“Did you hear that?” whispered the girl, staring at the window.
The shade was not drawn down to the sill, and the curtains were the very thinnest of scrim. At the space of four inches below the shade Agnes saw a white splotch against the pane.
“Oh! See! A face!” gasped Agnes in three smothered shrieks.
“Hech, mon! Such a flibbertigibbet as the lass is.” Mrs. McCall adjusted her glasses and stared, first at the frightened girl, then at the window. But she, too, saw the face. “What can the matter be?” she demanded, half rising. “Is that Neale O’Neil up tae some o’ his jokes?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Mac! It’s not Neale,” half sobbed Agnes. “I know who it is. It’s that awful junkman!”
“A junkman?” repeated Mrs. McCall. “At this time o’ night? We’ve naethin’ tae sellit him. The impudence!”
She rose, quite determined to drive the importunate junkman away.
CHAPTER XIX—THE HOUSE IS HAUNTED
“Why do ye fash yoursel’ so?” demanded Mrs. McCall in growing wonder and exasperation. “Let me see the foolish man.”
She approached the window and raised the shade sharply. Then she hoisted the sash itself. But Costello, the junkman, was gone.