There was, however, one incident that I found unpleasant

in the retrospect. I had been guilty of most

unchivalrous conduct toward one of the girls of St.

Agatha's. It had certainly been unbecoming in me to

sit on the wall, however unwillingly, and listen to the

words-few though they were-that passed between her

and the chaplain. I forgot the shot through the window;

I forgot Bates and the interest my room possessed for

him and his unknown accomplice; but the sudden distrust

and contempt I had awakened in the girl by my

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clownish behavior annoyed me increasingly.

I rose presently, found my cap in a closet under the

stairs, and went out into the moon-flooded wood toward

the lake. The tangle was not so great when you knew

the way, and there was indeed, as I had found, the faint

suggestion of a path. The moon glorified a broad highway

across the water; the air was sharp and still. The

houses in the summer colony were vaguely defined, but

the sight of them gave me no cheer. The tilt of her

tam-o'-shanter as she paddled away into the sunset had

conveyed an impression of spirit and dignity that I could

not adjust to any imaginable expiation.

These reflections carried me to the borders of St.

Agatha's, and I followed the wall to the gate, climbed

up, and sat down in the shadow of the pillar farthest

from the lake. Lights shone scatteringly in the buildings

of St. Agatha's, but the place was wholly silent.

I drew out a cigarette and was about to light it when

I heard a sound as of a tread on stone. There was, I

knew, no stone pavement at hand, but peering toward

the lake I saw a man walking boldly along the top of the

wall toward me. The moonlight threw his figure into

clear relief. Several times he paused, bent down and

rapped upon the wall with an object he carried in his

hand.

Only a few hours before I had heard a similar sound

rising from the wainscoting of my own room in Glenarm

House. Evidently the stone wall, too, was under

suspicion!

Tap, tap, tap! The man with the hammer was examining

the farther side of the gate, and very likely he

would carry his investigations beyond it. I drew up my

legs and crouched in the shadow of the pillar, revolver

in hand. I was not anxious for an encounter; I much

preferred to wait for a disclosure of the purpose that lay

behind this mysterious tapping upon walls on my grandfather's

estate.

But the matter was taken out of my own hands before

I had a chance to debate it. The man dropped to the

ground, sounded the stone base under the gate, likewise

the pillars, evidently without results, struck a spiteful

crack upon the iron bars, then stood up abruptly and

looked me straight in the eyes. It was Morgan, the

caretaker of the summer colony.




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