Again the thunder rolled as she straightened the papers and magazines on the table and Lizzie gingerly took up the ouija-board to replace it on the bookcase with the prayer book firmly on top of it. And this time, with the roll of the thunder, the lights in the living-room blinked uncertainly for an instant before they recovered their normal brilliance.
“There go the lights!” grumbled Lizzie, her fingers still touching the prayer book, as if for protection. Miss Cornelia did not answer her directly.
“We’ll put the detective in the blue room when he comes,” she said. “You’d better go up and see if it’s all ready.”
Lizzie started to obey, going toward the alcove to ascend to the second floor by the alcove stairs. But Miss Cornelia stopped her.
“Lizzie—you know that stair rail’s just been varnished. Miss Dale got a stain on her sleeve there this afternoon—and Lizzie—”
“Yes’m?”
“No one is to know that he is a detective. Not even Billy.” Miss Cornelia was very firm.
“Well, what’ll I say he is?”
“It’s nobody’s business.”
“A detective,” moaned Lizzie, opening the hall door to go by the main staircase. “Tiptoeing around with his eye to all the keyholes. A body won’t be safe in the bathtub.” She shut the door with a little slap and disappeared. Miss Cornelia sat down—she had many things to think over. If I ever get time really to think of anything again, she thought, because with gardeners coming who aren’t gardeners—and Lizzie hearing yells in the grounds and—