“Some out about it!” growled the new man over the counter.

However, as his fellow townsmen and allies stated, there seemed to be no doubt about the desirableness of the city house which David Townsend had purchased and the fact that he had secured it for an absurdly low price.  The whole family were at first suspicious.  It was ascertained that the house had cost a round sum only a few years ago; it was in perfect repair; nothing whatever was amiss with plumbing, furnace, anything.  There was not even a soap factory within smelling distance, as Mrs. Townsend had vaguely surmised.  She was sure that she had heard of houses being undesirable for such reasons, but there was no soap factory.  They all sniffed and peeked; when the first rainfall came they looked at the ceiling, confidently expecting to see dark spots where the leaks had commenced, but there were none.  They were forced to confess that their suspicions were allayed, that the house was perfect, even overshadowed with the mystery of a lower price than it was worth.  That, however, was an additional perfection in the opinion of the Townsends, who had their share of New England thrift.  They had lived just one month in their new house, and were happy, although at times somewhat lonely from missing the society of Townsend Centre, when the trouble began.  The Townsends, although they lived in a fine house in a genteel, almost fashionable, part of the city, were true to their antecedents and kept, as they had been accustomed, only one maid.  She was the daughter of a farmer on the outskirts of their native village, was middle-aged, and had lived with them for the last ten years.  One pleasant Monday morning she rose early and did the family washing before breakfast, which had been prepared by Mrs. Townsend and Adrianna, as was their habit on washing-days.  The family were seated at the breakfast table in their basement dining-room, and this maid, whose name was Cordelia, was hanging out the clothes in the vacant lot.  This vacant lot seemed a valuable one, being on a corner.  It was rather singular that it had not been built upon.  The Townsends had wondered at it and agreed that they would have preferred their own house to be there.  They had, however, utilized it as far as possible with their innocent, rural disregard of property rights in unoccupied land.

“We might just as well hang out our washing in that vacant lot,” Mrs. Townsend had told Cordelia the first Monday of their stay in the house.  “Our little yard ain’t half big enough for all our clothes, and it is sunnier there, too.”

So Cordelia had hung out the wash there for four Mondays, and this was the fifth.  The breakfast was about half finished—­they had reached the buckwheat cakes—­when this maid came rushing into the dining-room and stood regarding them, speechless, with a countenance indicative of the utmost horror.  She was deadly pale.  Her hands, sodden with soapsuds, hung twitching at her sides in the folds of her calico gown; her very hair, which was light and sparse, seemed to bristle with fear.  All the Townsends turned and looked at her.  David and George rose with a half-defined idea of burglars.