“Step—put; step—put; step—put.”
Then she was out of the range of Helen’s vision again. But she turned and came back—her silken skirts rustling, her crutch tapping in perfect time.
This was no ghost. Although slender—ethereal—almost bird-like in her motions—the little old lady was very human indeed. She had a pink flush in her cheeks, and her skin was as soft as velvet. Of course there were wrinkles; but they were beautiful wrinkles, Helen thought.
She wore black half-mitts of lace, and her old-fashioned gown was of delightfully soft, yet rich silk. The silk was brown—not many old ladies could have worn that shade of brown and found it becoming. Her eyes were bright—the unseen girl saw them sparkle as she turned her head, in that bird-like manner, from side to side.
She was a dear, doll-like old lady! Helen longed to hurry down the remaining steps and take her in her arms.
But, instead, she crept softly back to the head of the stairs, and slipped into her own room again. This was the mystery of the Starkweather mansion. The nightly exercise of this mysterious old lady was the foundation for the “ghost-walk.” The maids of the household feared the supernatural; therefore they easily found a legend to explain the rustling step of the old lady with the crutch.
And all day long the old lady kept to her room. That room must be in the front of the house on this upper floor—shut away, it was likely, from the knowledge of most of the servants.
Mrs. Olstrom, of course, knew about the old lady—who she was—what she was. It was the housekeeper who looked after the simple wants of the mysterious occupant of the Starkweather mansion.
Helen wondered if Mr. Lawdor, the old butler, knew about the mystery? And did the Starkweathers themselves know?
The girl from the ranch was too excited and curious to go to sleep now. She had to remain right by her door, opened on a crack, and learn what would happen next.