Evening came.
“Whar’s he gone to?” inquired Uncle Sam, sort of puzzled-like, when Gennor failed to appear on time at the supper table.
“Don’t you know?” I countered, acting innocent.
This brought a scowl into the thin face.
“If I knowed,” he snapped at me, “I wouldn’t be askin’, would I?”
It came eleven o’clock and the hotel was closed for the night. Thus released, I got into my everyday clothes and beat it for the brick house.
The shadows under the whispering pine trees seemed to crowd in on me as I ran up the path. My heart was in my mouth, sort of. I had the feeling that something was watching me—a hidden, formidable something. And on the instant all of the stories that I had heard about Mr. Matson’s ghost jumped helter-skelter through my mind.
I was trembling when I came to the porch. I ran for the door. And finding it locked, I beat on the panels and cried to my companions to let me in.
Footsteps sounded on the hall floor. [[172]]
“It’s Jerry,” I cried.