The Ghost of Guir House

"Why does the boy not speak?" inquired Paul, considerably puzzled by

what he had seen.

"Because he is dumb," answered the girl, leading the way up to the

door.

Paul carried his luggage into the porch where he saw that Dorothy's

eyes were fixed upon him with that strange quizzo-critical gaze,

with lids half closed and head tilted, which he had observed once

before, and which he could not help thinking gave her a very

aristocratic bearing.

"You should carry one of those long-handled lorgnettes," he

suggested, "when you look that way."

"And why?" she asked quite innocently.

"To look at me with," answered Henley, hoping to induce a smile, or a

more cheery tone amid a gloom which was growing oppressive. But Miss

Guir simply led the way to the great hall door, which was built of

heavy timber, and studded with nail-heads without. As the cumbersome

old portal swung open, Paul could not help observing that it was at

least two inches thick, braced diagonally, and that the locks and

hinges were unusually crude and massive. He followed Miss Guir into

the hall, with a slight foreboding of evil which the memory of the

stage driver's remark did not help to dispel.