"But I have the taxicab driver to pay, and my trunk is here," declared Helen, beginning suddenly to feel very helpless. The man had opened the grilled door. He gazed down at the cab and shook his head. "Wait hand see Mrs. Olstrom, first, Miss," he said. She stepped in. He closed both doors and chained the inner one. He pointed to a hard seat in a corner of the hall and then stepped softly away upon the thick carpet to the rear of the premises, leaving the girl from Sunset Ranch alone. _This_ was her welcome to the home of her only relatives, and to the heart of the great city! CHAPTER IX THE GHOST WALK Helen had to wait only a short time; but during that wait she was aware that she was being watched by a pair of bright eyes at a crevice between the portieres at the end of the hall. "They act as though I came to rob them," thought the girl from the ranch, sitting in the gloomy hall with the satchel at her feet. This was not the welcome she had expected when she started East. Could it be possible that her message to Uncle Starkweather had not been delivered? Otherwise, how could this situation be explained? Such a thing as inhospitality could not be imagined by Helen Morrell. A begging Indian was never turned away from Sunset Ranch. A perfect stranger--even a sheepman--would be hospitably treated in Montana. The soft patter of the footman's steps soon sounded and the sharp eyes disappeared. There was a moment's whispering behind the curtain. Then the liveried Englishman appeared. "Will you step this way, Miss?" he said, gravely. "Mrs. Olstrom will see you in her sitting-room. Leave your bag there, Miss." "No. I guess I'll hold onto it," she said, aloud. The footman looked pained, but said nothing. He led the way haughtily into the rear of the premises again. At a door he knocked. "Come in!" said a sharp voice, and Helen was ushered into the presence of a female with a face quite in keeping with the tone of her voice. The lady was of uncertain age. She wore a cap, but it did not entirely hide the fact that her thin, straw-colored hair was done up in curl-papers. She was vinegary of feature, her light blue eyes were as sharp as gimlets, and her lips were continually screwed up into the expression of one determined to say "prunes." She sat in a straight-backed chair in the sitting-room, in a flowered silk bed-wrapper, and she looked just as glad to see Helen as though the girl were her deadliest enemy. "Who are you?" she demanded. "I am Helen Morrell," said the girl. "What do you want of Mr. Starkweather at this hour?" "Just what I would want of him at any hour," returned the Western girl, who was beginning to become heartily exasperated. "What's that, Miss?" snapped the housekeeper. "I have come to him for hospitality. I am his relative--rather, I am Aunt Eunice's relative----" "What do you mean, child?" exclaimed the lady, with sudden emotion. "Who is your Aunt Eunice?"