She threw out her arms in a wide gesture of desperation. "For the love o' G.o.d, go 'way an' leave me in peace. Don't ye see I ain't fit to talk to anybody?" She gasped with a choking throat. "_He_ ain't comin' back again--not to-night. I'll swear it on th' Bible, if ye want me to."

Their glances met, hers weary and pleading, and he believed her.

"All right, Mrs. Bergen," he said soothingly. "I'll take your word for it, but you'll admit the whole thing is very strange--very startling."

"Yes--strange. G.o.d knows it is. But I--I can't tell ye anything."

"But what shall I say to Mr. McGuire--upstairs. I've got to go up--now."

"Say to him----?" she gasped helplessly, all her terrors renewed. "Ye can't tell him I was talkin' to anybody." And then more wildly, "Ye mustn't. I wasn't. I was talkin' to myself--that's the G.o.d's truth, I was--when ye come in. It was so strange--an' all. Don't tell him, Mr.

Nichols," she pleaded at last, with a terrible earnestness, and clutching at his hand. "For my sake, for Beth's----"

"What has Beth to do with it?"

"More'n ye think. Oh, G.o.d----" she broke off. "What am I sayin'----?

Beth don't know. She mustn't. He don't know either----"

"Who? McGuire?"

"No--no. Don't ask any more questions, Mr. Nichols," she sobbed. "I can't speak. Don't ye see I can't?"

So Peter gave up the inquisition. He had never liked to see a woman cry.

"Oh, all right," he said more cheerfully, "you'd better be getting to bed. Perhaps daylight will clear things up."

"And ye won't tell McGuire?" she pleaded.

"I can't promise anything. But I won't if I'm not compelled to."

She gazed at him uncertainly, her weary eyes wavering, but she seemed to take some courage from his att.i.tude.

"G.o.d bless ye, sir."

"Good-night, Mrs. Bergen."

And then, avoiding the drawing-room, Peter made his way up the stairs with a great deal of mental uncertainty to the other room of terror.

CHAPTER VII

MUSIC

Stryker, who kept guard at the door of McGuire's room, opened it cautiously in response to Peter's knock. He found McGuire sitting rigidly in a rocking-chair at the side of the room, facing the windows, a whisky bottle and gla.s.s on the table beside him. His face had lost its pallor, but in his eyes was the same look of gla.s.sy bewilderment.

"Why the H---- couldn't you come sooner?" He whined the question, not angrily, but querulously, like a child.

"I was having a look around," replied Peter coolly.

"Oh! And did you find anybody?"

"No."

"H-m! I thought you wouldn't."

Peter hesitated. He meant to conceal the housekeeper's share in the night's encounters, but he knew that both Andy and the chauffeur would talk, and so,

"There _was_ somebody outside, Mr. McGuire," he said. "You were not mistaken, a man prowling in the dark near the kitchen. Andy thought it was the chauffeur, who was in the garage washing the cars."

"Ah!"

McGuire started up, battling for his manhood. It seemed to Peter that his gasp was almost one of relief at discovering that his eyes had not deceived him, that the face he had seen was that of a real person, instead of the figment of a disordered mind.

"Ah! Why didn't they shoot him?"

"I've just said, sir, Andy thought it was the chauffeur."

McGuire was pacing the floor furiously.

"He has no business to think. I pay him to act. And you--what did you do?"

"Three of us searched the whole place--every tree, every bush--every shadow----. The man has gone."

"Gone," sneered the other. "A H---- of a mess you're making of this job!"

Peter straightened angrily, but managed to control himself.

"Very well, Mr. McGuire," he said. "Then you'd better get somebody else at once."

He had never given notice before but the hackneyed phrase fell crisply from his lips. For many reasons, Peter didn't want to go, but he bowed and walked quickly across the room. "Good-night," he said.

Before he had reached the door the frightened man came stumbling after him and caught him by the arm.

"No, no, Nichols. Come back. D'ye hear? You mustn't be so d---- touchy.

Come back. You can't go. I didn't mean anything. Come now!"

Peter paused, his hand on the k.n.o.b, and looked down into the man's flabby, empurpled countenance.

"I thought you meant it," he said.

"No. I--I didn't. I--I like you, Nichols--liked you from the very first--yesterday. Of course you can't be responsible for all the boneheads here."

Peter had "called the bluff." Perhaps the lesson might have a salutary effect. And so, as his good humor came back to him, he smiled pleasantly.

"You see, Mr. McGuire, you could hardly expect Andy to shoot the chauffeur. They're on excellent terms."

McGuire had settled down into a chair near the table, and motioned Peter to another one near him.