, and her well-chiseled features denoted good breeding. Subtle, too, was the delicate odor of violets that fragrantly touched his nostrils as she leaned toward him across the desk. Then he noticed she wore a rich cluster of the flowers upon her mauve silk waist.
He observed, also, the purplish shadows beneath her large brown eyes, her half-frightened, half-worried demeanor and her air of suppressed excitement, as though she were struggling to control some inner perturbation.
"Perhaps I've made a mistake," she began, "in coming here. I don't know. But I've been so perplexed, so utterly mystified, by some strange things that have happened lately—Did you ever hear of Willard Clayberg?" she broke off suddenly to ask.
Barry knitted his brows. The name had a familiar sound.
"Yes," he said, after a pause, "I seem to remember him. Wasn't he the North Shore millionaire who went insane last winter and killed his wife and himself?"
She nodded. Her elbows were resting on the desk and her slender fingers, interlaced beneath her small white chin, were twitching.
"Exactly. They lived, as you probably recall, in a quaint old-fashioned home near Hubbard Woods—just the two of them; no children. Following the tragedy, the house was closed up and for a long while remained unoccupied. Despite the scarcity of dwelling places, nobody apparently cared to live there. For one thing, it is not a modern residence, and for another—and this really seemed the most serious objection—it it had acquired a reputation of being 'haunted.'
"Of course," she went on, with a nervous little laugh, "you will say—just as I said—that such a thing is perfectly absurd. You'd think that no normal person would take it seriously. And yet there were so many strange things told about the house—creepy stories of weird sounds in the dead of night and unearthly things seen through the windows—that people, ordinarily level-headed, began to shun the place.
"I have never believed in ghosts, Mr. Barry, and I've always ridiculed people who did; but now—Do you know my husband, Scott Peyton?"
"I've heard of him," said Barry. "Architect, isn't he?"
"A very successful one. He has designed some of the finest buildings in Chicago. But he's the most superstitious man alive! He's a Southerner, born in Georgia, and at childhood his negro 'mammy' filled his mind with all manner of silly superstitions, including a deathly fear of 'ha'nts.' He has never been able to overcome this, although both of us have tried.
"About three weeks ago," Mrs. Peyton continued, her voice betraying her agitation, "he and I were motoring along the North Shore when we espied this old Clayberg estate. The quaint charm of the old-fashioned place at once enchanted me; and when we alighted and strolled through the grounds my enchantment grew. It seemed as if Nature had outdone herself in lavishing picturesque beauty there. Mr. Peyton was as fascinated as I.
"We were planning, at that time, to give up our town apartment and buy a suburban home; and this seemed to be just the thing we were looking for. We inquired of the neighbors concerning it, and it was then we discovered its tragic history. When my husband was told of the hideous thing that had happened there last winter, and of its evil reputation since, his enthusiasm vanished, and I immediately saw he would never consider buying it.
"But I had set my heart on having that place; and later—after I had pleaded and argued with him in vain—I decided to buy it myself and, by compelling him to live there, perhaps cure him permanently of his superstitious fear. I saw the agent next day, learned the old home could be bought at a bargain, and had my father buy it and deed it to me.
"My husband was furious when I told him what I had done. He declared he would never enter the house and urged me to sell it forthwith, But I was as firm as he; and finally, after a rather violent argument and by taunting him with being a coward, I contrived to get his reluctant consent to make our home in the 'haunted house'."
"WE MOVED in last Thursday," said Mrs. Peyton sitting nearer the desk and lowering her voice, "and on Thursday night, and every night since then—" She exhaled audibly, her lip quivering.
"What happened?" asked Barry.
"It's been a nightmare!" she exclaimed with sudden vehemence. "Ever since that first night the most peculiar things have happened. I don't know what to make of it, or what to think, or do. It's baffling! I'm not in the least superstitious; and yet—"
"Start at the beginning," suggested Barry, "and tell me exactly what happened."
"Well, the first night we slept in the master's bedroom—a large front room on the second floor—and about midnight I was awakened, by my husband, who was sitting up in bed, gasping and trembling with terror. Before I could speak, he sprang from bed and switched on the light and began frantically searching the room, looking into the closets and under the bed and peering into the hall.
"'For heaven's sake!' I cried. 'What's the matter?'
"He pointed to the corridor door. His hand was trembling and his face was as white as paper. For a moment he seemed unable to speak.
"'It came right through that door!' he said at last. 'I woke up just as it came in the room—a ghastly-looking old man with white hair and a long beard. It didn't open the door, but came right through it!'
"'Nonsense!' I laughed. 'You've been thinking about ghosts until you imagine you're seeing them. Now come back to bed and go to sleep.'
"But he indignantly insisted he had actually seen the thing.
"'I saw it cross the room,' he declared, 'and stop at the bed and stand there looking down at me. When I sat up it disappeared—vanished into air.'
"I couldn't believe such a preposterous thing, of course, but, to humor him, I offered to get up and help him search the house.
"'What good would that do?’ he objected. 'I tell you the thing was a spirit!'
"Finally he went back to bed. But he slept no more that night. At breakfast next morning I could see he hadn't closed his eyes.
"On the following night I again was awakened by my husband, who seemed even more frightened than before.
"'It came back again!' he whispered hoarsely. 'It was puttering around your desk over there.'
"Then he jumped out of bed and ran to the desk and lit the lamp there. A moment later he uttered a sharp cry and came hurrying back to my bed, with a sheet of writing paper in his hand.
"'Look at that!' he exclaimed, and thrust the paper before my eyes.
