“Do what?” and in his hastily donned bath robe, old Mr. Bruce appeared.
“Why,” and Vernie was calm now, “there’s that old candlestick, the one the—the murderer used—on my dresser! Last night I had a little china one!”
“What are you talking about—a murderer! Wake up, child!”
“I’m not asleep. But I see, now. You had this old one, Uncle Gif, and, you know you said you were going to fool us if you could, and so you sneaked it in here to pretend the haunt did it!”
“What! What nonsense! I did nothing of the sort!”
“Who did, then? You know you had this one last night.”
“I certainly did. Wonder what’s in my room now.”
Mr. Bruce ran back to his room and returned with the little china candlestick Vernie had carried to her room the night before. They had certainly been exchanged during the night.
Everybody stared at the two candles, so worthless in themselves, but so inexplicably transferred, if, as he declared, Gifford Bruce had not exchanged them.
“Of course I didn’t do it,” he repeated, angrily. “I did say, in fun, that I meant to trick you, but when I saw how nervous and wrought up all you women were last night, I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing! Why, Vernie, I think too much of you, dear, to add to your fear or discomfort in any way.”