"Parker!" exclaimed Bob. "It doesn't seem possible. You never saw such references as he brought. There were two bishops and a prime minister. It's queer, though," he added, as he relocked the cellar door.
At the supper table, much to the Storm girl's relief, her services were not required. There were no more secrets to be learned and to-morrow she would offer to call at the club for the golf bag. No, that would look suspicious—well, she would think out a plan, she would manage it some way.
In a great chair at Horatio's side sat little An Petronia, who, at the curate's request, had been allowed to join the happy gathering. Clasped in her hand was a priceless nectarine (too marvelous for human food) and her watchful eyes were fixed on the door fearful each moment of the apparition of a beckoning grandmother and the End of Things.
And now every one was eager to hear the curate's story, all but Martin Luther, who showed not the slightest interest. It was enough for him that his dear friend was safe and sound. What more could anybody want? In recognition of his conspicuous services, Martin Luther had been awarded a special fish, which now existed only in a beautiful dream as Martin lay fast asleep in the lap of An Petronia.
The curate's story did not take long to tell. When he walked out of the dining room this morning to vanish so strangely, his only thought was to get out of doors and, snatching his hat from the antlers in the hall, he passed quickly through the open front door. Then, remembering that Martin Luther had not had any luncheon, he changed his mind and went straight to the kitchen, entering by the outside door instead of returning to the house, which accounted for Lionel's not seeing him.
As Horatio was about to enter the kitchen, he was startled by the sound of steps. He stood still with his hand on the knob and listened. Who could be in the kitchen? Every one was upstairs in the dining room, every one who had any right in the house.
He opened the door quietly. No one was there. Again he listened. There was somebody in the passage, the dark stone passage that led to the wine cellar and to the well room further on. Horatio tiptoed across the kitchen and peered through the archway. There was a faint yellow flicker in the gloom at the turn of the passage. The curate wondered what anybody could be doing in the well room. The servants never went near it. For one thing it had no window and there was something frightening about the black oblong of the well in the middle of the stone floor. It reminded Horatio of a picture by Doré in Dante's "Inferno," and, according to Parker (who claimed to have read it in a book) it was in that very well that the pious Lady Ysobel had been drowned. Once he had seen the Gray Lady sitting on the edge of the well wringing her hands and "weeping and wailing most orful." It had given him the "willys" for a week.
Keeping close to the wall, the curate crept cautiously along the passage. The well room door was almost closed. Fearful lest it should creak, he opened it slowly toward him, inch by inch. At this point in the story the curate paused to relieve his throat with a glass of water.
"Weren't you frightened, Daddy Merle?" squeaked An Petronia, thrilling with delicious terror.
"Yes, my dear," said Horatio. "When I opened that door and saw where that light came from I am compelled to admit that I was frightened."