“And the Squire will expect a telegram from me to-night!” muttered Tom.
CHAPTER XII.
FOOTSTEPS IN THE ROOM
During the few months that elapsed between the murder of Percy Osmond and the arrival of General St. George in England, Park Newton had been shut up, Pearce, the old family butler, being left as custodian of the house. Of the former establishment he was allowed to retain his niece, Miss Piper, who had been still-room maid, and Finch, formerly a footman, but afterwards promoted to be Mr. Dering’s body-servant; together with a woman or two to do the rough work of the house.
When the General fixed his home at Park Newton these people were all retained in their places, but their numbers were augmented by eight or ten more. All his life the General had been used to be waited upon by a number of people, and he could not quite get out of the way of it even in England.
On a certain wintry evening early in the new year, Finch and Miss Piper were sitting in the drawing-room toasting their toes before a seasonable fire. Between them was a small table on which stood a decanter of Madeira and two glasses, together with a dish of apples, nuts, and oranges. The family had gone out to dinner, and would not be home till late; Mr. Pearce had driven into Duxley to pay the tradesmen’s accounts, and for the time being Mr. Finch and his fair companion commanded the situation.
Miss Piper wore a dress of rustling plum-coloured silk. At her elbow was a smelling-bottle and a lace-edged handkerchief. Mr. Finch, with one of General St. George’s snuffboxes by his side, was lounging in his easy-chair, with all the graceful nonchalance of an old club-man who has just partaken of an excellent dinner.
“This Madeira is not so bad,” he said condescendingly, as he swallowed his third glass at a gulp with the gusto of a connoisseur. “Miss Piper,” refilling his glass, “I look towards you. Here’s your very good health. May you live long and die happy.”
“Oh, Mr. Finch! deeply gratified, I’m sure.”
“I must have fallen into a doze just now, because I never heard you when you opened the door, and was quite startled when I saw you standing beside me. But then you always do go about the house more quietly than anybody else—except the ghost himself.”
Miss Piper glanced round with a shudder, and hitched her chair a little nearer the fire and Mr. Finch. “But surely, Mr. Finch,” she said, “you are not one of those who believe that Park Newton is haunted? Uncle Pearce says that he never heard of such rubbish in the whole course of his life.”