From the Valley of the Missing | Page 8

and that a somber gloom had settled down over the cemetery that lay just beyond the windows.
Ann Shellington, a delicate little creature of eight, looked up nervously. "Everett, draw down the curtain," she said. "It looks so ghostly out there!"
Ann made a motion toward the window; but the boy did not obey her.
"Isn't that just like a girl, Horace?" he asked. "I'm not afraid of ghosts. Dead people can't walk, can they, Horace?"
The other boy answered "No" thoughtfully, as he started a miniature train across the length of the room.
"Then who is it that walks in the night out there?" insisted the girl. "Lots of town people have seen it. It's a woman with shaggy hair, and sometimes her eyes turn green."
"Pouf!" scoffed Everett. "My father says there aren't any such things as ghosts. I wouldn't be a fraidy cat, Ann."
"I'm not a fraidy cat," pouted the girl. "I always go upstairs alone, don't I, Horace?"
Another answer in the affirmative, and Horace proceeded to roll the train back over the carpet.
"If you had any mother," said Everett, "she'd tell you there weren't any ghosts. My mother tells me that."
"I haven't any mother," sighed the little girl, listlessly folding her hands in her lap.
"Nor any father, either," supplemented Horace, with seemingly no thought of the magnitude of his statement. "I don't believe in ghosts, anyhow!"
He glanced up as he spoke, and the train fell with a bang to the floor. Everett Brimbecomb dropped the toy he held in his hand, and Ann bounded from her chair. A white face with wide eyes, staring through scraggly gray hair, appeared at the window. For only an instant it pressed against the pane, then vanished as if it had never been.
"It was a woman," gasped Horace, "or was it a--"
"It wasn't a ghost," interrupted Everett stoutly. "I dare follow it out there. Look at me!"
He straightened his shoulders, threw up his dark head, and opened the door leading to the narrow walk at the side of the house. In another moment the watching boy and girl at the window saw him dart into the hedge and a minute later emerge through it, picking his way among the ancient graves. Suddenly from behind a tall monument stole a figure, and as it approached the solemn eyes of the apparition smiled in dull wonder on Everett Brimbecomb.
Scraggy held out her hands. "Don't run away, little 'un," she whispered. "There be bats flyin' about in my head; but my cat won't hurt ye."
She passed one arm about the snarling creature perched on her shoulder; but the cat with a hiss only raised himself higher.
"Don't spit at the pretty boy, Kitty--pretty pussy, black pussy!" wheedled the woman. "He won't hurt ye, childy. Come nearer, will ye? This be a good cat."
"Are you a ghost?" demanded Everett, edging into the light.
"Nope, I ain't no ghost. I love ye, pretty boy. Ye won't tell no one that I speak to ye, will ye? I ain't doin' no hurt."
"What do you carry that cat for, and what's your name?" demanded Everett insolently; for the proud young eyes had noticed the disheveled figure. "If any one of our men see you about here, they'll shoot you. I'd shoot you and your cat, too, if I had my father's gun!"
Scraggy smiled wanly. "Screech Owl's my name," said she. "They call me that 'cause I'm batty. But ye wouldn't hurt me, little 'un, 'cause I love ye. How old be ye?"
"Six years old; but it isn't any of your business. Crazy people ought to be locked up. You'd better go away from here. My father owns that house, and--don't you follow me through the hedge. Get back, I say! If I call Malcolm--"
Everett drew back through the box-hedge, and the boy and the girl at the window saw the woman squeeze in after him. In another moment the young heir to the Brimbecomb fortune bounded through the doorway. His face was white; his eyes were filled with fear.
"Did you see that old woman?" he gasped. "She tried to kiss me, and I punched her in the face, and her cat did this to my arm."
He pulled up his sleeve, and displayed a long scratch from wrist to elbow.
"Are you sure it wasn't a ghost, Everett?" asked Ann, shivering.
"Of course, it wasn't," boasted Everett. "It was only a horrid woman with a cat--that's all."
As he closed the door vehemently, there drifted to the children from the marble monument and waving trees the faint wail of a night-owl.
CHAPTER FOUR
On a fashionable street in Syracuse, Floyd Vandecar, district attorney of the city, lived in a new house, built to please the delicate fancies of his pretty wife. His career had been comet-like. Graduated from Cornell University and starting in law with his father, he had succeeded to