The Room with the Tassels

“You bet! Here they are, now, – they seem in good spirits.”

The crowd came down the stairs and into the great hall, laughing at some quip of Wise’s. Ever since the day of the two deaths a sombre gloom had pervaded the whole place, and smiles had been few. The sound of laughter came as a shock to the Landons, but the cheery face of Penny Wise betokened only wholesome good nature, and not flippant heartlessness.

“Old Montgomery knew how to build a house,” he commented, looking at the finely curving staircase, and its elaborate balusters. “Living rooms nowadays are all very well, but these great entrance halls are finer places to congregate. You spend much of your time here, I’m sure. The worst part is, they’re difficult to light properly, – by daylight, I mean. And, you’ve no electrics here, have you?”

“No,” replied Landon, “only kerosene and candles. You see, the place has been unoccupied for years.”

“Haunted houses are apt to be, – ”

“Reputed haunted houses,” corrected the Professor.

“There are no others,” and Wise grinned. “All reputed haunted houses have nothing to haunt them but their repute. I mean, the story of their ghost is all the ghost they have.”

“But I saw the ghost here,” and Eve spoke with a quiet dignity that defied contradiction.

“Of course you did,” Wise assented. “The ghost came purposely to be seen.”

“Did you ever see one, Mr. Wise?”

“I never did, Miss Carnforth, I never hope to see one! But I can tell you anyhow, I’d rather see than be one.”

“Oh, of course, if you’re going to take that tone,” and Eve turned away, decidedly offended.

“Sorry!” and Wise flashed a smile at her. “But, you see, a detective can’t afford to believe in ghosts. We make our living solving mysteries, and to say, ‘It was the ghost! You’re right, it was the ghost!’ is by way of begging the question.”

“Then you think the phantoms that appeared to some of us were really human beings?” asked Tracy, interestedly.

“I sure do.”

“And you propose to find out who and how?” said Braye.

“If I live up to my reputation, I must do so. There are but two kinds of detectives. Effective detectives and defective detectives. It is the aim of my life to belong to the former class, and here’s my chance to make good. Now, I’ve examined the upper floors, I’ll look over this hall and the ground floor rooms. Shall I have time before dinner, Mrs. Landon?”

His charm and pleasant personality had already won Milly’s liking and she said, cordially, “Yes, indeed, Mr. Wise. And if you wish, we’ll delay dinner to suit your pleasure.”

“Not at all. Done in a few minutes. Stunning hall, eh, Zizi?”

“Yes,” said the thin little voice of the thin little girl, and Milly suddenly realized that Zizi was present with the crowd.

The graceful little figure stepped forward and stood at Wise’s side as he looked the hall over. He tapped at the panelled walls, and smiled as he said, “Solid and intact. No secret passage or sliding panel, – of that I’m sure.”

“If you’re trying to find a secret entrance into the house, Mr. Wise,” Landon said, “you are wasting your time. I am more or less architecturally inclined, and I’ve tapped and sounded and measured and calculated, – and I can assure you there’s nothing of the sort.”

“Good work! That saves me some trouble, I’m sure. Marvellous work on these doors, eh? And the bronze columns, – from abroad, I take it.”

“Yes;” Professor Hardwick said, slapping his hand against one of the fluted bronze pillars, “I admire these columns more than the doors even. They’re unique, I don’t wonder their owner ‘built a house behind them.’ I doubt if their match is in America.”

“And the locks and bolts are as ponderous as the doors,” commented the detective. “Eh, Zizi?”

“They are like that all over the house,” said the girl, in a casual tone. “Even the kitchen quarters are as securely fastened and bolted. And upstairs, any doors that give on balconies are strongly guarded. I have never seen a house more carefully looked after in the matter of barricades.”

The girl spoke slowly, as if on the witness stand. Then suddenly her black eyes twinkled, and she turned sharply toward Eve, saying, “Oh, do you do that, too?”

“Do what?” cried Eve, angrily. “What do you mean?”

“Scribble notes, and pass ’em to somebody. I do, too. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break myself of.”

“I didn’t!” and Eve’s face flushed and her eyes glittered with a smouldering fire.

“Oh, tra la la,” trilled Zizi, and nonchalantly turned away.

“Now for the Room with the Tassels,” said Wise, and led the way to the fateful room.

“Ghastly, ghostly and grisly!” he declared after a quick survey, “but no entrance except by door or windows.”

“And they were locked every time the room was slept in by any of our party,” announced the Professor, positively.

“That makes it easier,” smiled Wise. “You see, I feared secret panels and that sort of thing, – not uncommon in old houses. But you’ve found none?”

“None,” asseverated Landon. “If your theory of a human ‘ghost’ is right, you’ve got to account for the forcing of the big bolts of those front doors or – ”

“Or suspect some of your household,” concluded Wise, practically. “Well, I haven’t suspected any one as yet; I’m just absorbing facts, on which to base my theories. Now, for the drawing room.”

The long sombre, old-fashioned room received scant examination.

“Nothing doing, Zizi?” said Wise, briefly.

“Only a Bad Taste Exhibition,” the girl remarked, making a wry face at the ornate decorations and appointments. Then, with her peculiar, gliding motion, she slid across the hall again, and examined the knob and lock on the door of the Room with the Tassels.

“Fascinating room,” she said, with a glance round it. “But horrible,” and her thin shoulders shrugged. “Those tassels are enough to make a hen cross the road!”

Milly giggled, and for the first time since the day of the tragedies.

Dinner was rather pleasant than otherwise. The detective, laying aside all thought or talk of his purpose there, was entertaining and even merry. He spoke somewhat of himself, and it transpired that he was an artist, – an illustrator of current magazine stories.

“And Zizi is my model,” he informed them, “that is, when I want a thin, scarecrow type. I don’t use her for the average peach heroine. Look out Ziz, don’t eat too much of that potato puff! You see, if she puts on a bit of flesh, she runs straight back to the movie studios.”

“Ah, a film star?” said Braye.

“Not a star,” and Wise shook his head. “But a good little actress for a brat part.”

Zizi flashed an amused smile from her black eyes and partook again of the forbidden potato puff.

“Zizi! For the love of Mike!” expostulated Wise.

“The love of Mike is the root of all evil,” said Zizi, saucily; “but then, everything is.”

“Is what?” asked Eve, interested against her will in this strange child.