There was a great dining room, with hanging chandeliers, which had witnessed many a midnight orgie, now silent and given to the moth.
The drawing room was bare, haunted only by the ghosts of past Reckaviles, and so on in the upper rooms, where gaunt fourposters and faded hangings showed within, with dimly seen bedroom furniture.
In one of these a picture fell with a crash, waking the echoes of the house. It had been hanging by a thread which the opening of the door had snapped.
“I’ve seen enough,” said Fletcher with a shiver. “I suppose the whole house has been searched?”
“Every corner, sir, it’s all the same. It doesn’t look as though anyone had been into the rooms for years.”
They returned to the library, where Fletcher walked to the wireless set, and turned the switch.
“It’s no good, sir, it’s out of order, we’ve tried it. The valves light all right, but something’s wrong; Giles says it hasn’t worked since Lord Reckavile came back this last time.”
“I must have a look at it,” said Fletcher. “I’m rather fond of these things.”
“The gramaphone works, we have tried the records,” said Brown, “so the other ought to.”
Fletcher smiled at his knowledge of scientific matters, then faced him squarely.