“But the house!” stammered Mr. Sylvester in anything but his usual tone, “surely it has not been deserted all these years!”
“Ah,” said she, “now we come to the greatest mystery of all.” And laying her hand timidly on his arm, she drew his attention to the form of a decrepit old lady just then advancing towards them down the street “Do you see that aged figure?” she asked. “Every evening at this hour, winter and summer, stormy weather or clear, she is seen to leave her home up the street and come down to this forsaken dwelling, open the worm-eaten gate before you, cross the otherwise untrodden garden and enter the house by a side door which she opens with a huge key she carries in her pocket. For just one hour by the clock she remains there, and then she is seen to issue in the falling dusk, with a countenance whose heavy dejection is in striking contrast to the expression of hope with which she invariably enters. Why she makes this pilgrimage and for what purpose she secludes herself for a stated time each day in this otherwise deserted mansion, no man knows nor is it possible to determine, for though she is a worthy woman and approachable enough on all other topics, on this she is absolutely mute.”
Mr. Sylvester started and surveyed the woman as she passed with an anxious gaze. “I know her,” he muttered; “she was a connection of—of the family, who inhabited this house.” He could not speak the name.
“Yes, so they say, and the owner of this house, though she does not live here. Did you notice how she looked at me? She often does that, just as if she wanted to speak. But she always goes by and opens the gate as you see her now and takes out the big key and—”
“Come away,” cried Mr. Sylvester with sudden impulse, seizing Paula by the hand and hurrying her down the street. “She is a walking goblin;