“Thomas is up to some game, I suppose, and I’m damned if I know why! But I’ll choke him off now, once for all.” He started in search of the mysterious sound, kicking off his patent-leather slippers that he might steal unseen on the erring Thomas. At the head of the stairs the music ceased, not suddenly, but with the curious falling cadence that marked the end of the tune. But music was lost on Mr. Wray. “I’ve got off the track,” he thought, descending once more, somewhat gingerly in his stocking feet. The instant he was in the lower passage the air tinkled out again with a mocking lightness. The sound certainly came from above him, and he ran up again, utterly careless if he were heard or not. There was only an empty passage to be seen, door after door on each side of it. He flung them open, one by one, but only disused bedrooms met his scrutiny. As he threw the fifth door wide his candle went out, not quickly, but slowly, as if something ailed the wick. Dim and blue it faded slowly and the music that had seemed so near was gone. A cloud was over the moon; he could not see a yard into the room in front of him, but the same cold disused air met him that he had felt in all the other rooms. “Thomas and his remarkable ghost seem to be founded on fact,” he thought angrily, jarred, in spite of himself, by that slow fading of his light. “Well, they can play till doomsday for all I care; but first I will make sure of Thomas!” He stumbled down to his own room in the dark, stubbing his toes unmercifully. Then with a relit candle he sought the small room next the butler’s pantry, where Thomas dwelt to guard his silver. The door was ajar, the old man peacefully sleeping. Whoever was disturbing the house, it was not the gray-haired servant. Once more Mr. Wray sought his bedroom, stopping only to try Ismay’s door with infinite caution. It was locked, hard and fast. “The hypocritical little devil,” he muttered, “who told me that she was never afraid of anything, and is terrified by a musical box that some servant winds up at night! It’s just as well, though. I don’t want Miss Ismay’s company of an evening when I am talking business with her charming mother.” Ismay, seated somewhat breathless on her bed, shook with impotent rage at that cautious hand on her door. “Insolent wretch!” she thought furiously. “I hope those doctored library candles were a success. Who would think a schoolgirl trick of a thread soaked in saltpeter and run through with a fine needle would ever come in so usefully. But that was only a side-show. ‘The day after to-morrow,’ he said--and ‘an accident.’ What can he have in his mind? Oh, if I only knew. And if only Miles would come back. I could die with this awful feeling that it is something of my own mother’s that was found in that room.”