Harp's Manor

INSTALLMENT XIII

June 2, 1928

Ha! Saturday has come and gone, and I guessed right!

I allowed myself to sleep for a few hours; then, when I deemed it necessary to take precautions so as not to be caught by anyone in the early morning, snuck out donned in an old black cloak. Usually I wear it on long voyages, but this stealth mission suited it perfectly fine. I nearly tripped over my own hem on the staircase, but made it downstairs without a noise.

During my furtive steal through the mansion, I found Mr. Griffiths asleep on one of the futons, curiously enough. I haven't any idea what he was doing there. I suspect, however, that it had something to do with an empty bottle on the side table next to him.

I didn't exactly know where the mail was delivered, or which direction it arrived from. Instead, I was hoping on having some miracle of luck guide me to where I needed to go. It was a flimsy plan, made even worse considering the stakes, but what else was I to do? The idea that it might be more difficult than I had thought didn't occur to me until I found myself alone in the middle of the vast manor. It really is eerie at night, with every footstep magnified through echoes a tenfold. Shadows don't line up where they should, due to the slant of the windows. Once or twice, I thought I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, but whipping around, realized it was only my imagination.

I must have discovered at least a dozen new hallways before I finally accepted that I had no idea where I was, and that it was about time I began thinking about the situation critically instead of wandering aimlessly about. If I were the Saturday Gazette, where would I go? No; it wasn't a question of where it would go, as I already knew that. With this information, however, I realized I could work my way backwards. The paper would probably arrive with the rest of the mail; or at least I supposed it would, assuming it wasn't a backhand trade with the postal worker. It would end up in the breakfast room. Someone had to carry it there, but whom?

Some days, I had arrived early enough to witness the delivery of the mail. Mostly, it went to Miss Jacobs and Mr. Weaver, with Bridget getting fan letters often enough. It was always carried in by the same man whom Miss Hansen had terrorized, a man I had begun accustomed to seeing around the house. I supposed he was the butler. He brought in the letters, but from where?

I paused in my search. What a magnificently foolish person I was! It was mail; wouldn't it go in the letter-box?

I glanced around uncertainly. Now I knew where I was to go; if only I knew where I was. All the hallways in Harp's Manor look relatively similar, especially at night. If only I hadn't been so daft and walked directly past the foyer! Here I was, imagining some special mail room, when the answer had been glaringly obvious. An infant would have done better at locating the mail than I.

I tried retracing my steps, but found myself in a new hallway, which discouraged me. Outside, the moon was already beginning to sink. Was the night really that short? How long had I been dawdling about? Worry beginning to whisper in the back of my mind, I began setting off down hallways at random, determined that, if I could not precisely figure out where I was, I'd eventually get back to the foyer sometime before the sun rose.

I must have ended up in the north wing of the mansion, because nothing looked very familiar. There was a rather ugly statue of George Washington placed across from a mirror that I ended up passing twice. I had to stop and inspect it the second time. Either the mason had made a mistake, or they really disliked old George, because they had somehow captured him mid-blink in a statue! "It'll get better, old chap," I said, patting him on the shoulder.

Out of sheer interest, I poked open a few doors during my excursion. I knew I was supposed to be hurrying, but there were so many of them, and some very elaborately designed ones, too. They exuded the aura of something holding great importance behind it.