Pegler flushed uncomfortably.  “I was that scared,” she murmured, “that I felt I must tell somebody, and if you tell one, as I did, you tell all.  I’m sorry I did it, ma’am, for I’m afraid I’ve inconvenienced you.”

“It can’t be helped,” said Miss Farrow good-naturedly.  “I know you wouldn’t have done it if you could have helped it, Pegler.  But of course in a way it’s unlucky.”

“I’ve pointed out to them all that there never is but one room haunted in a house as a rule,” said the maid eagerly, “and I think they all quite sees that, ma’am.  Besides, they’re very pleased with Mr. Varick.  You know what he did to-day, ma’am?”

“No,” said Miss Farrow, looking up and smiling, “what did he do?”

“He called them all together, without distinction of class, so to speak, ma’am, and he told them that if he was pleased with the way in which his Christmas party went off, he’d give them each a five-pound note at the end of the month.  It made them forget the haunted room, I can tell you, ma’am!” She added grudgingly, “He is a kind gentleman, and no mistake.”

“Indeed he is!  I’m glad that you see that now, Pegler.”  Miss Farrow spoke with a touch of meaning in her voice.  “I did a very good turn for myself when I got him out of that queer scrape years ago.”

“Why yes, ma’am, I suppose you did.”  But Pegler’s tone was not as hearty as that of her lady.

There was a pause.  “Then what have you settled to do about to-night?”

“If you don’t mind, ma’am—­I’m arranging to sleep in what they call the second maid’s room.  There is a bell through, ma’am, but you’ll have to go into the next room to ring it, for you know, ma’am, that it’s the next room that ought to have been your room by rights.”

“I wish now that I’d taken it and put you in here,” said Miss Farrow ruefully.

“They’re going to keep up a good fire there.  So when you go in you won’t get a chill.”

“That does seem luxurious,” said Miss Farrow, smiling.  She loved luxury, and it was pleasant to think that there should be a fire kept up in an empty room just so that she shouldn’t feel a chill when she went in for a moment to ring for her maid!

“By the way, I hope there’s a fireplace in your room, Pegler”—­the words were uttered solicitously.

“No, there isn’t, ma’am.  But I don’t mind that.  I don’t much care about a fire.”

“There’s no accounting for taste!”

Miss Farrow took up her book again, and Pegler, as was her way, slid noiselessly from the room—­not through the door leading into the haunted chamber, but out on to the beautiful panelled landing, now gay with bowls of hothouse flowers which had come down from London that morning by passenger train, and been brought by car all the way from Newmarket.

CHAPTER II

The book Miss Farrow held in her hand was an amusing book, the latest volume of some rather lively French memoirs, but she put it down after a very few moments, and, leaning forward, held out her hands to the fire.  They were not pretty hands:  though small and well-shaped, there was something just a little claw-like about them; but they were very white, and her almond-shaped nails, admirably manicured, gleamed in the soft red light.