the reed house is on beauregard square. it is a small, exclusive community, the beauregard neighborhood; a dozen or more solid citizens built their homes there in the early 70’s, occupying large lots, the houses flush with the streets and with gardens behind. six on one street, six on another, back to back with the gardens in the center, they occupied the whole block. and the gardens were not fenced off, but made a sort of small park unsuspected from the streets. here and there bits of flowering shrubbery sketchily outlined a property, but the general impression was of lawn and trees, free of access to all the owners. thus with the square in front and the gardens in the rear, the reed house faced in two directions on the early spring green.
in the gardens the old tar walks were still there, and a fountain which no longer played, but on whose stone coping i believe the young beauregard squarites made their first climbing ventures.
the gardens were always alive with birds, and later on from my windows i learned the reason. it seems to have been a custom sanctified by years, that the crumbs from the twelve tables should be thrown into the dry basin of the fountain for the birds. it was a common sight to see stately butlers and chic little waitresses in black and white coming out after luncheon or dinner with silver trays of crumbs. many a scrap of gossip, as well 13 as scrap of food, has been passed along at the old stone fountain, i believe. i know that it was there that i heard of the “basement ghost” of beauregard square—a whisper at first, a panic later.
i arrived at eight o’clock and rang the doorbell twice. the door was opened at once by mr. reed, a tall, blond young man carefully dressed. he threw away his cigarette when he saw me and shook hands. the hall was brightly lighted and most cheerful; in fact the whole house was ablaze with light. certainly nothing could be less mysterious than the house, or than the debonair young man who motioned me into the library.
“i told mrs. reed i would talk to you before you go upstairs,” he said. “will you sit down?”
i sat down. the library was even brighter than the hall, and now i saw that although he smiled as cheerfully as ever his face was almost colorless, and his eyes, which looked frankly enough into mine for a moment, went wandering off round the room. i had the impression somehow that mr. patton had had of the nurse at headquarters that morning—that he looked as if he expected a knife in his back. it seemed to me that he wanted to look over his shoulder and by sheer will-power did not.
“you know the rule, miss adams,” he said: “when there’s an emergency get a trained nurse. i told you our emergency—no servants and two small children.”
“this should be a good time to secure servants,” i said briskly. “city houses are being deserted for country places, and a percentage of servants won’t leave town.”
he hesitated.
“we’ve been doing very nicely, although of course it’s 14 hardly more than just living. our meals are sent in from a hotel, and—well, we thought, since we are going away so soon, that perhaps we could manage.”
the impulse was too strong for him at that moment. he wheeled and looked behind him, not a hasty glance, but a deliberate inspection that took in every part of that end of the room. it was so unexpected that it left me gasping.
the next moment he was himself again.
“when i say that there is no illness,” he said, “i am hardly exact. there is no illness, but there has been an epidemic of children’s diseases among the beauregard square children and we are keeping the youngsters indoors.”
“don’t you think they could be safeguarded without being shut up in the house?”
he responded eagerly
“if i only thought——” he checked himself. “no,” he said decidedly; “for a time at least i believe it is not wise.”
i did not argue with him. there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing him. and as mrs. reed came in just then, the subject was dropped. she was hardly more than a girl, almost as blond as her husband, very pretty, and with the weariest eyes i have ever seen, unless perhaps the eyes of a man who has waited a long time for deathly tuberculosis.
i liked her at once. she did not attempt to smile. she rather clung to my hand when i held it out.
“i am glad st. luke’s still trusts us,” she said. “i was afraid the other nurse—— frank, will you take miss adams’ suitcase upstairs?”
15
she held out a key. he took it, but he turned at the door:
“i wish you wouldn’t wear those things, anne. you gave me your promise yesterday, you remember.”
“i can’t work round the children in anything else,” she protested.
“those things” were charming. she wore a rose silk negligee trimmed with soft bands of lace and blue satin flowers, a petticoat to match that garment, and a lace cap.
he hesitated in the doorway and looked at her—a curious glance, i thought, full of tenderness, reproof—apprehension perhaps.
“i’ll take it off, dear,” she replied to the glance. “i wanted miss adams to know that, even if we haven’t a servant in the house, we are at least civilized. i—i haven’t taken cold.” this last was clearly an afterthought.
he went out then and left us together. she came over to me swiftly.
“what did the other nurse say?” she demanded.
“i do not know her at all. i have not seen her.”
“didn’t she report at the hospital that we were—queer?”
i smiled.
“that’s hardly likely, is it?”
unexpectedly she went to the door opening into the hall and closed it, coming back swiftly.
