The Mystery of the Whispering Witch

wondering what Mr. Gregory was going to say when he discovered he was about to receive more visitors than he’d invited.
    It was a question that was soon answered. Mr. Gregory seemed taken aback for only a moment when he saw the group of young people standing at his front door. Then he flung the door wide.
    “Come in,” he said heartily. “I’m glad to see you. I’m glad you brought your friends, Fay, my dear. The more the merrier.”
    Still talking, he led the way into the living room, where he stood, smiling at them.
    “We hope you don’t mind us all being here,” Honey said breathlessly after she’d made the introductions, “but the boys insisted on coming with us, and—” She glanced quickly around the room. “But where’s Mr. Hunter?”
    “He’s here,” Mr. Gregory answered. He walked slowly to the study door and flung it open.
    Trixie heard Fay gasp as she and her friends crowded at the room’s entrance.
    The study walls had been hung with some kind of floating black draperies. Flickering candles stood on every available surface. A table in the room’s center wore a black velvet cloth. At its head sat Mr. Hunter.
    He wore a dark cloak. His long, thin fingers held a crystal ball. His face, in the flickering candlelight, looked solemn and, Trixie thought, completely confident.
    He rose to his feet as soon as he saw the visitors.
    For one brief moment, Trixie saw that he, too, looked surprised when he saw how many there were. In the next instant, however, his face was once more a mask of polite welcome as Fay nervously introduced each Bob-White in turn.
    Then she said, her voice trembling, “What— what is all this?” She glanced around the small study, where tall shadows reached to the ceiling.
    Mr. Gregory frowned as he turned to Trixie. “I want you to know how much I appreciated your coming to me this afternoon,” he began, “and I also want you to know that I’ve had a long talk with Zeke Collins.”
    Trixie could feel her heart pounding with excitement. “Yes?” she said. “And what did he say?”
    Mr. Gregory’s face looked grim. “He confessed everything,” he said simply. “But I’m afraid it wasn’t quite what you suspected, Trixie. You see, the man’s a painter—an artist, I mean. All these years, he’s been painting what you might say is a monument to Lisgard House.”
    Mart stammered. “A monument? What kind of monument?”
    Mr. Gregory sighed. “He’s been painting pictures—beautiful pictures—on the walls of his cottage. He showed me.” He paused. “He had an idea that one day the Sleepyside Historical Society would want to preserve that cottage as a museum. It was his gift to society, you might say.”
    “I still don’t understand,” Di said bluntly.
    “He had an idea that when old Caleb died and I took over,” Mr. Gregory went on, “I was going to sell the house and the grounds—everything.”
    “And weren’t you?” Brian demanded.
    Mr. Gregory smiled ruefully. “I did have some idea of doing so at one time,” he said slowly. “But then I discovered I liked it here. In any case, Zeke had already begun his campaign of rumor and gossip about the house being haunted. And so, you see, no one would have bought it, anyway.”
    “Was he afraid that if you sold the house and grounds that he’d be out of a job?” Dan asked.
    “Not only that,” Mr. Gregory said, “but he knew that his cottage would have to be sold as well. He was certain that no one would want either him or his work.”
    “But he couldn’t have been sure of that,” Honey objected.
    “I’m only telling you how Zeke felt,” Mr. Gregory replied. “As to the business with the furniture”—he glanced quickly at Di—“he flatly denies knowing anything about it. He’s sure there’s been some kind of mistake. He’s equally sure that the house is genuinely haunted. He believes that something he has done—or someone else has done—” he didn’t look at Fay—“has called the witch from her grave, wherever that may be. Oh, yes—” he nodded his head—“Zeke has told me all about the fake headstone.”
    “And that’s why,” Mr. Hunter put in quickly, “we must lay Sarah to rest once and for all. If we don’t, there’s no telling what’s going to happen. The spirit is an evil one, you see. And so we must conduct a seance. Now.Tonight. We simply must send Sarah back to—to that other plane we call death.” He glanced at Fay. “My dear, you told me this