master of
Hynds House entertaining British officers and at the same time
hiding the forfeited rebels they were hunting. I'd like to know,"
The Author added, reflectively, "where he hid them."

"An old house like this has dozens of places where one could be
hidden without much danger of detection," remarked Mr. Johnson.

"I'm pretty sure of that," agreed The Author, emphatically.

"You should be, since you did a neat little bit of hiding on your
own account," Mr. Johnson reminded him.

The Author was nettled. He had never found the paper lost out of the
closet in his own room, though he had never given up a tentative
search for it.

"Well, it's confoundedly odd I never did such a thing before," he
grumbled.

"What is odd is that I myself was waked out of my sleep that night
by the most oppressive sense of misery and hopelessness I have ever
experienced," Mr. Johnson said seriously. "It was so overpowering
that it made me think of Saint Theresa's description of her torment
in that oven in the wall of hell which had by kindly forethought on
the part of the devil been arranged for her permanent tenancy. Of
course, it was just a nightmare," he added, doubtfully; "or perhaps
a fit of indigestion."

"Indigestion takes many forms," I remarked, as lightly as I could.
"And you must remember you've been warned that Hynds House is
haunted. Why, the servants insist they've seen ol' Mis' Scarlett's
h'ant!"

"Ah!" nodded The Author. "And I smell a mysterious perfume, I walk
in my sleep for the first and only time in my life, and I hide where
it can't be found a paper with an uncouth jingle and some dots on
it, Johnson and I have the same nightmare. And I have heard
footsteps. All hallucinations, of course! I will say this much for
Hynds House: I never had a hallucination until I came here. By the
way, did I merely imagine I heard a violin last night?"

"Oh, no: I heard it, too." Mr. Johnson looked at The Author with a
concerned face. "You're getting a bit off your nerves, Chief.
Anybody might play a violin."

"Anybody might, but few do play it as I thought I heard it played
last night. Who's the player, Miss Smith?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. Alicia thinks it's a spirit that
lives in the crape-myrtle trees."

I was beginning to be aweary of The Author's shrewd eyes and
persistent questioning, and I was heartily glad when he had to go
back to his work.

That was a gray and windless afternoon, and the house was f