"Oh, Myra," exclaimed Emerson impatiently. "Those
cards on the table are probably there for a reason. Three, seven, and nine are magic numbers, and the suit of spades is very important in cartomancy."
"In
what?"
Miss Eells had never heard this word before.
Emerson sighed despairingly. "Cartomancy is the art of using playing cards for magic purposes—like telling fortunes. Ancient wizards used playing cards to cause storms and defeat armies. Enchanted cards arranged in a certain way could open a pathway to the world of the Autarchs. Do you get it?"
Miss Eells was twisting the telephone cord in her hands. "No, frankly I
don't
see!" she said. "Couldn't those cards have been put into the painting as... well, just as a decoration? I think you're jumping to conclusions."
Miss Eells and Emerson argued on, and because they both were stubborn they merely succeeded in putting themselves in a foul-tempered state. Finally Emerson said that he was going to get to the bottom of the painting's mystery. He would call up the real estate agent and find out if the table shown in the painting was still in the house. After that... well, he wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do, but he said he'd let Miss Eells and Anthony know before he took any steps.
"Before you decide to get yourself killed, you mean!" snapped Miss Eells.
Emerson laughed. "Oh, come on, Myra! First you tell me that my theory about the painting is a lot of
garbage, and then you claim that I'm heading into danger. Well, if I'm wrong about the painting, there's no danger, is there?"
Miss Eells had had enough of this conversation, so she hung up. With a worried look on her face she went to her front door and opened it. A cold autumn rain was falling, and the drizzly gloom of the evening suited Miss Eells's mood exactly—she cared about Emerson a lot, and she was always worrying that some harebrained scheme of his would get him into trouble. She didn't want to believe in his ideas about the painting of Mr. Ambrose, but when she thought calmly she had to admit that there was some logic in what he said.
"I hope he's wrong!" said Miss Eells aloud, as she closed the door. "For his sake and Anthony's and mine, I really hope he is!"
September ended with foul weather, as howling gales whipped the trees and roofs of Hoosac. Each day, as he struggled toward the library through wind and blowing leaves, Anthony wondered if Emerson had found out anything about the house in New Stockholm and the mysterious painting of Mr. Ambrose. But whenever he asked Miss Eells, she shrugged and said, "No, there's nothing new." Anthony began to think that Emerson's wonderful theory was wrong, and like Miss Eells, he secretly hoped that Emerson
was
mistaken. But just as Anthony was beginning to feel a bit more relaxed and secure, something happened. He had spent a long eve
ning watching television with his family, and when he dragged himself off to bed he figured that he would sleep like a baby. But around one in the morning he dreamed that someone was knocking on his bedroom door. Instantly he awoke and sat up in bed. The room was silent, and he realized that he had been the victim of a bad dream. But just as he was snuggling down under the warm blanket again, Anthony began to hear whispering. This was not a dream—it was real. Throwing back the covers Anthony sat up. Beads of cold sweat stood out on his forehead, and he could hear his heart thumping. Without knowing why he did this Anthony climbed out of bed and shuffled toward the door. He didn't want to open it, because he was afraid of what he might see on the other side. So he pressed his ear to the varnished wood, and at last the words became clear. And what he heard chilled him to the bone.
The excited soft voice told Anthony that he was in very great danger. If he went back to the world of the moonlit mansion, he would suffer horribly. He wouldn't just die—no, nothing quite as merciful as that. But his spirit would be smothered inside a statue of stone forever and ever. He would beg to die, but the Autarchs would not let it happen. Instead, he would suffer a long drawn-out death, an agonizing living death that would last for hundreds and hundreds of years. It would be worse than the most horrible torture that anyone could possibly imagine.
