It consisted, as far as my present observation went, of seven persons, the three principals and four servants.  Of the servants I had seen three, the old butler, the nurse, and the housemaid, Ellen.  I now liked Ellen; she appeared equally alive and trustworthy; of the butler I could not say as much.  He struck me as secretive.  Also, he had begun to manifest a certain antagonism to myself.  Whence sprang this antagonism?  Did it have its source in my temperament, or in his?  A question possibly not worth answering and yet it very well might be.  Who could know?

Pondering this and other subjects, I remained in my cozy little room up-stairs, till the clock verging on to twelve told me that it was nearly time for Mrs. Packard’s return.

Hardly knowing my duties as yet, or what she might expect of me, I kept my door open, meaning to speak to her when she came in.  The thought had crossed my mind that she might not return at all, but remain away with her friends.  Some fear of this kind had been in Mr. Packard’s mind and naturally found lodgment in mine.  I was therefore much relieved when, sharp on the stroke of midnight, I heard the front door-bell ring, followed by the sound of her voice speaking to the old butler.  I thought its tone more cheerful than before she went out.  At all events, her face had a natural look when, after a few minutes’ delay, she came upstairs and stepped into the nursery—­a room on the same floor as mine, but nearer the stair-head.

From what impulse did I put out my light?  I think now, on looking back, that I hoped to catch a better glimpse of her face when she came out again, and so be in a position to judge whether her anxiety or secret distress was in any special way connected with her child.  But I forgot the child and any motive of this kind which I may have had; for when Mrs. Packard did reappear in the hall, there rang up from some place below a laugh, so loud and derisive and of so raucous and threatening a tone that Mrs. Packard reeled with the shock and I myself was surprised in spite of my pride and usual impassibility.  This, had it been all, would not be worth the comment.  But it was not all.  Mrs. Packard did not recover from the shock as I expected her to.  Her fine figure straightened itself, it is true, but only to sink again lower and lower, till she clung crouching to the stair-rail at which she had caught for support, while her eyes, turning slowly in her head, moved till they met mine with that unseeing and glassy stare which speaks of a soul-piercing terror—­not fear in any ordinary sense, but terror which lays bare the soul and allows one to see into depths which—­

But here my compassion drove me to action.  Advancing quietly, I caught at her wrap which was falling from her shoulders.  She grasped my hand as I did so.

“Did you hear that laugh?” she panted.  “Whose was it?  Who is down-stairs?”

I thought, “Is this one of the unaccountable occurrences which have given the house its blighted reputation?” but I said:  “Nixon let you in.  I don’t know whether any one else is below.  Mayor Packard has not yet come home.”