Storm shrugged.
“It is all the same to me, MacWhirter. Let me see; your month is up——?”
“Tomorrow, sir.” There was unconcealed eagerness in the man’s tone. “Of course, if you were thinking of getting another caretaker, I could wait——”
“I shan’t.” Storm spoke with sudden decision. “I’m going away on a long trip myself, and I have closed out my bank account, but I’ll pay you off now in cash. Put the place in good order and mail me the keys to-morrow.”
“I’ve brought them with me, sir.” MacWhirter rose, placed a bunch of keys upon the table and gravely accepted the money. “Thank you, sir. You’ll find the place in perfect order and the garden doing brave and fine if you run out before you go away. I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Mr. Storm, and I wouldn’t speak of leaving but for the lonesomeness and my being of no real use.”
Storm cut the man’s protestations short and got rid of him with a curtness but poorly masked. His manner more than his words had conjured up a picture of the silent, deserted house standing amid the bright flowers like a corpse decked for the funeral which made Storm’s senses recoil as before a vision of something sinister and full of dread.
For the life of him he could not put from his mind the swiftly recurring memory of that sleeping garden on the night when he had cast the handful of ashes out upon it and then drawn the curtains that the coming moon might not peer through at what lay within. Had those ashes of his first crime bred a fatal growth there among the flowers? Had a phoenix risen from them to cry the deed in tones audible only to MacWhirter’s susceptible Celtic ear?
In vain he cursed himself for a superstitious fool. Of course the place was lonesome, but thank God! he was rid of the man and his silly whims and fancies! No caretaker was needed there, anyway, and in the fall he would cable George to sell it for him. Every closed, deserted house in the country bore an aspect which the ignorant would term ‘uncanny’, but there could be nothing real, nothing tangible in the sensations which had driven MacWhirter away; no lingering influence of that night’s event could remain to manifest itself to those who might come within its aura.
He would like to have asked MacWhirter to explain himself, had not common sense forbade. He felt an inordinate curiosity as to the latter’s sensations, and a sort of dread fascination settled itself upon him, a desire to see for himself if that house at Greenlea retained the power to thrill or unnerve him.
Then with a supreme effort he cast aside the spell which had held him in thrall. What utter rot such superstitions were in these materialistic days! MacWhirter was lonely, and he had made use of the first excuse which came handy to get out of an uncongenial job. No ghosts walked save those which lived in memory, and Storm would soon be free from them forever! But he must go soon! Such a mood as this could not have fastened upon him had he not been near the breaking point; not now, when everything had gone so splendidly, when with consummate skill and daring he had attained all his aims, overcome all obstacles, turned the very weapons of fate into tools to serve his own ends!