The ugly, lined, enigmatical face was

alive with excitement. There was the glow of genuine enthusiasm round

it like a halo. The eyes shone. He caught another wave of her

excitement, and a second tremor, more marked than the first,

accompanied it.

“Thanks, Aunt Julia,” he said politely; “thanks awfully.”

“I should not dare to go quite alone,” she went on, raising her

voice; “but with you I should enjoy it immensely. You’re afraid of

nothing, I know.”

“Thanks so much,” he said again. “Er—is anything likely to

happen?”

“A great deal has happened,” she whispered, “though it’s been most

cleverly hushed up.

Three tenants have come and gone in the last few months, and the

house is said to be empty for good now.”

In spite of himself Shorthouse became interested. His aunt was so

very much in earnest.

“The house is very old indeed,” she went on, “and the story—an

unpleasant one—dates a long way back. It has to do with a murder

committed by a jealous stableman who had some affair with a servant in

the house. One night he managed to secrete himself in the cellar, and

when everyone was asleep, he crept upstairs to the servants’ quarters,

chased the girl down to the next landing, and before anyone could come

to the rescue threw her bodily over the banisters into the hall

below.”

“And the stableman—?”

“Was caught, I believe, and hanged for murder; but it all happened

a century ago, and I’ve not been able to get more details of the

story.”

Shorthouse now felt his interest thoroughly aroused; but, though he

was not particularly nervous for himself, he hesitated a little on his

aunt’s account.

“On one condition,” he said at length.

“Nothing will prevent my going,” she said firmly; “but I may as

well hear your condition.”

“That you guarantee your power of self-control if anything really

horrible happens. I mean— that you are sure you won’t get too

frightened.”

“Jim,” she said scornfully, “I’m not young, I know, nor are my

nerves; but with you I should be afraid of nothing in the world!”

This, of course, settled it, for Shorthouse had no pretensions to

being other than a very ordinary young man, and an appeal to his

vanity was irresistible. He agreed to go.

Instinctively, by a sort of sub-conscious preparation, he kept

himself and his forces well in hand the whole evening, compelling an

accumulative reserve of control by that nameless inward process of

gradually putting all the emotions away and turning the key upon

them—a process difficult to describe, but wonderfully effective, as

all men who have lived through severe trials of the inner man well

understand. Later, it stood him in good stead.

But it was not until half-past ten, when they stood in the hall,

well in the glare of friendly lamps and still surrounded by comforting

human influences, that he had to make the first call upon this store

of collected strength. For, once the door was closed, and he saw the

deserted.silent street stretching away white in the moonlight before

them, it came to him clearly that the real test that night would be in

dealing with two fears instead of one. He would have to carry his

aunt’s fear as well as his own. And, as he glanced down at her

sphinx-like countenance and realised that it might assume no pleasant

aspect in a rush of real terror, he felt satisfied with only one thing

in the whole adventure—that he had confidence in his own will and

power to stand against any shock that might come.

Slowly they walked along the empty streets of the town; a bright

autumn moon silvered the roofs, casting deep shadows; there was no

breath of wind; and the trees in the formal gardens by the sea-front

watched them silently as they passed along. To his aunt’s occasional

remarks Shorthouse made no reply, realising that she was simply

surrounding herself with mental buffers—saying ordinary things to

prevent herself thinking of extraordinary things. Few windows showed

lights, and from scarcely a single chimney came smoke or sparks.

Shorthouse had already begun to notice everything, even the smallest

details. Presently they stopped at the street corner and looked up at

the name on the side of the house full in the moonlight, and with one

accord, but without remark, turned into the square and crossed over to

the side of it that lay in shadow.

“The number of the house is thirteen,” whispered a voice at his

side; and neither of them made the obvious reference, but passed

across the broad sheet of moonlight and began to march up the pavement

in silence.

It was about half-way up the square that Shorthouse felt an arm

slipped quietly but significantly into his own, and knew then that

their adventure had begun in earnest, and that his companion was

already yielding imperceptibly to the influences against them. She

needed support.