“Ah, I thought so! I knew so. Tell me about it, Mrs. Kelsy!” eagerly exclaimed Wynnette.
“My dear, I cannot, especially to-night—especially to-night.”
“Why not to-night?”
“Because, my dear, this very night of the twentieth of June is the anniversary of the murder of that poor young woman and her baby, when her spirit always revisits the scene of her murder,” said the old woman, solemnly.
“Do you mean—are you talking of the lady’s maid who was murdered by the coachman, and whose body was thrown down the shaft in the castle hall?” gravely inquired Wynnette.
“Hush, my dear. Hush! Don’t talk of it, or you may draw that perturbed spirit even here.”
“You know all about that tragedy, then?” persisted Wynnette.
“My mother did, and told me. And people enough have seen the ghost in the castle hall on this anniversary.”
“Have you ever seen it?”
“Hush! Yes, once; and I never want to see it again. So that’s the last word I will speak about it to-night. Some other time I’ll tell you all, but not now. Not while her troubled spirit is abroad. Hush! What was that?”