As Anthony listened to these ominous words, he felt very, very frightened. He wanted to run away, but he couldn't—his feet stayed rooted to the floor, his ears
took in every horrid syllable. When the voice finally died away Anthony slumped into a heap on the cold floorboards, and that was where he awoke in the morning, blinking at the bright sunlight that streamed through his bedroom windows. Anthony shook his head groggily and struggled to his feet. He moved slowly toward his bed and sat down. What was it that he had heard? Was it the ghost of one of those three poor vacationers who had been turned to stone statues in the garden next to the Autarchs' mansion? There were a lot of questions spinning around in Anthony's weary brain, but he told himself that he should keep quiet about the whole experience. He would never tell his brother Keith or his parents, because they wouldn't believe him. Miss Eells and Emerson would take him seriously, but if they heard what the whisperer had said, they might make him stay home the next time they went on some wild adventure. The things that had happened to him up at the lonely Canadian cottage made him feel a little differently about things. He was the one who had discovered the chest and the password that activated it. He had gone to that strange otherworld alone, had spied on the Autarchs, and had learned something of their frightening plans. He had even gone back later with Emerson to find out more. Now that Anthony looked back on these experiences, they made him feel courageous and important. Most of the time he was the sort of kid who didn't feel that he was worth much. That was why he was proud of the frightening experiences that he had had. And if Emerson went back to the magic kingdom of the Autarchs, Anthony wanted to be there at his side.
Weeks passed. Miss Eells fed little tidbits of information to Anthony now and then: The table that appeared in the painting was not in the house any more— it had turned out to be a valuable antique, so it had been sold. But the name of the buyer had been kept secret. There was no way of tracing the table. To Anthony it was as if a door had been slammed in their faces. He was sure Emerson felt the same. He also knew from the way Miss Eells was acting that she was relieved. Whenever he saw her at the library she was extremely cheerful. She even hummed little tunes as she went about her business. Miss Eells's behavior just made Anthony more and more grumpy and frustrated—why did she have to be so happy, just because their adventure was probably over?
October slid by, and Halloween approached. One evening when Anthony was shoving a heavy cart of books down an aisle of the library, Miss Eells surprised him by asking if he wanted to be a waiter at a party that Mrs. Oxenstern was giving. Mrs. Oxenstern was the head of the Hoosac Library Board and she was quite bossy. She and Miss Eells never liked each other very much. In fact, Mrs. Oxenstern would have fired Miss Eells many years ago if she had been able to, but Miss Eells had an ironclad contract that guaranteed her job for life. Lately the two of them had tried to get along
better, and as a gesture of goodwill Miss Eells had volunteered to show up at Mrs. Oxenstern's annual Halloween party. Furthermore, she had offered to bring members of the library staff in to help—that was why she was talking to Anthony, who was not exactly thrilled by the idea of working for Mrs. Oxenstern.
"It's not as if you'll be actually
working
for Mrs. O," said Miss Eells with an encouraging smile. "You'll be working for
all
of us, the whole library staff, and you'll be helping to build better relations between the staff and the Library Board. Then they'll give us more money and we'll be able to buy more books and maybe put a new roof on this old wreck of a building. Doesn't that sound like a good idea to you?"
Anthony grunted. He knew that he would give in and work at the party, but not for any of the reasons that Miss Eells had given him—he would do it because of his loyalty to her. And so on the evening of October 31 Anthony found himself in a waiter's uniform, serving glasses of pink punch at Mrs. Oxenstern's party. Mrs. Oxenstern lived in a twenty-three-room mansion in the nicest part of town, and her living room was enormous—at one end of it was the table with the punchbowl, and near it was another table loaded with goodies of all sorts: canapes, plates of sliced ham and chicken and smoked tongue, deviled eggs, cheese and crackers, goose liver pate, and stacks of cucumber sandwiches.
Anthony glanced toward the other end of the room. Miss Eells was wearing her best dress, and she was trying very hard to be sociable. She nodded and smiled at practically everything that was said to her, though it was clear to Anthony that she hated every minute of the evening and couldn't wait for it to be over.
That goes for me too,
thought Anthony, as he filled another cup of punch.
Later in the evening another waiter took over Anthony's job for a while, so he could go out on the veranda and get some fresh air. But as he walked toward the French doors Anthony stopped suddenly. He had seen something that made his face flush and set his heart to beating wildly. Immediately he dashed across the room to find Miss Eells. She was standing with her back to him, listening patiently to a long-winded story that was being told by another guest. Anthony reached out and touched Miss Eells on the shoulder, and she jumped. The coffee cup in her hand rocked dangerously back and forth in its saucer, but luckily it didn't fall.
"Anthony!" exclaimed Miss Eells, as she turned around. "What on earth..."
Miss Eells's voice died away when she saw the look on Anthony's face. It was pretty clear that he had something important to tell her that probably needed to be told in private.
"Yes, Anthony?" said Miss Eells in her most polite voice. "What can I do for you?"
