“Do you think it’s honorable to scare a poor old butler half to death?” she demanded.
He glanced around as though he expected to see the corpse of the poor butler lying upon the floor.
“Why, no,” he agreed.
“Then why did you do it?”
“I?” he stammered. “Why, it’s the poor old butler who has been trying to frighten me.”
“I’d be thankful if he had succeeded,” she snapped.
“He is a mystic—that man,” declared Barnes. “He is a seer of things in the dark.”
“And who put the foolish notions into his head?” she insisted unflinchingly.
“Who? I should like to know as well as you. Who taught him to walk on tiptoe? Who taught him to appear as though through a trap-door? Who taught him to look suddenly about as though in league with the unknown? Who—” he demanded darkly, “taught him to look under beds?”
Aunt Philomela caught her breath at this last query.