The Secret of the Haunted Mirror - M. V. Carey [2]
“Mirrors?” said Uncle Titus.
“Yes. I collect them. Do come in and see.”
She turned and swept up the walk and into the house, her wide skirt rustling as she walked.
“Does she always dress like that?” asked Pete.
“She is a most interesting lady,” said Worthington. “I drive for her rather frequently, as she does not care to keep her own automobile. You’ll find her house fascinating.”
The house was fascinating. The boys and Uncle Titus followed Worthington through an entrance hall that was dim and strangely chilly. To the left, a large staircase climbed majestically to the second floor; beyond it a long, narrow hallway went off to the side, stretching almost the length of the house. To the right, ornate double doors gave on to a room that was too dark to see into. The visitors were led straight ahead into a vast living-room – a room where the walls seemed alive with shadows that shifted and pulsed. Heavy curtains shut out the sunlight, and it took the boys a moment to realize that the moving shadows were their own images. They saw themselves reflected in mirrors – dozens of mirrors, perhaps hundreds. They saw reflections of their reflections. The room seemed to be occupied not by three investigators, but by thirty or three hundred.
“Lovely, aren’t they?” Mrs. Darnley’s image shifted through the mirrors as she appeared at Jupe’s elbow.
“I feel kind of dizzy,” said Pete.
“Then sit down,” advised Mrs. Darnley. She herself perched on a small chair near the fireplace. “My mirrors are almost all old,” she told them, “and they all have a story. It’s taken me a lifetime to collect them. I started when I was a little girl. Do you remember the story about Alice going through the looking-glass and finding that wonderful world where everything was turned around? When I was very young I thought that I could do that if I could only find the right looking-glass.”
A boy about Pete’s age and size came into the room. He had carrot-coloured hair and his nose was spattered with freckles. Behind him was a girl who was almost as tall as he, but whose hair was darker. She smiled at Worthington, who stood stiffly near one of the windows. Her eyes went to Uncle Titus and then to the boys.
“These are my grandchildren,” said Mrs. Darnley. “Jean and Jeff Parkinson.
Children, this is Mr. Titus Jones, who owns the famous salvage yard, his nephew Jupiter, and their friends, Bob and Pete.”
“The Three Investigators!” exclaimed Jeff.
“What timing!” said the girl. “Just when we’ve had a burglar – not that he took anything.”
“Nothing is missing?” asked Mrs. Darnley.
“Not so far as we can tell,” Jean answered.
They heard a siren then, coming up the hill.
“That’ll be the police,” said Mrs. Darnley. “Jean, you let them in. And Worthington, please sit down. You look so uncomfortable standing there like a post.”
“Yes, madam,” said Worthington, and he found a chair.
Jean ushered two young patrolmen, into the room. One of them dropped his cap when he saw Mrs. Darnley in her brocade finery. She ignored his surprise and briefly told the policemen what had happened.
“I was upstairs having a cup of tea,” she said. “My houseman, John Chan, was with me. He was serving. Neither of us heard anything unusual. Doubtless the burglar thought there was no one in the house. However, when Worthington and my grandchildren came back from Farmers’ Market, they surprised the housebreaker. He was in the library, and so far as we know he took nothing. Perhaps he didn’t have time.”
Worthington and the boys then described the person who had fled from the house
– short, very thin, dark-haired and wiry, middle-aged but strong and quick. Jupiter described the car in which the man had made his escape.
“Thousands of cars like that,” said one of the policemen. “Did you get the licence number?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t” said Jupiter. “There was mud on the car and on the plate.”
The policeman wrote something in his notebook and