It took them some time to drive through the old town of Newport. The ladies descended at the old Trinity church, to investigate it, and the girls were much interested in the ancient jail. There, they were told, was once kept a woman prisoner who complained because she had no lock on her door.
Mollie and Grace were not ardent sightseers. It was really the thought of the haunted house that had brought them on their pilgrimage. But Mrs. Post and the countess insisted on poking their way down the Long Wharf, with its rows of sailors’ houses and junk shops. Both girls were dreadfully bored, and secretly longed to be on the tennis courts with Bab and Ruth. Yet the thought of the haunted house buoyed them up.
Mrs. Post was a collector. If you have ever traveled with one, you will understand that it means hours and hours of looking through dirt and trash in order to run across one treasure that a collector regards as “an antique.”
Even when Mrs. Post was through with her search she decided that it was not yet sufficiently late for them to visit the haunted house. “I told the caretaker not to meet us there until a quarter of seven. We shall want only a few minutes to go through the old place; but, of course, we must see it under conditions as romantic as possible.” Mrs. Post then ordered the chauffeur to take them for a drive before driving them to the haunted house.
Mollie and Grace were unusually quiet, so they noticed that the Countess Bertouche had little to say during the afternoon. She seemed tired and nervous. When Mrs. Post asked her questions about her life abroad, after she married, the countess replied in as few words as possible.
At exactly the appointed time the automobile delivered its passengers before the door of the house they sought. It was an old, gray, Revolutionary mansion, three stories high, with a sloping roof and small windows with diamond-latticed panes. It was quite dark when the girls entered the ghostly mansion, following Mrs. Post and the countess, who were led by a one-eyed old caretaker carrying a smoky lamp. There was just enough daylight shining through the windows to see one’s way about, but the corners of the vast old house were full of terrifying shadows.
“Let us not stay too long, Mrs. Post,” urged the countess. “I am not fond of ghosts, and I am tired.” But Mrs. Post was the kind of sight-seer who goes on to the end, no matter who lags behind. She led the party up the winding steps, peering into each room as they went along. The house was kept furnished with a few rickety pieces of old furniture.
When they reached the second floor, the caretaker announced that the middle bedroom was the sleeping apartment of the haunted lady. The little party searched it curiously. There was no sign of the ghostly inhabitant; no perfume of mignonette.
“I don’t see anything unusual about this room,” said the countess, suppressing a sigh, “except that it has the most comfortable chair in the house. I shall sit here and rest while you take the two girls over the other part of the building.”
The three left her. The woman dropped into a chair, and a worn, nervous look crossed her face.