‘The army!’ I ejaculated.
‘Salvation Army,’ she explained merrily.
Frances exchanged a glance with me. I laughed too, for the information took me by surprise. I cannot say why exactly, but I expected at least to hear that the woman had met some dreadful end, not impossibly by burning.
‘And The Towers, now called the Rest House,’ Mabel chattered on, ‘seems to me the most peaceful and delightful spot in England——’
‘Really,’ I said politely.
‘When I lived there in the old days—while you were there, perhaps, though I won’t be sure,’ Mabel went on, ‘the story got abroad that it was haunted. Wasn’t it odd? A less likely place for a ghost I’ve never seen. Why, it had no atmosphere at all.’ She said this to Frances, glancing up at me with a smile that apparently had no hidden meaning. ‘Did you notice anything queer about it when you were there?’
This was plainly addressed to me.
‘I found it—er—difficult to settle down to anything,’ I said, after an instant’s hesitation. ‘I couldn’t work there——’
‘But I thought you wrote that wonderful book on the Deaf and Blind while you stayed with me,’ she asked innocently.
I stammered a little. ‘Oh no, not then. I only made a few notes—er—at The Towers. My mind, oddly enough, refused to produce at all down there. But—why do you ask? Did anything—was anything supposed to happen there?’