The Mystery of the Emeralds

charming. The paneled walls had been painted a soft green. An old spinet stood against one wall, and a harp with most of its strings broken was nearby. The rich gold-colored brocades at the windows and on the few pieces of furniture were faded and split, and the delicate crystal chandelier was dull with dust.
    “Does Green Trees have a ghost?” Mrs. Sellers asked as they were leaving the music room. “So many of the old houses we’ve visited claim to have a family spook.”
    Edgar Carver laughed. “I know that ghosts, real or imaginary, are very fashionable in many of our old houses,” he answered. “Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been a bit hesitant about mentioning our ghost.”
    “Oh, then there is one here?” Honey cried. “Please tell us about it, Mr. Carver.”
    “I’m afraid it isn’t a very romantic ghost,” he began. “Nothing like the lovelorn maidens whose spirits swish in and out of drawing rooms, blowing out candles and striking chords on pianos and such. No, ours is a very ordinary ghost. He is said to have been one of the masons who worked on this house. Unfortunately, the poor fellow was killed when a large stone fell on him. It’s believed that his spirit sometimes returns to Green Trees, and some say you can hear the tapping of his trowel on the stones.”
    “Have you ever heard him?” Di asked, wide-eyed. “No,” Mr. Carver said slowly. “I think I’m probably much too incredulous about such things to hear any but the most ordinary noises.”
    The last room they were shown had originally been a solarium, but now it was obviously being used as a studio. There were still a few plants growing in large tubs—a lemon tree, some gardenias, ferns, and an avocado, which gave the room a tropical atmosphere. A large easel with an unfinished painting on it occupied one comer, where the north light was brightest, and near it stood a table on casters, covered with tubes of paint, brushes, and bottles.
    “This is where I spend a great deal of my time,” Mr. Carver said as the party was invited in. “Without my painting, time would hang very heavy on my hands, living out here in the country as I do.”
    There was not now, nor had there been at any time during the tour, the slightest hint of self-pity in Edgar Carvers voice. Trixie wondered if he lived here all alone. In fact, there were a great many things about him she wanted to know.
    One wall of the solarium was filled with paintings, and they immediately caught the eye of Mr. Sellers, who went over and examined them with interest.
    “Look here, Edith,” he said, drawing his wife’s attention to one particular picture. It was a small still life, a vase of white peonies against a reddish background, beautifully painted in an impressionistic style.
    “How exquisite!” she exclaimed. “I would love to have that.”
    Tinning to Mr. Carver, she explained, “You see, my husband and I are collectors in a modest way, and we enjoy buying paintings that we discover ourselves, but I don’t suppose you want to part with any of your own, do you?”
    “Most artists, I believe, like to sell their work,” Mr. Carver replied with a smile, “if not for fame, then for fortune. As a matter of fact,” he continued, looking down at his hands folded in his lap, “I rather depend on the sale of my work. The historical society has been most generous in restoring Green Trees, but I cannot accept their help for my personal needs.” Trixie, sensing how embarrassing this discussion must be for him, interrupted to say she wanted to have another look at the old harp, and, with a sign to the other Bob-Whites to come with her, she left Mr. and Mrs. Sellers to consummate the sale of the picture.
    “I don’t see how anyone ever learns to play one of these things,” Mart said as he went over to the harp and twanged one or two of the remaining strings.
    “Oh, I’d love to have one,” Di sighed. “They’re so romantic!”
    “Aren’t they, though!” Mart mimicked her, plunking away at the ancient instrument, tossing his head and rolling his eyes, like an inspired musician. “Brian, why don’t you-all ask Miss Lynch for the next waltz? I’m sure she’d be ever so enchanted.”
    Everyone was so amused at Mart’s antics that they failed to notice that Trixie had left the group and had gone over to the window on the far side of the room. Then suddenly they saw her, half hidden behind the drapery, wildly waving her hands for them to be silent.