“It’s after midnight,” she gasped, “and I don’t believe they’ll come again to-night.  Do you, David?”

“No, I don’t,” said David conclusively.

“Oh, David, we mustn’t stay another night in this awful house.”

“We won’t.  To-morrow we’ll pack off bag and baggage to Townsend Centre, if it takes all the fire department to move us,” said David.

Adrianna smiled in the midst of her terror.  She thought of Abel
Lyons.

The next day Mr. Townsend went to the real estate agent who had sold him the house.

“It’s no use,” he said, “I can’t stand it.  Sell the house for what you can get.  I’ll give it away rather than keep it.”

Then he added a few strong words as to his opinion of parties who sold him such an establishment.  But the agent pleaded innocent for the most part.

“I’ll own I suspected something wrong when the owner, who pledged me to secrecy as to his name, told me to sell that place for what I could get, and did not limit me.  I had never heard anything, but I began to suspect something was wrong.  Then I made a few inquiries and found out that there was a rumour in the neighbourhood that there was something out of the usual about that vacant lot.  I had wondered myself why it wasn’t built upon.  There was a story about it’s being undertaken once, and the contract made, and the contractor dying; then another man took it and one of the workmen was killed on his way to dig the cellar, and the others struck.  I didn’t pay much attention to it.  I never believed much in that sort of thing anyhow, and then, too, I couldn’t find out that there had ever been anything wrong about the house itself, except as the people who had lived there were said to have seen and heard queer things in the vacant lot, so I thought you might be able to get along, especially as you didn’t look like a man who was timid, and the house was such a bargain as I never handled before.  But this you tell me is beyond belief.”

“Do you know the names of the people who formerly owned the vacant lot?” asked Mr. Townsend.

“I don’t know for certain,” replied the agent, “for the original owners flourished long before your or my day, but I do know that the lot goes by the name of the old Gaston lot.  What’s the matter?  Are you ill?”

“No; it is nothing,” replied Mr. Townsend.  “Get what you can for the house; perhaps another family might not be as troubled as we have been.”

“I hope you are not going to leave the city?” said the agent, urbanely.

“I am going back to Townsend Centre as fast as steam can carry me after we get packed up and out of that cursed house,” replied Mr. David Townsend.

He did not tell the agent nor any of his family what had caused him to start when told the name of the former owners of the lot.  He remembered all at once the story of a ghastly murder which had taken place in the Blue Leopard.  The victim’s name was Gaston and the murderer had never been discovered.