Legacy Of Terror

her overreaction to the house might lie within her own character. She had lost her parents when she was four years old and had been raised in an unloving, uncaring institution thereafter. The defense mechanism against life which she had evolved was a stolid, no-nonsense outlook.
    And the Matherly house was nonsense.
    Still and all, it was a good-paying job. And if the people inside it were not as grandiose as their dwelling, she supposed she could put up with so much marshmallow.
    She let off the footbrake and shifted gears as smoothly as a veteran driver-though she had only bought the car a month ago. She had trained herself in the use of a standard shift-having been used to an automatic-with the same devotion of purpose that she applied to everything she did. Two minutes later, she had parked in front of the fountain, by the immense oak door with its brass fixtures.
    As she was getting out of the small car, the low, purple clouds which had been threatening rain all morning suddenly broke open with lightning. A brief moment later, the ear-splitting crack of thunder followed, slamming against the high walls of the mansion and rebounding like something tangible.
    Elaine did not flinch. She was not frightened of thunder. She knew all about storms, their cause and effect, and no deeply imbedded superstition hampered her dealing with them.
    At the door, she lifted the heavy knocker, which she now saw was shaped like a wolfs head and nearly half the size of the real article. It dropped with a loud, hollow booming that could hardly fail to bring an answer. She did not use it again.
    A few droplets of rain spattered the flagstone promenade upon which she stood, but she didn't try to shelter herself.
    A minute passed before someone turned the knob on the inside of the door and drew the thick portal open. In the dimly lighted foyer stood an elderly man, stoop shouldered and white-haired, his face wizened by a heavy tracery of lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes, nose and lips. His face looked like aged vellum.
    “Yes?” he inquired.
    “Elaine Sherred to see Lee Matherly,” she said.
    “Our new nurse,” the man said, nodding his head. He had a slightly obsequious manner which marked him as a family servant, though-Elaine felt-he had very likely been in the Matherly employee for a great many years, perhaps since he had been as young as she.
    He said, “Won't you come in? Mr. Matherly the younger is now in the den; he's expecting you.”
    She stepped out of the rain which had just begun to fall in earnest and shook her mane of long, black hair. It spread out, over the collar of the tan, linen coat she wore, framing her like a dark halo.
    “I trust you had no trouble finding our place,” the old man said. The “our” seemed to clinch her certainty that he had been here for many years. He looked upon the frothy mansion as being as much his home as his master's.
    “None at all,” she said. “Mr. Matherly gave me directions which were easy to follow.”
    “I'm Jerry Hoffman,” the old man said. “I'm the butler and the Mr. Fix-It, the general, all-around man Friday of the house. My wife, Bess, cooks for us.”
    “I'm pleased to meet you,” she said. It was a mere pleasantry, that response. Although she had hardly met Jerry Hoffman, she thought she was not going to like him a great deal. There was something in his manner which suggested he was a gossip, or a man whose interests were so varied as to be useless in any one area. He seemed nervous, quick, and too eager to smile.
    He led her down the long, paneled corridor, through the main drawing room to the den where he announced her and left her with Lee Matherly.
    She had met the man before, of course. He had come to the Presbyterian University Hospital in the city, shortly before graduation, and had interviewed a number of girls for this post. He was tall and thin, yet a powerful man whose sportcoats needed no shoulder padding. He looked more like a trim lumberjack than like the restaurateur he actually was. At forty-five, he might have passed as ten years younger, handsome in a rugged sort of way, blue-eyed but with dark hair graying at the temples. He was a very canny businessman. He had not wasted time when he had interviewed her, and he did not waste time now-a character trait she admired.
    “A room has been prepared for you,” Matherly said. “If you give your car keys to Jerry when we're finished here, he'll see that your bags are moved from the car.”
    “He seems