2.
Jill possessed in an unusual degree that instinct for exploration
which is implanted in most of us. She was frankly inquisitive, and
could never be two minutes in a strange room without making a tour of
it and examining its books, pictures, and photographs. Almost at once
she began to prowl.
The mantelpiece was her first objective. She always made for other
people's mantelpieces, for there, more than anywhere else, is the
character of a proprietor revealed. This mantelpiece was sprinkled
with photographs, large, small, framed and unframed. In the center of
it, standing all alone and looking curiously out of place among its
large neighbors, was a little snapshot.
It was dark by the mantelpiece. Jill took the photograph, to the
window, where the fading light could fall on it. Why, she could not
have said, but the thing interested her. There was mystery about it.
It seemed in itself so insignificant to have the place of honor.
The snapshot had evidently been taken by an amateur, but it was one
of those lucky successes which happen at rare intervals to amateur
photographers to encourage them to proceed with their hobby. It
showed a small girl in a white dress cut short above slim, black
legs, standing in the porch of an old house, one hand swinging a
sunbonnet, the other patting an Irish terrier which had planted its
front paws against her waist and was looking up into her face with
that grave melancholy characteristic of Irish terriers. The sunlight
was evidently strong, for the child's face was puckered in a twisted
though engaging grin. Jill's first thought was "What a jolly kid!"
And then, with a leaping of the heart that seemed to send something
big and choking into her throat, she saw that it was a photograph of
herself.
With a swooping hound memory raced hack over the years. She could
feel the hot sun on her face, hear the anxious voice of Freddie
Rooke--then fourteen and for the first time the owner of a
camera--imploring her to stand just like that because he wouldn't be
half a minute only some rotten thing had stuck or something. Then the
sharp click, the doubtful assurance of Freddie that he thought it was
all right if he hadn't forgotten to shift the film (in which case she
might expect to appear in combination with a cow which he had snapped
on his way to the house), and the relieved disappearance of Pat, the
terrier, who didn't understand photography. How many years ago had
that been? She could not remember. But Freddie had grown to
long-legged manhood, she to an age of discretion and full-length
frocks, Pat had died, the old house was inhabited by strangers . . .
and here was the silent record of that sun-lit afternoon, three
thousand miles away from the English garden in which it had come into
existence.
The shadows deepened. The top of the great building swayed gently,
causing the pendulum of the grandfather-clock to knock against the
sides of its wooden case. Jill started. The noise, coming after the
dead silence, frightened her till she realized what it was. She had a
nervous feeling of not being alone. It was as if the shadows held
goblins that peered out at the intruder. She darted to the
mantelpiece and replaced the photograph. She felt like some heroine
of a fairy-story meddling with the contents of the giant's castle.
Soon there would come the sound of a great footstep, thud--thud . . .
_Thud._
Jill's heart gave another leap. She was perfectly sure she had heard
a sound. It had been just like the banging of a door. She braced
herself, listening, every muscle tense. And then, cleaving the
stillness, came a voice from down the passage--
"Just see them Pullman porters,
Dolled up with scented waters
Bought with their dimes and quarters!
See, here they come! Here they come!"
For an instant Jill could not have said whether she was relieved or
more frightened than ever. True, that numbing sense of the uncanny
had ceased to grip her, for Reason told her that spectres do not sing
rag-time songs. On the other hand, owners of apartments do, and she
would almost as readily have faced a spectre as the owner of this
apartment. Dizzily, she wandered how in the world she was to explain
her presence. Suppose he turned out to be some awful, choleric person
who would listen to no explanations.
"Oh, see those starched-up collars!
Hark how their captain hollers
'Keep time! Keep time!'
It's worth a thousand dollars
To see those tip-collectors . . ."
Very near now. Almost at the door.
"Those upper-berth inspectors,
Those Pullman porters on parade!"
A dim, shapeless figure in the black of the doorway, scrabbling of
fingers on the wall.
"Where are you, dammit?" said the voice, apparently addressing the
electric-light switch.
Jill shrank back, desperate fingers pressing deep into the back of an
arm-chair. Light flashed from the wall at her side. And there, in the
doorway, stood Wally Mason in his shirt-sleeves.
