A few minutes later they stopped before a tall, narrow house that

rose before them into the night, ugly in shape and painted a dingy

white. Shutterless windows, without blinds, stared down upon them,

shining here and there in the moonlight. There were weather streaks in

the wall and cracks in the paint, and the balcony bulged out from the

first floor a little unnaturally. But, beyond this generally forlorn

appearance of an occupied house, there was nothing at first sight to

single out this particular mansion for the evil character it had most

certainly acquired.

Taking a look over their shoulders to make sure they had not been

followed, they went boldly up the steps and stood against the huge

black door that fronted them forbiddingly. But the first wave of

nervousness was now upon them, and Shorthouse fumbled a long time with

the key before he could fit it into the lock at all. For a moment, if

truth were told, they both hoped it would not open, for they were a

prey to various unpleasant emotions as they stood there on the

threshold of their ghostly adventure. Shorthouse, shuffling with the

key and hampered by the steady weight on his arm, certainly felt the

solemnity of the moment. It was as if the whole world—for all

experience seemed at that instant concentrated in his own

consciousness—were listening to the grating noise of that key. A

stray puff of wind wandering down the empty street woke a momentary

rustling in the trees behind them, but otherwise this rattling of the

key was the only sound audible; and at last it turned in the lock and

the heavy door swung open and revealed a yawning gulf of darkness

beyond.

With a last glance at the moonlit square, they passed quickly in

and the door slammed behind them with a roar that echoed prodigiously

through empty halls and passages. But, instantly, with the echoes,

another sound made itself heard, and Aunt Julia leaned suddenly so

heavily upon him that he had to take a step backwards to save himself

from falling.

A man had coughed close beside him—so close that it seemed they

must have been actually.by his side in the darkness.

With the possibility of practical jokes in his mind, Shorthouse at

once swung his heavy stick in the direction of the sound; but it met

nothing more solid than air. He heard his aunt give a little gasp

beside him.

“There’s someone here,” she whispered; “I heard him.”

“Be quiet!” he said sternly. “It was nothing but the noise of the

front door.”

“Oh! get a light—quick!” she added, as her nephew, fumbling with a

box of matches, opened it upside down and let them all fall with a

rattle on to the stone floor.

The sound, however, was not repeated; and there was no evidence of

retreating footsteps. In another minute they had a candle burning,

using an empty end of a cigar case as a holder; and when the first

flare had died down he held the impromptu lamp aloft and surveyed the

scene.

And it was dreary enough in all conscience, for there is nothing

more desolate in all the abodes of men than an unfurnished house dimly

lit, silent, and forsaken, and yet tenanted by rumour with the

memories of evil and violent histories.

They were standing in a wide hall-way; on their left was the open

door of a spacious dining-room, and in front the hall ran, ever

narrowing, into a long, dark passage that led apparently to the top of

the kitchen stairs. The broad uncarpeted staircase rose in a sweep

before them, everywhere draped in shadows, except for a single spot

about half-way up where the moonlight came in through the window and

fell in a bright patch on the boards. This shaft of light shed a faint

radiance above and below it, lending to the objects within its reach a

misty outline that was infinitely more suggestive and ghostly than

complete darkness. Filtered moonlight always seems to paint faces on

the surrounding gloom, and as Shorthouse peered up into the well of

darkness and thought of the countless empty rooms and passages in the

upper part of the old house, he caught himself longing again for the

safety of the moonlit square, or the cosy, bright drawing-room they

had left an hour before. Then realising that these thoughts were

dangerous, he thrust them away again and summoned all his energy for

concentration on the present.

“Aunt Julia,” he said aloud, severely, “we must now go through the

house from top to bottom and make a thorough search.”

The echoes of his voice died away slowly all over the building, and

in the intense silence that followed he turned to look at her. In the

candle-light he saw that her face was already ghastly pale; but she

dropped his arm for a moment and said in a whisper, stepping close in

front of him— “I agree. We must be sure there’s no one hiding.

That’s the first thing.”

She spoke with evident effort, and he looked at her with

admiration.

“You feel quite sure of yourself? It’s not too late— “I think

so,” she whispered, her eyes shifting nervously towards the shadows

behind.