burst out laughing. Life might ignore her, but she remained acutely conscious and appreciative of the eternal comedy.
"The old darling gets better and better," she declared. "I wish you'd give me the job of dusting under her bed. She'd find me a bit too quick for her."
"So was Ceridwen. She used to bait the old girl shooting out when she wasn't expecting her. But she got her, in the end. She fetched her such a crack that her father came and took her away."
"She certainly makes—What's that?"
Helen broke off to listen. Once again the sound was repeated—an insistent tapping on a window-pane. Although she could not locate it, it seemed to be not far away.
"Is someone knocking?" she asked.
Mrs. Oates listened also.
"It must be the passage window," Mrs. Oates said. "The catch is loose. Oates did talk of mending it."
"That doesn't sound too safe," objected Helen.
"Now, miss, don't worry. The shutter's put up. No on can get in."
But, as the wind rose, the monotonous rattle and beat continued, at irregular intervals. It got on Helen's nerves, so that she could not settle down to her tea.
"It's a miserable night," she said. "If that tree was waiting for Ceridwen, I don't envy her."
"He's caught her by now," chuckled Mrs. Oates. "She won't be noticing weather no more."
"There it goes a again...Have you a screwdriver?"
Helen's eyes lit up as she spoke, for she had a mania for small mechanical jobs.
"You see, Mrs. Oates, this sound will irritate you," she explained. "And then you'll spoil the dinner. And then we shall have indigestion. I'll see if I can't put it right."
"What a one you are to look for work," grumbled Mrs. Oates, as she followed Helen through the scullery.
The smallish window was at the end of the passage, close to the scullery door. As Helen unbarred the shutter, a gust of wind struck it, like a blow, and dashed drops of rain against the streaming glass.
Together, the big woman and the small girl, stood, peering out into the garden. They could see only a black huddle of shrubs and a gleam of thrashing boughs.
"Doesn't it look creepy?" said Helen. "I wonder if I can fix this catch. Have you any small nails?"
"I'll see if I can find some. Oates is a terror for nails."
Mrs. Oates lumbered through the scullery, leaving Helen alone staring out into the wet garden. There were no bushes, on this side, to give the impression of a crawling greyness creeping towards the house; the night seemed to have become solid and definite—clear-cut chunks of threatening blackness.
It inspired a spirit of defiance in Helen.
"Come on—if you dare," she cried aloud.
The answer to her challenge was immediate—a piercing scream from the kitchen.
Helen's heart leaped at the thin terror-stricken wail. There was only room for one thought in her mind. The maniac was lurking in hiding, and she had sent the poor unsuspecting Mrs. Oates into his trap.
"He's got her," she thought, as she caught up the bar and dashed into the kitchen.
Mrs. Oates greeted her with another scream, but there was no sign of the source of her terror, although she was on the verge of hysteria.
"A mouse," she yelled. "It went over there."
Helen stared at her in blank incredulity.
"You can't be frightened of a little mouse. It isn't done. Old stuff, you know."
"But they make me crawl all over," whimpered Mrs. Oates.
"In that case, I suppose murder will have to be committed. A pity. Here, Ginger, Ginger."
Helen called, in vain, to the cat, who continued to wash with an affectation of complete detachment. Mrs. Oates apologised for him. "He's a civil cat, but he can't abide mice. Oates would swat it."
"If that's a hint, I'm not going to swat it. But I'll frighten it away."
With her sensitised reaction to any situation, she was conscious of anti-climax, when she went down on her knees and began to beat the floor with her bar. Just whenever the drama seemed to be working up to a moment of tension, the crisis always eluded her and degenerated into farce.
Not until the night was over could she trace the repercussions of each trivial incident and realise that the wave of fear which flooded the house, washed back to an insignificant source.
She could see her quarry—a small and rather attractive rodent—frisking in the distance, with the assurance of an old resident.
"Where's its hole?" she whispered.
"In that corner," panted Mrs. Oates. "Oates did say as how he'd stop it up."
Helen was driving the mouse homewards when she started at the sound of footsteps on the back-stairs.
"Who's that?" she cried.
"Not him," laughed Mrs. Oates. "When he comes you'll not hear him on the way. He'll creep. That sounds like Mr. Rice."
As she spoke the door was pushed open, and Stephen Rice, carrying a suitcase, entered the kitchen. He stared at the sight of the demure Miss Capel on her knees, with her hair falling in a mane across her eyes.
"What's this?" he asked. "Red Indians, or a crawling party? Count me in."
"I'm chasing a mouse," explained Helen.
"Great sport. I'll help."
"No, I don't want to catch it." Helen rose and placed the bar on the table. "I think he's gone now."
Stephen sat down and looked around him.
"I always feel at home, here," he said. "It's the one room I like in this horrible house. Mrs. Oates and I hold our prayer-meetings here."
"Where's your dog?" asked Helen.
"In my room. Miss Warren did not come to tea, unfortunately. So the row's postponed."
"Why d' you have one at all?" asked Helen. "You're leaving tomorrow. I expect Miss Warren would prefer not to know."
"No." Stephen stuck out his prominent chin. "I'd rather come out in the open. Noble of me, when I know the heroic Newton will enlighten her darkness in any case."
"He wouldn't tell?" cried Helen incredulously.
"Wouldn't he? To be frank, Otto was not a blazing success. The poor lad is not used to afternoon tea. Like his master, he's happier in the kitchen."
"But Mrs. Newton must have fallen for him," insisted Helen, who argued along the familiar lines or "love me, love my dog."
