Scraggy held out her hands. "Don't run away, little 'un," she whispered. "There be bats flyin' about in my head; but my cat won't hurt ye."
She passed one arm about the snarling creature perched on her shoulder; but the cat with a hiss only raised himself higher.
"Don't spit at the pretty boy, Kitty--pretty pussy, black pussy!" wheedled the woman. "He won't hurt ye, childy. Come nearer, will ye? This be a good cat."
"Are you a ghost?" demanded Everett, edging into the light.
"Nope, I ain't no ghost. I love ye, pretty boy. Ye won't tell no one that I speak to ye, will ye? I ain't doin' no hurt."
"What do you carry that cat for, and what's your name?" demanded Everett insolently; for the proud young eyes had noticed the disheveled figure. "If any one of our men see you about here, they'll shoot you. I'd shoot you and your cat, too, if I had my father's gun!"
Scraggy smiled wanly. "Screech Owl's my name," said she. "They call me that 'cause I'm batty. But ye wouldn't hurt me, little 'un, 'cause I love ye. How old be ye?"
"Six years old; but it isn't any of your business. Crazy people ought to be locked up. You'd better go away from here. My father owns that house, and--don't you follow me through the hedge. Get back, I say! If I call Malcolm--"
Everett drew back through the box-hedge, and the boy and the girl at the window saw the woman squeeze in after him. In another moment the young heir to the Brimbecomb fortune bounded through the doorway. His face was white; his eyes were filled with fear.
"Did you see that old woman?" he gasped. "She tried to kiss me, and I punched her in the face, and her cat did this to my arm."
He pulled up his sleeve, and displayed a long scratch from wrist to elbow.
"Are you sure it wasn't a ghost, Everett?" asked Ann, shivering.
"Of course, it wasn't," boasted Everett. "It was only a horrid woman with a cat--that's all."
As he closed the door vehemently, there drifted to the children from the marble monument and waving trees the faint wail of a night-owl.