He was a man easily smiled at; a little birdlike individual carrying an umbrella and wearing upon his pink face a look remindful of happy secrets about to be revealed. He came to my desk during the midafternoon lull and said, "I am Professor Jonathan Waits. I have come to avail myself of your facilities."

I had never heard it put quite that way before, but from Professor Waits, it did not sound stilted. It was the way you would expect him to put it. He beamed at the ceiling and said, "What a fine old library, my dear. I must bring Nicholas some time."

I gave him the smile reserved financial supporters and unknown quantatives and asked, "Could I be of service?"

He didn't get to it immediately. "I understand this library is fairly crammed with old records—data on the historical aspects of this area. Personal histories and such."

He had a way of radiating his own cheerful mood. "Oh yes," I assured him. "It's an exceptional day when we don't sweep a D.A.R. or two out of the aisles come closing time."

This, according to his laugh, was quite good. He said, "I'm sure we'll get on splendidly, Miss—?"

"—Hopstead."

"Are you a native?"

"A New Englander from way back," I assured him. "Some of my ancestors used to drink buttered rum with Captain Rogers."

"Then possibly you'd like to know about my work."

"I certainly would." And, strangely enough, I did.

"I am a researcher into the—well, the unusual."

"Psychic research?" I inquired, wanting him to know we New Englanders were not dullards.

"No. Nothing to do with the supernatural at all. My work is to prove that all occurrences, however mysterious, are the logical result of previous actions of individuals; that superstitions are the result, not so much of ignorance, but lack of knowledge."

While I wrestled with that one, he said, "Maybe I could be a trifle more explicit."

"That would help."

His bright little eyes got even brighter. "Do you know, by chance, of the Reamer mansion over in Carleton?"

I certainly did. It was some thirty miles from Patterson, but as a child, I'd visited the place. All children within the radius had visited the Reamer mansion at least once. It was an ancient fifteen room cockroach trap with such a history of death and violence behind it as to cause the kids to walk on tiptoe through its silent rooms. I told the professor I knew about it.

"It has been vacant for fifteen years," he observed.

"And will be vacant for twice fifteen more, I imagine."

"That's just the point. Superstition. Otherwise solid and sane people wouldn't dream of moving into the Reamer mansion. And it's so silly."

"It is?"

"Of course. And that's why I'm here. I intend to prove, so the most stubborn will understand, that the house itself has nothing whatsoever to do with its own grim past; that the people who lived in it are to blame."

It was a dull day and he was such an apparently sincere little man that I decided to keep the conversation alive. "I'm afraid you'll have a hard time proving it. Let's see—the first one was old Silas Reamer. He committed suicide there. That was sometime around 1925. Then—"

"—His son, Henry Reamer, was found dead under mysterious circumstances two years later. Murder was obvious, but nothing has ever been done about it."

I frowned in mock severity. "I don't like the way you put that, Professor. Do you imply that we New Englanders condone violence?"

"Oh, not at all. There were just—no clues, from what I've learned. The next unfortunate, a renter named Miles McCormick, was found dead along with his wife and child as a result of lethal gas from a faulty stove."

"That happened the year I was born. We have the old newspapers here, telling about it."

"Those reports, along with other material are what I wish to study," Professor Waits said, then went on. "The house stood vacant for five years, until a Johnathan Hays bought it."

"But Johnathan Hays never moved in. He died of a heart attack while carrying a chair through the front door."

He beamed on me. "You are a remarkably alert young woman; well up in local history."

"With no credit to me. You'd be hard put finding a citizen around here who doesn't know the history of the Reamer mansion."

"Not 'of the Reamer mansion', my dear. Of the people who just happened to reap their ill-fortune there."

"You insist the house had nothing to do with it?"

"Nothing whatever."

"Professor—I wonder if you know how big a bite you've taken? If you go up in the hills hereabouts you'll find whole families living in dirt-floor houses. You'll find children who never heard of a bath or a telephone. But you won't find one person who would live in the Reamer mansion for a salary paid promptly every Saturday morning."

"Nonetheless," Professor Waits replied, "the so-called jinx of the mansion, or any other maligned locality, is a matter of monstrous coincidence. The truth lies hidden in the lives of the people involved. I've been ferreting out that truth."

"You mean this isn't a beginning, Professor?"

He grasped his umbrella in a manner indicating he meant to spear a dragon in case there were any around, and said, "Oh my no! I've been tracing the lives of the principals in this drama for some time. It involves long, tedious work. I must not only dig into the lives of the unfortunates themselves, but also into those of kin; even—in some cases—friends."

"What did you find out about the murder?"

He evaded neatly. "I am not seeking a killer as such. Relative to that facet of the case, I am more interested in Henry Reamer himself. A very wise man once said, 'If you would understand violence, look also into the heart of the murdered'. A man carries the seeds of his destiny in his own soul."

"And you intend to prove it?"

"I am finding more proof every day. Soon I shall publish a paper which will startle the thinking world."

I could see the Professor wasn't one to be backed into any corners. "And how can I help in this work?"

"I am tracing at the moment, certain details in the life of Mabel Tutworthy, an aunt of Silas Reamer. Unauthenticated legends indicate she killed an eight-point buck once, with her bare hands, and dragged it home across ten miles of forest."

"I've heard that, and it's probably true. You think it has something to do with what happened to Silas?"

"—And his son Henry."

"I think you'll find what you want in that section by the south window. It's devoted to local history."

"Thank you, my dear." He moved away, reminding me somehow, of a happy retriever going into a lake after a duck. Halfway to the shelves, he halted suddenly and turned. "Did you know that seventy percent of the accidents happen to twenty percent of the people?"

