So they made the tour of the mansion, which was a singularly ill-arranged building, in the style of a rabbit-warren, full of nooks which were not cosy, and of corners which were well adapted for nothing except dust. Solemnly they passed down the corridor, the gloomy-eyed housemaid giving them as they went a catalogue-like description of the various “objects of interest” as they passed them.
“Model of an ironclad fitted with turret guns, torpedo-catcher, and all the latest improvements. Specimen of pottery taken from an ancient Egyptian tomb. Inlaid cabinet, bought by Mr. Bradfield from a Florentine palace,” chanted the housemaid.
“Beautiful! What a charming design! How very interesting, Chris!” murmured Mrs. Abercarne.
But Chris, whose taste was raw and undeveloped, was paying small attention to ancient pottery and torpedo-catchers. Her attention had been attracted by something which seemed to her to promise more human interest than paintings or old china. The corridor in which they were ran straight through the house, past the head of the front and of the back staircases, into a wing which had been added to the east sea-front. From behind one of the doors in this wing strange noises began to reach the ears of Chris, who presently noticed that the housemaid, while still monotonously chanting her description, glanced alternately at the door in question, and at Chris herself, as if wondering what the young lady thought of the unusual sounds.
It was not until they had passed the head of the principal staircase, by which time the noise had grown louder and more continuous, that Mrs. Abercarne’s attention was also attracted. An unearthly groan made her start and turn to the housemaid, who, taking no apparent notice, proceeded to lead the way downstairs.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercarne, as she glanced nervously at the door from behind which the noises came. At the same moment the door was shaken violently, and there was a loud crash as if some heavy body had been thrown against it.
“And this,” went on the housemaid calmly, pointing to a picture over her head, “is one of Sir Edwin Landseer’s, while the one on your left is the portrait of a lady by Sir Thomas Lawrence.”
“Oh, indeed!” murmured Mrs. Abercarne, in a rather less enthusiastic voice than before.