“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.

How his companion so quickly overcame her terror, Shorthouse never

properly understood; but his admiration for her self-control increased

tenfold, and at the same time served to feed his own dying flame—for

which he was undeniably grateful. Equally inexplicable to him was the

evidence of physical force they had just witnessed. He at once

suppressed the memory of stories he had heard of “physical mediums”

and their dangerous phenomena; for if these were true, and either his

aunt or himself was unwittingly a physical medium, it meant that they

were simply aiding to focus the forces of a haunted house already

charged to the brim. It was like walking with unprotected lamps among

uncovered stores of gunpowder.

So, with as little reflection as possible, he simply relit the

candle and went tip to the next floor. The arm in his trembled, it is

true, and his own tread was often uncertain, but they went on with

thoroughness, and after a search revealing nothing they climbed the

last flight of stairs to the top floor of all.

Here they found a perfect nest of small servants’ rooms, with

broken pieces of furniture, dirty cane-bottomed chairs, chests of

drawers, cracked mirrors, and decrepit bedsteads. The rooms had low

sloping ceilings already hung here and there with cobwebs, small

windows, and badly plastered walls—a depressing and dismal region

which they were glad to leave behind.

It was on the stroke of midnight when they entered a small room on

the third floor, close to the top of the stairs, and arranged to make

themselves comfortable for the remainder of their adventure. It was

absolutely bare, and was said to be the room—then used as a clothes

closet— into which the infuriated groom had chased his victim and

finally caught her. Outside, across the narrow landing, began the

stairs leading up to the floor above, and the servants’ quarters where

they had just searched.

In spite of the chilliness of the night there was something in the

air of this room that cried for an open window. But there was more

than this. Shorthouse could only describe it by saying that he felt

less master of himself here than in any other part of the house. There

was something that acted directly on the nerves, tiring the

resolution, enfeebling the will.