When Mr. Barringcourt was in it, the great black house held its mysteries and shadows; without him they seemed aggravated fourfold. Not long after the Wednesday evening music, Rosalie stood in the centre of the hall suddenly smitten with the most chilly fear she had ever experienced in her life. No noise, no sound, not even the wind without, penetrated those walls of iron marble. Shadows and silence in endless vista met her eye. Shadows and silence like a sigh congealed, changed from nothingness into reality. Dreading the loneliness, and her own want of nerve to go upstairs, she went to the door and accosted the keeper there. “Does this house frighten you?” she asked. “Not at all,” he answered, most politely. “That is strange, because I feel most frightened here. It is not haunted, is it?” “What do you mean?” “There are no—no ghosts?” He smiled. “That depends upon your imagination, I should say.” “I want to go upstairs, and I dare not. You don’t think me very foolish, do you?” “Where is Mariana? Does she not look after you?” “Yes. But she went away, nearly an hour ago.” “Shall I call her?” “Oh, please do!” He touched a bell, and a minute later Mariana appeared coming down the staircase. She looked as calm as ever. The short outburst of the evening had died away. “I’m sorry to trouble you. But I really could not come upstairs alone. The house was so quiet that it frightened me.” “You will get accustomed to the silence by degrees,” she answered, and led the way towards the staircase. When they reached the little sitting-room where the fire burnt, Rosalie was pleased to find a white cloth laid there, with supper on it. It was a very plain repast, but cheerful, possibly because of the bright lamp and firelight. “When do you have your supper?” she asked of Mariana. “I have had mine.” “What is the time?” “Almost ten o’clock.” “How late! That is the time I generally go to bed. What time do you go?” “As soon as you are settled for the night I shall retire.” “Where do you sleep?” “In the next room to yours. If you want anything in the night, you may ring or come to me.” “But then I should have to come out on to the corridor. I hate corridors.” “No. My bedroom opens into yours. Your door that opens into the passage is locked at night.” “By whom?” “By me.” “Why do you lock it?” “I don’t know, I’m sure. You are safer with it locked, I expect.” “How long have you lived here, Mariana?” “Three years this autumn.” “And how long has Mr. Barringcourt been here?” “The same length of time. I came with him.” “And you are happy here?” “I could not be happier—under the circumstances.” “Were you ever happier?” “I think I was once. But it is a very long time ago. I don’t remember how long, so that it cannot really matter.” “Where did you live before you lived here?” She shook her head. “I can’t quite remember. I think it was a very cold and dark place, and one day Mr. Barringcourt came and asked me would I like to go away.”