Rinehart, Mary Roberts, 1876-1958 / 2008-11-11 00:00:00
It was difficult to say just what I felt about the house.
Willie, who came down over a Sunday early in the summer, possibly
voiced it when he came down to his breakfast there.
"How did you sleep?" I asked.
"Not very well." He picked up his coffee-cup, and smiled over it
rather sheepishly. "To tell the truth, I got to thinking about
things--the furniture and all that," he said vaguely. "How many
people have sat in the chairs and seen themselves in the mirror and
died in the bed, and so on."
Maggie, who was bringing in the toast, gave a sort of low moan,
which she turned into a cough.
"There have been twenty-three deaths in it in the last forty years,
Mr. Willie," she volunteered. "That's according to the gardener.
And more than half died in that room of yours."
"Put down that toast before you drop it, Maggie," I said. "You're
shaking all over. And go out and shut the door."
"Very well," she said, with a meekness behind which she was both
indignant and frightened. "But there is one word I might mention
before I go, and that is--cats!"
"Cats!" said Willie, as she slammed the door.
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