“Right you are,” Don exclaimed. “What’s the use of theory? Can you lead us to where you saw him, Willie?”
“Ye-es, of course.”
The sixteen-year-old Willie was shaking again. “W-what’s that for, Mr. Don?”
Don had picked up a shotgun which was standing in a corner of the room.
“Ain’t no—no use of that, Mr. Don.”
“We’ll take it anyway, Willie. Ready, Bob?”
A step sounded behind us. “Where are you going?”
It was Jane Dorrance, Don’s cousin. She stood in the doorway. Her long, filmy white summer dress fell nearly to her ankles. Her black hair was coiled on her head. In her bodice was a single red poinsettia blossom. As she stood motionless, her small slight figure framed against the dark background of the hall, she could have been a painting of an English beauty save for the black hair suggesting the tropics. Her blue-eyed gaze went from Don to me, and then to the gun.
“Where are you going?”
“Willie saw a ghost.” Don grinned. “They’ve come from Somerset, Jane. I say, one of them seems to be right here.”