I didn't, but I refused to admit such backwardness. "I certainly do. Amazing, isn't it?"

"That is one of the pillars upon which my work is based."

"And there are others?"

"Seven in all."

He didn't tell me what the other six were. Instead he disappeared into local history and left me with the latest best seller I was reading under the counter lest some child come in and be stripped of all innocence by one glance.

It was two hours before Professor Waits reappeared. He carried a small blue notebook in one hand and a stub pencil in the other. He was positively beaming. "A gold mine," he said. "A veritable gold mine. Did you know that Ezekial Webb, a cousin of William Tutworthy was gored by a bull in the year 1862?"

"No—really?"

Then I was truly ashamed of myself. He was such a pleasant, sincere little man and he got such fun out of life. But he misinterpreted my boorishness for true enthusiasm and said, "It's a fact! Imagine! Walking in here and finding one of the links I've hunted for months. I'm indebted to you, my dear, for directing me to that book shelf."

I could have told him he was under no obligation; that I got, each week, the coolie stipend of twenty eight dollars for doing just that; but I didn't want him starting an investigation into peonage system practiced in libraries and schools.

Then something in the little man's manner, sobered me. "Professor—exactly why are you doing this?"

He blinked. "I have plenty of money. I have the time. It interests me. And I feel it a worthy occupation; gathering knowledge through which people may know the true causes of misfortune; may throw off the yoke of superstition."

"You feel, then, that nothing happens by chance?"

"My dear," he said, solemnly, "in this ordered universe there can be no such thing. Action and achievement—cause and result. The revealing pattern of each man's actions is in the pasts of himself and his antecedents."

"And by proving this you will exonerate the Reamer mansion of all guilt?"

He smiled. "You are a most intelligent young lady. Most intelligent! I shall see a great deal of you in the weeks to come."

It was not a distasteful prospect. I liked the Professor and was glad he liked me. After he left I went back and found not a single book out of place. I liked him even more.

Two weeks passed before I saw Professor Waits again. He came in out of the sunshine, carrying his black umbrella and wearing the same black string necktie. I was busy at the time, finding an acceptable book for Mrs. Winsolow's little Freddie who was in bed with the pip. When I got clear, Professor Waits was deep in his research and I did not disturb him.

He came pattering out just before closing time and I was struck by the somber—almost sad—expression he wore.

"Did you have trouble finding what you wanted, Professor?"

"Oh no. The records are most voluminous. It's just—well, the nature of my discoveries."

"Bad?"

"Very bad, Miss Hopstead. Do you know who Henry Reamer's murderer was?"

"No."

"Miles McCormick, the renter who died there so tragically with his family."

I didn't quite know how to respond; whether I should faint or scream for the police. I settled for a philosophical comment. "A case of justice by a higher power."

"You mean McCormick's death?"

"Of course."

"On the contrary. There was no connection at all between the two events. McCormick and his wife and child died because they violated a certain law, but not necessarily a law on the statute books."

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow that."

"Look at it this way, Miss Hopstead. You are walking through a dark room. A door is standing open. You come into violent contact with the edge of it. What happens?"

"A broken nose? A black eye."

"Precisely. The fact you didn't know the door was there didn't protect you from the consequences."

This of course, I was forced to concede.

"Now let's go a step further by taking, as example, a lower mentality than our own. A horse, knowing nothing of the laws of electricity, would step on a high voltage wire and never know why it was electrocuted. In such a case, the animal would violate a law it did not know existed."

I was beginning to see what he was driving at. "You mean—"

"We are far above the horse in mentality and understanding but there are still many laws we do not understand. That is what my work involves."

I insisted upon being heard. "You mean a lot of apparently innocent things we do are really electric wires."

He beamed. "Exactly. When we reap misfortune it is because we violate some law. Ignorance of that law doesn't change the end-result one iota."

"And you're trying to find out what these—these booby traps are?"

"Oh I know many of them already. My paper will surprise the world. I'm working on a more advanced phase of the problem now. I am tracing a pattern of interlocking violations to show that the scene of the end-results can be only sheerest coincidence. I want to banish once and for all the superstition-stigma attached to scenes of repeated misfortune and violence."

"The Reamer mansion."

"That's right. And now I must be going, Miss Hopstead." He gave me the departing smile and started for the door.

"Professor Waits."

"Yes?"

"About Mabel Tutworthy. Did she really drag that buck ten miles."

"No. It was only a fawn. And she killed it less than a mile from her cabin."

"And the murder of Henry Reamer. What proof—?"

"Nothing the police would be interested in. It was the end-result of a cause they won't understand until my work is published and given study."

He opened the door, looked around, smiled. "This is certainly a fine old building. I must bring Nicholas with me the next time."

With that, he was gone.

I found myself looking forward to his next visit. I looked and looked and a month passed and a tall, serious-faced youth came into the library and waited until I'd finished checking in Mrs. Garvey's returns.

"I understand," he said, "that you have an immense store of local history in this library?"

"The section by the south window."

"Thank you." He peered at me through thick lenses. "Thank you Miss—"

"—Hopstead."

"Miss Hopstead. I am Nicholas Worthy. Possibly you knew a friend of mine. Professor Waits? I am carrying on his work."

"Carrying on—? Did something happen to—?"

"Oh. Then you didn't hear. It was most tragic. Professor Waits died of pneumonia. A great loss—a great loss."

I was deeply shocked. My feeling was that of losing a close friend. "No, I hadn't heard. It must have been very sudden."

"It was. He was advanced in years, you know, and after he fell, pneumonia set in quickly. They were unable to save him."

"The Professor had an accident?"

"Yes. He fell down the main staircase of the Reamer mansion and broke his hip."