I heard behind me the careful step of Bates.
“Good morning, Mr. Glenarm. I trust you rested quite well, sir.”
His figure was as austere, his tone as respectful and colorless as by night. The morning light gave him a pallid cast. He suffered my examination coolly enough; his eyes were, indeed, the best thing about him.
“This is what Mr. Glenarm called the platform. I believe it’s in Hamlet, sir.”
I laughed aloud. “Elsinore: A Platform Before the Castle.”
“It was one of Mr. Glenarm’s little fancies, you might call it, sir.”
“And the ghost,—where does the murdered majesty of Denmark lie by day?”
“I fear it wasn’t provided, sir! As you see, Mr. Glenarm, the house is quite incomplete. My late master had not carried out all his plans.”
Bates did not smile. I fancied he never smiled, and I wondered whether John Marshall Glenarm had played upon the man’s lack of humor. My grandfather had been possessed of a certain grim, ironical gift at jesting, and quite likely he had amused himself by experimenting upon his serving man.
“You may breakfast when you like, sir,”—and thus admonished I went into the refectory.