They certainly came no nearer. Yet he

could not rid himself of the idea that movement was going on somewhere

in the lower regions of the house. The drawing-room floor, where the

doors had been so strangely closed, seemed too near; the sounds were

further off than that. He thought of the great kitchen, with the

scurrying black beetles, and of the dismal little scullery; but,

somehow or other, they did not seem to come from there either. Surely

they were not outside the house!

Then, suddenly, the truth flashed into his mind, and for the space

of a minute he felt as if his blood had stopped flowing and turned to

ice.

The sounds were not downstairs at all; they were

upstairs—upstairs, somewhere among those horrid gloomy little

servants’ rooms with their bits of broken furniture, low ceilings, and

cramped windows—upstairs where the victim had first been disturbed

and stalked to her death.

And the moment he discovered where the sounds were, he began to

hear them more clearly.

It was the sound of feet, moving stealthily along the passage

overhead, in and out among the rooms, and past the furniture.

He turned quickly to steal a glance at the motionless figure seated

beside him, to note whether she had shared his discovery. The faint

candle-light coming through the crack in the cupboard door, threw her

strongly-marked face into vivid relief against the white of the wall.

But it was something else that made him catch his breath and stare

again. An extraordinary something had come into her face and seemed to

spread over her features like a mask; it smoothed out the deep lines

and drew the skin everywhere a little tighter so that the wrinkles

disappeared; it brought into the face—with the sole exception of the

old eyes—an appearance of youth and almost of childhood.

He stared in speechless amazement—amazement that was dangerously

near to horror. It was his aunt’s face indeed, but it was her face of

forty years ago, the vacant innocent face of a girl.

He had heard stories of that strange effect of terror which could

wipe a human countenance clean of other emotions, obliterating all

previous expressions; but he had never realised that it could be

literally true, or could mean anything so simply horrible as what he

now saw. For the dreadful signature of overmastering fear was written

plainly in that utter vacancy of the girlish face beside him; and

when, feeling his intense gaze, she turned to look at him, he

instinctively closed his eyes tightly to shut out the sight.

Yet, when he turned a minute later, his feelings well in hand, he

saw to his intense relief another expression; his aunt was smiling,

and though the face was deathly white, the awful veil had lifted and

the normal look was returning.

“Anything wrong?” was all he could think of to say at the moment.

And the answer was eloquent, coming from such a woman.

“I feel cold—and a little frightened,” she whispered.

He offered to close the window, but she seized hold of him and

begged him not to leave her side even for an instant.

“It’s upstairs, I know,” she whispered, with an odd half-laugh; ”

but I can’t possibly go up.”

But Shorthouse thought otherwise, knowing that in action lay their

best hope of self-control.

He took the brandy flask and poured out a glass of neat spirit,

stiff enough to help anybody over anything. She swallowed it with a

little shiver. His only idea now was to get out of the house before

her collapse became inevitable; but this could not safely be done by

turning tail and running from the enemy. Inaction was no longer

possible; every minute he was growing less master of himself, and

desperate, aggressive measures were imperative without further delay.

Moreover, the action must be taken towards the enemy, not away from

it; the climax, if necessary and unavoidable, would have to be faced

boldly. He could do it now; but in ten minutes he might not have the

force left to act for himself, much less for both!

Upstairs, the sounds were meanwhile becoming louder and closer,

accompanied by occasional creaking of the boards. Someone was moving

stealthily about, stumbling now and then awkwardly against the

furniture.

Waiting a few moments to allow the tremendous dose of spirits to

produce its effect, and knowing this would last but a short time under

the circumstances, Shorthouse then quietly got on his feet, saying in

a determined voice:

“Now Aunt Julia, we’ll go upstairs and find out what all this noise

is about. You must come too.