Nothing loth, Dick stared so sternly at the idlers that they became nervous, shifted their gaze, to see him still staring at them when they looked at him again, made awkward movements, and finally strolled away, and left the Square to him and Gracie. "Let's talk inside the house," she said, with a nod of approval. "No, Gracie, here. I don't care about taking you in." "I've been in," she said calmly. "You've been in!" he exclaimed, hastening to the door. "Is anybody inside now? Ah!" with a sudden thought. "Your father!" "I didn't see a living soul when I was in the place," she said, mournfully. "Who opened the door for you?" "Nobody. I won't talk in the Square, Dick; people'll be coming and interrupting us. I'll show you all about it when we're inside. You'll be glad to know." Recognising the imprudence of running the chance of being overheard, he unlocked the door, and they stood in the dark passage. "Don't be frightened, Gracie. What has happened within these walls is eerie enough to send the shivers through one." "I ain't frightened a bit, Dick." "Very well, then. Remain here while I go and get a light. The candles and matches are upstairs." "I'll come with you. You do like me a little, don't you, Dick?" "I like you a good deal. You're the queerest and bravest little girl I've ever met." She nestled close to him. They reached the office, and he fumbled about for the matches. "Where are we, Dick?" He hesitated a moment, and answered gently, "In the office where your father used to work." "Father?" she sighed. "Dick, what do you see when you are in the dark?" "Darkness." "I see more than that." "Do you see anything now?" he asked, still groping for the matches. "I see father. There he stands. He looks so white and thin, and he's holding out his arms to me to save him." "From what? Ah, here they are at last." He struck a match, and lighted a candle. "I don't know from what, but I'm going to. Now he's gone. No, no! He's there, he's there! Father, father!" She darted forward to the hooded chair in which the wax figure of the Chinaman was seated. "Hold hard, Gracie," said Dick, catching her by the arm. "That's not a man; it's a wax figure." "Let me go, let me go!" It was not a scream, but a fierce whisper that issued from her lips. She twisted herself out of Dick's grasp, and ran to the chair. She stood awhile before she spoke again, and Dick watched her curiously. "Is he dead?" "Wax images generally are," said Dick, endeavouring to speak lightly. She gazed earnestly at the dead white face. "Has he been here long?" "A pretty long time, I should say." "Was he here when Mr. Boyd was murdered?" "Yes." "If he could only speak, Dick!" "Ah, if he only could!" She crept to the bedroom door. "Is this the room?" "Yes. I wouldn't go in, Gracie." "Why not? He's dead and buried; and if his ghost is there it can't do me any harm."