nsidered deficient, and
of a small lecture on other people's melon rinds, which I delivered as
she sullenly put away the jelly.

But that night, after I had gone to bed, the memory of that padlock
became strangely insistent. There was nothing psychic about the feeling
I had. It was perfectly obvious and simple. The house held, or had held,
a secret. Yet it was, above stairs, as open as the day. There was no
corner into which I might not peer, except--Why was that portion of the
fruit-closet locked?

At two o'clock, finding myself unable to sleep, I got up and put on my
dressing-gown and slippers. I had refused to repeat the experiment
of being locked in. Then, with a candle and a box of matches, I went
downstairs. I had, as I have said, no longer any terror of the lower
floor. The cat lay as usual on the table in the back hall. I saw his
eyes watching me with their curious unblinking stare, as intelligent as
two brass buttons. He rose as my light approached, and I made a bed for
him of a cushion from a chair, failing my Paisley shawl.

It was after that that I had the curious sense of being led. It was
as though I knew that something awaited my discovery, and that my sole
volition was whether I should make that discovery or not. It was there,
waiting.

I have no explanation for this. And it is quite possible that I might
have had it, to find at the end nothing more significant than root-beer,
for instance, or bulbs for the winter garden.

And indeed, at first sight, what awaited me in the locked closet
amounted to anti-climax. For when I had broken the rusty padlock open
with a hatchet, and had opened doors with nervous fingers, nothing more
startling appeared than a number of books. The shelves were piled high
with them, a motley crew of all colors, but dark shades predominating.

I went back to bed, sheepishly enough, and wrapped my chilled feet in an
extra blanket. Maggie came to the door about the time I was dozing off
and said she had heard hammering downstairs in the cellar some time ago,
but she had refused to waken me until the burglars had gone.

"If it was burglars," she added, "you're that up-and-ready, Miss Agnes,
that I knew if I waked you you'd be downstairs after them. What's a bit
of silver to a human life?"

I got her away at last, and she went, muttering something about digging
up the cellar floor and finding an uneasy spirit. Then I fell asleep.

I had taken cold that night, and the followin