"This is the number, Miss," said the driver.

Helen looked out first. Not much like the same number on Madison Street!

This block was a slice of old-fashioned New York. On either side was a row of handsome, plain old houses, a few with lanterns at their steps, and some with windows on several floors brilliantly lighted.

There were carriages and automobiles waiting at these doors. Evening parties were evidently in progress.

The house before which the taxicab had stopped showed no light in front, however, except at the door and in one or two of the bas.e.m.e.nt windows.

"Is this the place you want?" asked the driver, with some impatience.

"I'll see," said Helen, and hopped out of the cab.

She ran boldly up the steps and rang the bell. In a minute the inner door swung open; but the outer grating remained locked. A man in livery stood in the opening.

"What did you wish, ma'am?" he asked in a perfectly placid voice.

"Does Mr. Willets Starkweather reside here?" asked Helen.

"Mr. Starkweather is not at home, ma'am."

"Oh! then he could not have received my telegram!" gasped Helen.

The footman remained silent, but partly closed the door.

"Any message, ma'am?" he asked, perfunctorily.

"But surely the family is at home?" cried Helen.

"Not at this hour of the hevening, ma'am," declared the English servant, with plain disdain.

"But I must see them!" cried Helen, again. "I am Mr. Starkweather's niece.

I have come all the way from Montana, and have just got into the city. You must let me in."

"Hi 'ave no orders regarding you, ma'am," declared the footman, slowly.

"Mr. Starkweather is at 'is club. The young ladies are hat an evening haffair."

"But auntie--surely there must be _somebody_ here to welcome me?" said Helen, in more wonder than anger as yet.

"You may come in, Miss," said the footman at last. "Hi will speak to the 'ousekeeper--though I fear she is abed."

"But I have the taxicab driver to pay, and my trunk is here," declared Helen, beginning suddenly to feel very helpless.

The man had opened the grilled door. He gazed down at the cab and shook his head.

"Wait hand see Mrs. Olstrom, first, Miss," he said.

She stepped in. He closed both doors and chained the inner one. He pointed to a hard seat in a corner of the hall and then stepped softly away upon the thick carpet to the rear of the premises, leaving the girl from Sunset Ranch alone.

_This_ was her welcome to the home of her only relatives, and to the heart of the great city!

CHAPTER IX

THE GHOST WALK

Helen had to wait only a short time; but during that wait she was aware that she was being watched by a pair of bright eyes at a crevice between the portieres at the end of the hall.

"They act as though I came to rob them," thought the girl from the ranch, sitting in the gloomy hall with the satchel at her feet.

This was not the welcome she had expected when she started East. Could it be possible that her message to Uncle Starkweather had not been delivered?

Otherwise, how could this situation be explained?

Such a thing as inhospitality could not be imagined by Helen Morrell. A begging Indian was never turned away from Sunset Ranch. A perfect stranger--even a sheepman--would be hospitably treated in Montana.

The soft patter of the footman's steps soon sounded and the sharp eyes disappeared. There was a moment's whispering behind the curtain. Then the liveried Englishman appeared.

"Will you step this way, Miss?" he said, gravely. "Mrs. Olstrom will see you in her sitting-room. Leave your bag there, Miss."

"No. I guess I'll hold onto it," she said, aloud.

The footman looked pained, but said nothing. He led the way haughtily into the rear of the premises again. At a door he knocked.

"Come in!" said a sharp voice, and Helen was ushered into the presence of a female with a face quite in keeping with the tone of her voice.

The lady was of uncertain age. She wore a cap, but it did not entirely hide the fact that her thin, straw-colored hair was done up in curl-papers. She was vinegary of feature, her light blue eyes were as sharp as gimlets, and her lips were continually screwed up into the expression of one determined to say "prunes."

She sat in a straight-backed chair in the sitting-room, in a flowered silk bed-wrapper, and she looked just as glad to see Helen as though the girl were her deadliest enemy.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I am Helen Morrell," said the girl.

"What do you want of Mr. Starkweather at this hour?"

"Just what I would want of him at any hour," returned the Western girl, who was beginning to become heartily exasperated.

"What's that, Miss?" snapped the housekeeper.

"I have come to him for hospitality. I am his relative--rather, I am Aunt Eunice's relative----"

"What do you mean, child?" exclaimed the lady, with sudden emotion. "Who is your Aunt Eunice?"

"Mrs. Starkweather. He married my mother's sister--my Aunt Eunice."