“mr. reed thinks it is not necessary, but—there are some things that will puzzle you. perhaps i should have spoken to the other nurse. if—if anything strikes you as unusual, miss adams, just please don’t see it! it is all right, everything is all right. but something has 16 occurred—not very much, but disturbing—and we are all of us doing the very best we can.”
she was quivering with nervousness.
i was not the police agent then, i’m afraid.
“nurses are accustomed to disturbing things. perhaps i can help.”
“you can, by watching the children. that’s the only thing that matters to me—the children. i don’t want them left alone. if you have to leave them call me.”
“don’t you think i will be able to watch them more intelligently if i know just what the danger is?”
i think she very nearly told me. she was so tired, evidently so anxious to shift her burden to fresh shoulders.
“mr. reed said,” i prompted her, “that there was an epidemic of children’s diseases. but from what you say——”
but i was not to learn, after all, for her husband opened the hall door.
“yes, children’s diseases,” she said vaguely. “so many children are down. shall we go up, frank?”
the extraordinary bareness of the house had been dawning on me for some time. it was well lighted and well furnished. but the floors were innocent of rugs, the handsome furniture was without arrangement and, in the library at least, stood huddled in the center of the room. the hall and stairs were also uncarpeted, but there were marks where carpets had recently lain and had been jerked up.
the progress up the staircase was not calculated to soothe my nerves. the thought of my little revolver, locked in my suitcase, was poor comfort. for with every 17 four steps or so mr. reed, who led the way, turned automatically and peered into the hallway below; he was listening, too, his head bent slightly forward. and each time that he turned, his wife behind me turned also. cold terror suddenly got me by the spine, and yet the hall was bright with light.
(note: surely fear is a contagion. could one isolate the germ of it and find an antitoxin? or is it merely a form of nervous activity run amuck, like a runaway locomotive, colliding with other nervous activities and causing catastrophe? take this up with mr. patton. but would he know? he, i am almost sure, has never been really afraid.)
i had a vision of my oxlike predecessor making this head-over-shoulder journey up the staircase, and in spite of my nervousness i smiled. but at that moment mrs. reed behind me put a hand on my arm, and i screamed. i remember yet the way she dropped back against the wall and turned white.
mr. reed whirled on me instantly.
“what did you see?” he demanded.
“nothing at all.” i was horribly ashamed. “your wife touched my arm unexpectedly. i dare say i am nervous.”
“it’s all right, anne,” he reassured her. and to me, almost irritably:
“i thought you nurses had no nerves.”
“under ordinary circumstances i have none.”
it was all ridiculous. we were still on the staircase.
“just what do you mean by that?”
“if you will stop looking down into that hall i’ll be calm enough. you make me jumpy.”
18
he muttered something about being sorry and went on quickly. but at the top he went through an inward struggle, evidently succumbed, and took a final furtive survey of the hallway below. i was so wrought up that had a door slammed anywhere just then i think i should have dropped where i stood.
the absolute silence of the house added to the strangeness of the situation. beauregard square is not close to a trolley line, and quiet is the neighborhood tradition. the first rubber-tired vehicles in the city drew up before beauregard square houses. beauregard square children speak in low voices and never bang their spoons on their plates. beauregard square servants wear felt-soled shoes. and such outside noises as venture to intrude themselves must filter through double brick walls and doors built when lumber was selling by the thousand acres instead of the square foot.
through this silence our feet echoed along the bare floor of the upper hall, as well lighted as belowstairs and as dismantled, to the door of the day nursery. the door was locked—double locked, in fact. for the key had been turned in the old-fashioned lock, and in addition an ordinary bolt had been newly fastened on the outside of the door. on the outside! was that to keep me in? it was certainly not to keep any one or anything out. the feeblest touch moved the bolt.
we were all three outside the door. we seemed to keep our compactness by common consent. no one of us left the group willingly; or, leaving it, we slid back again quickly. that was my impression, at least. but the bolt rather alarmed me.
“this is your room,” mrs. reed said. “it is generally 19 the day nursery, but we have put a bed and some other things in it. i hope you will be comfortable.”
i touched the bolt with my finger and smiled into mr. reed’s eyes.
“i hope i am not to be fastened in!” i said.
he looked back squarely enough, but somehow i knew he lied.
“certainly not,” he replied, and opened the door.
if there had been mystery outside, and bareness, the nursery was charming—a corner room with many windows, hung with the simplest of nursery papers and full of glass-doored closets filled with orderly rows of toys. in one corner a small single bed had been added without spoiling the room. the window-sills were full of flowering plants. there was a bowl of goldfish on a stand, and a tiny dwarf parrot in a cage was covered against the night air by a bright afghan. a white-tiled bathroom connected with this room and also with the night nursery beyond.
mr. reed did not come in, i had an uneasy feeling, however, that he was just beyond the door. the children were not asleep. mrs. reed left me to let me put on my uniform. when she came back her face was troubled.
