“It sounds,” said Emily, “as if the house were haunted.”
“Without going so far as that, it does seem as if the shutters could hardly have got there of their own accord, and that someone must have been inside on that particular night, at any rate. No one, however, was seen, either then or since. There the shutters are, as one can perceive in spite of the accumulated grime which almost hides the windows. No one seems to know who the house belongs to, or ever did belong to; and I would observe that, since no title deeds were in the package, or any hint that such things were in existence, we have only Mr. Batters’ bare word that the property was his. I should hasten to add that there is a small parcel addressed to Miss Blyth, whose contents may throw light, not only on that matter, but on others also.”
He handed me a parcel done up in brown paper. It was addressed, in very bad writing, “To be given to my niece, Mary Blyth, and to be opened by her only.” I cut the string, and removed the wrapper. In it was a common white wood box. Emily leaned over my shoulder.
“Whatever is inside?” she asked.
The first thing I saw when I lifted the lid, gave me a start, and I own it—there, staring me in the face, was the own brother of the little painted thing which was in the packet which the foreigner had slipped between my fingers.
“Why,” I cried, “if there isn’t another!”
“Another!” Mr. Paine gave a jump. “That’s very odd.” He was fishing about in his waistcoat pocket. “I thought you gave me the one you had.”
“So I did. You put it in the pocket in which you’re feeling.”
“I thought I did. But—have you noticed me taking it out?”
“You’ve not taken it out, of that I’m sure.”
