CHAPTER XXXIIOne night, just after the strangely quiet Christmas holidays, Hilary and Mrs. Spaulding were before the library fire, with Craig at the near-by table, under the lamp, busy over some blueprints of the new Mount Holly packing room. Evergreen wreaths at the windows, and over the high doors, scented the room, pleasantly; a drowsy fire crackled and was still, and the clocks ticked in a deep silence. Butterfly had just murmured a good-night, and had gone upstairs.
Suddenly, there was a hideous interruption. It began with the most disquieting of all sounds in a quiet house: the pressure of running feet. Then came several words in several voices, and then Alice’s scream: “Oh, Mr. Spaulding—Mr. Spaulding!” and the thump of Banks’s feet, as the butler ran upstairs.
“Get Mr. Spaulding!