"I... I have something to show you," said Anthony, who was trying hard to fight down the excitement that was welling up inside him.
"Well, it'll have to wait a few minutes," said Miss Eells sweetly. "I'm listening to a
fascinating
story, and I don't want to miss any of it."
Anthony grimaced. He hated when Miss Eells tried to play Perfect Hostess—she always overdid it, and he could hardly wait for her to behave like her normal everyday self. "Okay, I'll talk to you later," said Anthony curtly, and he turned away. He went back to the punch table and thanked the other boy for giving him a break. A few minutes later, Miss Eells walked up to Anthony with an apologetic smile on her face.
"I'm sorry I had to act like such a drip," she said as Anthony filled her cup. "They expect you to be so polite at these gatherings, and it's driving me
bats!
So what's so important?"
Anthony swallowed hard. "It's here!" he whispered excitedly. "The table—the one in the picture! Mrs. Oxenstern must've bought it. It's right over there by the sofa—go ahead, see for yourself!"
Miss Eells was stunned—she had never expected a development like this. Silently she set down her cup and saucer and walked to the other end of the room. A few seconds later she was back, and her face was pale. "You're absolutely right, Anthony!" she whispered in an awestruck voice. "That's it, all right. No doubt about it. When Emerson hears the news, he'll really flip!"
Anthony glanced nervously at Mrs. Oxenstern, who was standing at the other end of the room. "Do you think she knows?" he asked. "About the Autarchs and their mansion, I mean."
Miss Eells laughed. "Are you kidding? Mrs. O. thinks the table is a valuable antique—that's why she bought it. And to tell the truth we don't really know much more than that. Emerson's idea about using the table and some playing cards to get back to the misty mansion... well, it may just be a lot of hogwash. At any rate, we're not going to try to smuggle the table out of here tonight. I'll give him a call later this evening and find out what he wants to do next."
The party ended, and the guests went home. Mrs. Oxenstern locked the doors and turned out the lights. But just before she went to bed she came downstairs in her bathrobe and slippers to have one more look at the antique writing desk that she had bought. She was proud of the desk, but she had to admit that there was something odd about it. It fascinated her in a way that was unsettling—almost as if it were alive. Mrs. Oxenstern turned on the living room lights. There by the grand piano stood the little desk, which had been designed by the noted Victorian architect Frank Furness. Mr. Furness usually designed buildings, but he also did a few bureaus and desks—they were quite rare. Slowly Mrs. Oxenstern crossed the room. She walked around the desk, admiring the fine leather top with its border of little
gilded flowers. She ran her hand over the polished ebony rail with its knobby miniature columns and carved fan ornament at the back. Then she slid out the drawer in the front—it was empty, but there were ink stains on the bottom, and it smelled of pencil shavings. A valuable and beautiful object, but nothing more. Giving the desk an affectionate little pat, Mrs. Oxenstern glanced at it once more and then hurried off to bed.
The hours of the night slowly passed. At two in the morning the grandfather clock on the stair landing struck, and Mrs. Oxenstern suddenly sat bolt upright in her bed. It wasn't the clock that had awakened her but a noise, a noise downstairs. Mrs. Oxenstern had lived in this old house a long time, and she knew all its noises. Rattle rattle bang, rattle rattle bang. This was the sound of one of the French doors in the living room—it was loose and swinging back and forth in the wind. Maria, Mrs. Oxenstern's live-in maid, was to have locked up the house. Apparently she hadn't done a very good job, and she would hear from her employer in the morning. With a discontented sigh, Mrs. Oxenstern threw back the covers and swung herself out of bed. In slippers and bathrobe once more, she marched angrily down the carpeted steps and strode into the living room. Then she stopped and stared. One glass-paned door was swinging back and forth, and a cold wind blew into the room. The desk was surrounded by a trembling halo of gray light, and behind it stood a tall gaunt man in a black frock coat. Mrs. Oxenstern recognized him immedi
ately—it was Mr. Ambrose, the man in the painting. She had seen it on the stair when she came to buy the desk. Now as she stood frozen in terror, she saw that the man was fingering some playing cards that lay on the desk. And she heard the words:
Three, seven, nine. And the ace of spades reversed is death!
Then the face of the man changed, so that now she saw a horrible decaying corpse, with glazed unseeing eyes and pallid lips pulled back in a rigid grin. The creature's eyes met hers, and she fell to the floor unconscious.