I turned and faced her.
“I don’t know what I am.”
“Ah! You have heard the light-house story?”
“Yes.”
She said nothing for a moment, then:
“What about your new tenant? Your Mr. Bethel? Has he made any complaint?”
“Not yet. As a matter of fact I have talked to him only once.”
“And that was—?”
“Mostly about hot water and a beef cube,” I admitted. “And the direction in which the house faces. He struck me as an extremely irritable and material type.”
“‘Irritable and material,’” she repeated thoughtfully. “And yet I suppose you know they are saying that he is using the red lamp.”
“The red lamp is locked away. So far as I know, he doesn’t even suspect its existence.”
For some reason or other that puzzled her.
“But it’s been seen burning,” she protested, after a blank pause.
“It is lo
