Here also was no sign of furniture

or recent occupancy; nothing but dust and neglect and shadows. They

opened the big folding doors between front and back drawing-rooms and

then came out again to the landing and went on upstairs.

They had not gone up more than a dozen steps when they both

simultaneously stopped to listen, looking into each other’s eyes with

a new apprehension across the flickering candle flame.

From the room they had left hardly ten seconds before came the

sound of doors quietly closing.

It was beyond all question; they heard the booming noise that

accompanies the shutting of heavy doors, followed by the sharp

catching of the latch.

“We must go back and see,” said Shorthouse briefly, in a low tone,

and turning to go downstairs again.

Somehow she managed to drag after him, her feet catching in her

dress, her face livid.

When they entered the front drawing-room it was plain that the

folding doors had been closed—half a minute before. Without

hesitation Shorthouse opened them. He almost expected to see someone

facing him in the back room; but only darkness and cold air met him.

They went through both rooms, finding nothing unusual. They tried in

every way to make the doors close of themselves, but there was not

wind enough even to set the candle flame flickering. The doors would

not move without strong pressure. All was silent as the grave.

Undeniably the rooms were utterly empty, and the house utterly still.

“It’s beginning,” whispered a voice at his elbow which be hardly

recognised as his aunt’s.

He nodded acquiescence, taking out his watch to note the time. It

was fifteen minutes before midnight; he made the entry of exactly what

had occurred in his notebook, setting the candle in its case upon the

floor in order to do so. It took a moment or two to balance it safely

against the wall.

Aunt Julia always declared that at this moment she was not actually

watching him, but had turned her head towards the inner room, where

she fancied she heard something moving; but, at any rate, both

positively agreed that there came a sound of rushing feet, heavy and

very swift— and the next instant the candle was out!

But to Shorthouse himself had come more than this, and he has

always thanked his fortunate stars that it came to him alone and not

to his aunt too. For, as he rose from the stooping position of

balancing the candle, and before it was actually extinguished, a face

thrust itself forward so close to his own that he could almost have

touched it with his lips. It was a face working with passion; a man’s

face, dark, with thick features, and angry, savage eyes. It belonged to

a common man, and it was evil in its ordinary normal expression, no

doubt, but as he saw it, alive with intense, aggressive emotion, it

was a malignant and terrible human countenance.

There was no movement of the air; nothing but the sound of rushing

feet—stockinged or muffled feet; the apparition of the face; and the

almost simultaneous extinguishing of the candle.

In spite of himself, Shorthouse uttered a little cry, nearly losing

his balance as his aunt clung to him with her whole weight in one

moment of real, uncontrollable terror. She made no sound, but simply

seized him bodily. Fortunately, however, she had seen nothing, but had

only heard the.rushing feet, for her control returned almost at once,

and he was able to disentangle himself and strike a match.

The shadows ran away on all sides before the glare, and his aunt

stooped down and groped for the cigar case with the precious candle.

Then they discovered that the candle had not been blown out at all; it

had been crushed out. The wick was pressed down into the wax, which was

flattened as if by some smooth, heavy instrument.