Detective and mystery stories; Wise, Pennington (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
“So you shall, some time. But I’m to take two tomorrow, and,—what do you
think? I said I would bring Rodney Granniss, and Mr Varian said, ‘No,
he’d rather I asked some one in his place!’”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?” cried Landon. “Rod’s our star performer.”
“Well, you see, they know him——”
“All the more reason——”
“Oh, it’s this way. Rod Granniss is already a beau of Betty’s,—and her
father doesn’t approve of the acquaintance.”
“Not approve of Granniss!” John Clark looked his amazement. “Mr Varian
must be an old fuss!”
“I think that’s just what he is,” assented Claire Blackwood, and then Ted
Landon urged,
“You haven’t described the siren yet. What’s she like to look at?”
“A little thing, sylphish, rather,—dainty ways, quick, alert motions, and
with the biggest gray eyes you ever saw,—edged with black.”
“Raving tresses?”
“No; very dark brown, I think. But the liveliest coloring.
Red-under-brown cheeks, scarlet lips and——”
“I know,—teeth like pearls.”
“No; good, sound, white teeth, and fluttering hands that emphasize and
illustrate all she says.”
“All right, she’ll do,” and Ted looked satisfied. “I can cut out old John
here, and if Granniss is barred, I’ll have a cinch!”
“You must behave yourself,—at first, anyway, because I am responsible for
you. Be ready to go up there with me at four tomorrow afternoon.”
“Leave here at four?”
“Yes, we’ll walk up. A bit of a climb, but motors can go only to the
lodge, you know, and that’s not worth while.”
The porter’s lodge belonging to Headland House was partly visible from
the clubhouse, and it guarded the gates that gave ingress to the estate.
There was no other mode of entrance, for a high wall ran completely
across the narrow neck that joined the headland to the main shore, and
all other sides of the precipitous cliff ran straight down to the sea.
From where they sat the group could discern the motor road as far as the
lodge; and here and there above that could be glimpsed the narrow,
tortuous path that led on to the house.
“Grim old pile,” Landon said, looking at Headland House. “Any spook
connected with its history?”
“I never heard of any,” said Mrs Blackwood. “Did you, Mr North?”
“Not definitely, but I’ve heard vague rumors of old legends or traditions
of dark deeds——”
“Oh, pshaw, I don’t believe it!” and Mrs Blackwood shook her head at him.
“You’re making that up to lend an added interest!”
North grinned. “I’m afraid I was,” he admitted, “but if there isn’t any
legend there surely ought to be. Let’s make one up.”
“No, I won’t have it. I hate haunted houses, and I shan’t allow a ghost
to be invented. The place is too beautiful to have a foolish, hackneyed
old ghost yarn attached to it. Just because you were up here last summer
and this is the first year for most of us, you needn’t think you can rule
the roost!”
“Very well,” Lawrence North smiled good-naturedly, “have it your own way.
But, truly, I heard rumors last year——”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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