“they are not sleeping well,” she complained. “i suppose it comes from having no exercise. they are always excited.”
“i’ll take their temperatures,” i said. “sometimes a tepid bath and a cup of hot milk will make them sleep.”
the two little boys were wide awake. they sat up to look at me and both spoke at once.
“can you tell fairy tales out of your head?”
“did you see chang?”
20
they were small, sleek-headed, fair-skinned youngsters, adorably clean and rumpled.
“chang is their dog, a pekingese,” explained the mother. “he has been lost for several days.”
“but he isn’t lost, mother. i can hear him crying every now and then. you’ll look again, mother, won’t you?”
“we heard him through the furnace pipe,” shrilled the smaller of the two. “you said you would look.”
“i did look, darlings. he isn’t there. and you promised not to cry about him, freddie.”
freddie, thus put on his honor, protested he was not crying for the dog.
“i want to go out and take a walk, that’s why i’m crying,” he wailed. “and i want mademoiselle, and my buttons are all off. and my ear aches when i lie on it.”
the room was close. i threw up the windows, and turned to find mrs. reed at my elbows. she was glancing out apprehensively.
“i suppose the air is necessary,” she said, “and these windows are all right. but—i have a reason for asking it—please do not open the others.”
she went very soon, and i listened as she went out. i had promised to lock the door behind her, and i did so. the bolt outside was not shot.
after i had quieted the children with my mildest fairy story i made a quiet inventory of my new quarters. the rough diagram of the second floor is the one i gave mr. patton later. that night, of course, i investigated only the two nurseries. but, so strangely had the fear that hung over the house infected me, i confess that i made 21 my little tour of bathroom and clothes-closet with my revolver in my hand!
i found nothing, of course. the disorder of the house had not extended itself here. the bathroom was spotless with white tile, the large clothes-closet which opened off the passage between the two rooms was full of neatly folded clothing for the children. the closet was to play its part later, a darkish little room faintly lighted by a ground glass transom opening into the center hall, but dependent mostly on electric light.
outside the windows mrs. reed had asked me not to open was a porte-cochère roof almost level with the sills. then was it an outside intruder she feared? and in that case, why the bolts on the outside of the two nursery doors? for the night nursery, i found, must have one also. i turned the key, but the door would not open.
i decided not to try to sleep that night, but to keep on watch. so powerfully had the mother’s anxiety about her children and their mysterious danger impressed me that i made frequent excursions into the back room. up to midnight there was nothing whatever to alarm me. i darkened both rooms and sat, waiting for i know not what; for some sound to show that the house stirred, perhaps. at a few minutes after twelve faint noises penetrated to my room from the hall, mr. reed’s nervous voice and a piece of furniture scraping over the floor. then silence again for half an hour or so.
then—i was quite certain that the bolt on my door had been shot. i did not hear it, i think. perhaps i felt it. perhaps i only feared it. i unlocked the door; it was fastened outside.
there is a hideous feeling of helplessness about being 22 locked in. i pretended to myself at first that i was only interested and curious. but i was frightened; i know that now. i sat there in the dark and wondered what i would do if the house took fire, or if some hideous tragedy enacted itself outside that locked door and i were helpless.
by two o’clock i had worked myself into a panic. the house was no longer silent. some one was moving about downstairs, and not stealthily. the sounds came up through the heavy joists and flooring of the old house.
i determined to make at least a struggle to free myself. there was no way to get at the bolts, of course. the porte-cochère roof remained and the transom in the clothes-closet. true, i might have raised an alarm and been freed at once, but naturally i rejected this method. the roof of the porte-cochère proved impracticable. the tin bent and cracked under my first step. the transom then.
i carried a chair into the closet and found the transom easy to lower. but it threatened to creak. i put liquid soap on the hinges—it was all i had, and it worked very well—and lowered the transom inch by inch. even then i could not see over it. i had worked so far without a sound, but in climbing to a shelf my foot slipped and i thought i heard a sharp movement outside. it was five minutes before i stirred. i hung there, every muscle cramped, listening and waiting. then i lifted myself by sheer force of muscle and looked out. the upper landing of the staircase, brilliantly lighted, was to my right. across the head of the stairs had been pushed a cotbed, made up for the night, but it was unoccupied.
23
mrs. reed, in a long, dark ulster, was standing beside it, staring with fixed and glassy eyes at something in the lower hall.
