“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. “Quite sure, only one thing—”

“What’s that?”

“You must never leave me alone for an instant.”

“As long as you understand that any sound or appearance must be

investigated at once, for to hesitate means to admit fear. That is

fatal.”

“Agreed,” she said, a little shakily, after a moment’s hesitation.

“I’ll try—”

Arm in arm, Shorthouse holding the dripping candle and the stick,

while his aunt carried the cloak over her shoulders, figures of utter

comedy to all but themselves, they began a systematic search.

Stealthily, walking on tip-toe and shading the candle lest it

should betray their presence.through the shutterless windows, they went

first into the big dining-room. There was not a stick of furniture to

be seen. Bare walls, ugly mantel-pieces and empty grates stared at

them.

Everything, they felt, resented their intrusion, watching them, as

it were, with veiled eyes; whispers followed them; shadows flitted

noiselessly to right and left; something seemed ever at their back,

watching, waiting an opportunity to do them injury. There was the

inevitable sense that operations which went on when the room was empty

had been temporarily suspended till they were well out of the way

again. The whole dark interior of the old building seemed to become a

malignant Presence that rose up, warning them to desist and mind their

own business; every moment the strain on the nerves increased.

Out of the gloomy dining-room they passed through large folding

doors into a sort of library or smoking-room, wrapt equally in

silence, darkness, and dust; and from this they regained the hall near

the top of the back stairs.

Here a pitch black tunnel opened before them into the lower

regions, and—it must be confessed—they hesitated. But only for a

minute. With the worst of the night still to come it was essential to

turn from nothing. Aunt Julia stumbled at the top step of the dark

descent, ill lit by the flickering candle, and even Shorthouse felt at

least half the decision go out of his legs.

“Come on!” he said peremptorily, and his voice ran on and lost

itself in the dark, empty spaces below.