A back passage led them to the pantry and immense, stone-floored kitchen. On a table near the sink, an unwashed plate and cup told the story of eggs and coffee.
Bill turned to the boy. “There! On a bet, he ate and went out.”
“Hadn’t we better go over the rest of the house, though?” There was a slight tremor in Charlie’s voice. “This place is creepy. It was like that when I was here before. I never open a door but what I expect a dead man to walk out on me.”
“That,” laughed Bill, “would take some doing! You’ll be telling me the house is haunted, next!”
“It is.”
“Oh, go on—there ain’t no such animals as ghosts. You’re losing your nerve, kid. You probably heard a rat in the walls.”
“Rat, nothing! If it wasn’t a ghost, who was in our room just before daylight? It wasn’t Dad. I called and the figure just disappeared.”
“Um—that’s funny. Perhaps some friend of your father’s—and they went off together later.”
Charlie shook his head solemnly. “Dad hasn’t any friends up here, Bill, or he wouldn’t have had to call on you. But suppose it was a friend he went away with, why didn’t he let us know? I’ll just bet Dad’s in this house right now. Down cellar or upstairs, with his throat cut, like as not!” Charlie was in tears now.
“Here, here, now! Stop it! You certainly are a cheerful kid this morning—I don’t think!” Bill scoffed, and patted him on the back. “Detective thrillers and too much food are what ails you. Imagination plus indigestion will make anybody see or hear a lot of things. How do I get down to the cellar? If you’re afraid of meeting more spooks, you’d better stay here.”