Judy, standing near the old lady, caught a whiff of her breath and guessed that she had taken an overdose from the bottle that she called her tonic. She had noticed how frequently her employer resorted to the stimulant. After a few drinks she always talked freely of spirits. But Judy was in no mood for listening to ghost stories now.
“I know you!” the indomitable old lady repeated. “I saw you, Joy Holiday, just before your mother’s funeral. Break her heart while she lived and then come back to gloat over her when she’s dead. You’re a devil, you are. Only devils are immune to death.”
Dale moved closer to Irene as if to ward off the blows that must come to her senses with the old lady’s words.
“We’ve got to get her out of here,” Peter whispered hoarsely to Dale.
“No! No!” Judy protested. “We must be civil to her. There’s some black coffee on the stove. That may sober her up a bit, and after all we did want to see her.”
“Then let’s get Irene out of the room.”
“You take her out on the roof garden, Dale,” Judy begged. “I’m used to being alone with Miss Grimshaw.”
He protested at first but when he saw that the black coffee was doing its work he finally slipped quietly out of the door, an arm about Irene’s waist.
“What’s the trouble?” Horace whispered. He and Arthur couldn’t understand Emily Grimshaw’s grievance.
“Too much excitement,” Judy stated briefly. “She was at the poet’s funeral and thinks Irene is her mother’s ghost. We’ll be able to reason with her after a bit.”