The most commonplace incident takes on a new appearance if the

attendant circumstances are unusual. There was no reason on earth why

Mrs. Watson should not have carried a blanket down the east wing

staircase, if she so desired. But to take a blanket down at eleven

o'clock at night, with every precaution as to noise, and, when

discovered, to fling it at Halsey and bolt--Halsey's word, and a good

one--into the grounds,--this made the incident more than significant.

They moved slowly across the lawn and up the steps. Halsey was talking

quietly, and Mrs. Watson was looking down and listening. She was a

woman of a certain amount of dignity, most efficient, so far as I could

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see, although Liddy would have found fault if she dared. But just now

Mrs. Watson's face was an enigma. She was defiant, I think, under her

mask of submission, and she still showed the effect of nervous shock.

"Mrs. Watson," I said severely, "will you be so good as to explain this

rather unusual occurrence?"

"I don't think it so unusual, Miss Innes." Her voice was deep and very

clear: just now it was somewhat tremulous. "I was taking a blanket

down to Thomas, who is--not well to-night, and I used this staircase,

as being nearer the path to the lodge. When--Mr. Innes called and then

rushed at me, I--I was alarmed, and flung the blanket at him."

Halsey was examining the cut on his forehead in a small mirror on the

wall. It was not much of an injury, but it had bled freely, and his

appearance was rather terrifying.

"Thomas ill?" he said, over his shoulder. "Why, I thought I saw

Thomas out there as you made that cyclonic break out of the door and

over the porch."

I could see that under pretense of examining his injury he was watching

her through the mirror.

"Is this one of the servants' blankets, Mrs. Watson?" I asked, holding

up its luxurious folds to the light.

"Everything else is locked away," she replied. Which was true enough,

no doubt. I had rented the house without bed furnishings.

"If Thomas is ill," Halsey said, "some member of the family ought to go

down to see him. You needn't bother, Mrs. Watson. I will take the

blanket."

She drew herself up quickly, as if in protest, but she found nothing to

say. She stood smoothing the folds of her dead black dress, her face

as white as chalk above it. Then she seemed to make up her mind.

"Very well, Mr. Innes," she said. "Perhaps you would better go. I have

done all I could."

And then she turned and went up the circular staircase, moving slowly

and with a certain dignity. Below, the three of us stared at one

another across the intervening white blanket.




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