Jane did not relish yielding; she had passed that
childish stage, when “to give in” seemed
noble; it was now a question of expediency, which
was best? Should she go on and unburden her own
conscience just because she had decided to do so,
or should she follow the pleadings of this girl without
having an intelligent reason?
Something stronger than psycho-analysis (Jane’s
new field of study) forced her to look deeply into
the tear-stained blue eyes of Sarah Howland, and that
same mystic power, older and surer than theory, compelled
Jane to reply:
“All right, Sally. I’ll wait a while.
It’s all very queer but even queer things are
sometimes reasonable,” and she threw an affectionate
arm about the little freshman as she turned her back
on the judicial office in the big, gray stone building.
THE PICKET AND THE SPOOK
Not going to bed at all, Janey?” queried Judith,
letting her hair fall over her shoulders and shaking
her head like a happy care-free Collie. “This
bed is too inviting to slight that way. I never
knew that old spooky Lenox was so gorgeously equipped.”
Judith was testing the comforts of the big double
bed in the guest chamber of Lenox Hall, the same that
welcomed Jane and Dozia on the night previous.
“I am not going to run the risk of missing anything,”
Jane answered from her place in the big cushioned
steamer chair. “This is very comfortable
and I am all dressed ready to dive after the least
suspicious sound. Besides, I’m not a bit
sleepy—gone past my sleep, as Aunt Mary
would say.”
“I don’t want to desert you,” volunteered
Judith, “and it doesn’t seem just the
thing for me to turn into this downy bed while you
sit there like a sentinel. But truth to tell
I am shamefully human and just counting on thirty
winks before the ghost walks. Be sure to call
me at the very first hint. Of course you will
want to bag him personally, Jane, but I’ll be
glad to help you pull the draw string.”
It was drawing close to the tainted hour, and Jane
sat there wondering how one single day could seem
as long as that just past. She had no idea of
admitting what part actual fatigue can play in one’s
perspective, neither would she have owned to nerves
as the cause of her unnatural wakefulness; nevertheless
these were both factors in her almost painful alertness.
“At least now I have a chance to think,”
she temporized, “and I wish I could solve the
mystery of Sally Howland’s peculiar connection
with Shirley Duncan.”
They were so unlike, so foreign in disposition and
character; not relatives, and Sally even disclaimed
any previous acquaintance with the country girl.
Then Sally’s attempt to forestall the midnight
noises by taking the shunned room at the very foot
of the dreaded attic stairs—what could
that mean?
Jane pondered feebly, and feeling just the least bit
drowsy she left her place in the steamer chair to
get a drink of water in the lavatory. It would
not do to actually fall asleep “at the switch.”
