The night the detective arrived, Saturday, I had a talk with him.

I told him of the experience Louise Armstrong had had the night before, on the circular staircase, and about the man who had so frightened Rosie on the drive.  I saw that he thought the information was important, and to my suggestion that we put an additional lock on the east wing door he opposed a strong negative.

“I think it probable,” he said, “that our visitor will be back again, and the thing to do is to leave things exactly as they are, to avoid rousing suspicion.  Then I can watch for at least a part of each night and probably Mr. Innes will help us out.  I would say as little to Thomas as possible.  The old man knows more than he is willing to admit.”

I suggested that Alex, the gardener, would probably be willing to help, and Mr. Jamieson undertook to make the arrangement.  For one night, however, Mr. Jamieson preferred to watch alone.  Apparently nothing occurred.  The detective sat in absolute darkness on the lower step of the stairs, dozing, he said afterwards, now and then.  Nothing could pass him in either direction, and the door in the morning remained as securely fastened as it had been the night before.  And yet one of the most inexplicable occurrences of the whole affair took place that very night.

Liddy came to my room on Sunday morning with a face as long as the moral law.  She laid out my things as usual, but I missed her customary garrulousness.  I was not regaled with the new cook’s extravagance as to eggs, and she even forbore to mention “that Jamieson,” on whose arrival she had looked with silent disfavor.

“What’s the matter, Liddy?” I asked at last.  “Didn’t you sleep last night?”

“No, ma’m,” she said stiffly.

“Did you have two cups of coffee at your dinner?” I inquired.

“No, ma’m,” indignantly.

I sat up and almost upset my hot water—­I always take a cup of hot water with a pinch of salt, before I get up.  It tones the stomach.

“Liddy Allen,” I said, “stop combing that switch and tell me what is wrong with you.”

Liddy heaved a sigh.

“Girl and woman,” she said, “I’ve been with you twenty-five years, Miss Rachel, through good temper and bad—­” the idea! and what I have taken from her in the way of sulks!—­“but I guess I can’t stand it any longer.  My trunk’s packed.”

“Who packed it?” I asked, expecting from her tone to be told she had wakened to find it done by some ghostly hand.

“I did; Miss Rachel, you won’t believe me when I tell you this house is haunted.  Who was it fell down the clothes chute?  Who was it scared Miss Louise almost into her grave?”

“I’m doing my best to find out,” I said.  “What in the world are you driving at?” She drew a long breath.

“There is a hole in the trunk-room wall, dug out since last night.  It’s big enough to put your head in, and the plaster’s all over the place.”