Peter dropped his bag.
"That's what you said it was, back there."
"Did I? Well, maybe it isn't so far as that now. Let me carry your bag a while."
Thus taunted, he rose, took the bag in his left hand and followed.
"City folks aren't much on doin' for themselves, are they? The taxi system is very poor down here yet."
Her face was expressionless, but he knew that she was laughing at him. He knew also that his bag weighed more than any army pack. It seemed too that she was walking much faster than she had done before—also that there was malicious humor in the smile she now turned on him.
"Seems a pity to have such a long walk—with nothin' at the end of it."
"I don't mind it in the least," gasped Peter. "And if you don't object to my asking you just one more question," he went on grimly, "I'd like you to tell me what is frightening Mr. Jonathan K. McGuire?"
"Oh, McGuire. I don't know. Nobody does. He's been here a couple of weeks now, cooped up in the big house. Never comes out. They say he sees ghosts and things."
"Ghosts!"