The two men disembarked. Splashing through mud, they groped their way to the front of the coupe. From there they stumbled forward until they struck the house steps. The sweeping beat of the rain ended as they gained the shelter beneath a porch roof.
Goodling struck a match. The flame showed a front door. The youthful prosecutor approached and hammered against the barrier. While he waited for an answer, he spoke to his companion.
“Do you know, Fred,” remarked Goodling, “I would wager that neither of us would recognize this place if we saw it in daylight. Steps — a porch — a window — that’s all. We don’t know if the house is a big one or a small one.”
“Or whether it’s stone or wood,” laughed Lanford. “We do know that it’s somewhere on the old road to Westbury. We saw the sign. But outside of that—”
He broke off. A sound was coming from beyond the door. Listening, the young men heard the grate of rusty bolts. Above the sweep and beat of the rain the sound was strangely ominous.
Then the door swung inward. A burst of light glared from the hall within. It showed the strained faces of the two arrivals. It also revealed the figure of the person who had answered their knock.
A HUGE, stoop-shouldered fellow was standing just within the doorway, his big fists clenched. Glowering eyes peered from a scarred face. Bloated lips showed a fierce scowl of challenge. The man spoke harshly:
“Come in.”
Almost mechanically, the two obeyed. Hardly were they across the threshold before the huge man thrust the door shut and pressed the bolts. Swinging about, he faced the two who were watching them. He uttered a gruff laugh.
“Go in there” — the man pointed to the door of a dimly lighted room — “while I go and tell that you are here. Stay in that room.”
The eyes retained their glower. The big fists tightened. Fred Lanford turned about instinctively and entered the door that the huge fellow had indicated. Jay Goodling, almost ready to meet the man’s challenge, decided better. He turned about and followed Lanford.
The room was a parlor, sparse of furnishing; but its few chairs were expensive ones. Goodling sat down; Lanford followed suit. Both watched the door through which they had come. The big man was still standing there; his attitude that of a huge hound ready to make an attack.
Neither Goodling nor Lanford made a move. Satisfied at last, the big man stepped away. His figure passed from view, while the visitors still stared, like statues in their chairs.
The big man’s heavy footsteps faded in the uncarpeted hall. The listeners heard a sound that resembled the creaking of a stairway. Then came silence, tempered only by the unceasing patter of the heavy rain upon the outside porch.
The glimmer of two floor lamps showed the room in somber outline. A deep depression had fallen upon those two men who had stepped into this outlandish setting.
The parlor seemed unreal, like a fanciful room plucked from a terrifying dream. The hush that filled it was a portion of the silence that seemed to pervade the whole building.
Neither Goodling nor Lanford spoke during those first minutes of ghastly silence. Yet the thoughts that they held were identical, forced by the pall of these strange surroundings.
Stupefied by the atmosphere that gripped them, these chance arrivals felt themselves within a house of doom.
CHAPTER II
LIVING AND DEAD
“WHAT do you make of it, Jay?”
Fred Lanford whispered the question huskily. Tense and nervous, he had managed to find his voice. He was looking at Jay Goodling as he spoke.
Goodling held up his hand for silence. The youthful prosecutor had become stolid. He was listening for sounds that might indicate the return of the huge servant who had introduced them to this room.
Hearing nothing, Goodling arose from his chair. He stared toward the open door that led to the hallway. Then he looked about the room and spied two heavy curtains that indicated a wide doorway at the rear.
Directly opposite the front window, these draperies showed that there was another apartment adjoining the parlor. Softly, Goodling trod in that direction. He drew back the curtains to disclose a pair of sliding doors. These barriers were shut.
“I wonder what’s in back of these,” he remarked quietly. “Suppose I take a look, Fred, while we’re waiting.”
“It might mean trouble, Jay,” rejoined Lanford. “We’ve barged into something by accident. The best thing we can do is to sit tight.”
“And wait for trouble? I don’t see it that way, Fred. We did not come here as intruders. We made one mistake by not asserting ourselves before we entered.”
“If you start prying, Jay, you’ll be making a new mistake.”
“You forget my status, Fred. This house is certainly within the limits of Sheffield County. My position as prosecutor entitles me to—”
He broke off, swinging from the sliding doors. The curtains dropped as Goodling released them. The prosecutor had heard a sound from the hallway. Lanford joined him in staring toward the door through which they had entered this parlor.
STANDING in the doorway was a dark-haired girl of twenty. The beauty of her face was apparent despite her paleness. She was attired in a black traveling dress; like her hair, the darkness of this costume accentuated her pallor.
Goodling bowed and smiled. Lanford came to his feet. He was smiling also; but the girl’s face remained troubled. The girl darted a quick look back into the hall; then stepped into the parlor.
“You must go!” she said, tensely. “It is not safe here. Go. At once. Before Croy returns.”
“Croy?” quizzed Goodling. “You mean the big fellow who opened the door for us?”
The brunette nodded.
“I think that we’ll stay,” decided Goodling. “We came here as strangers; but we were told that our arrival would be announced. I think that we are entitled to something of an explanation.”
The girl shook her head.
“You don’t agree with me?” questioned Goodling. “Well, perhaps if I explain who we are and how we happened to come here, you will understand the circumstances. May I do so, Miss—”
Goodling paused quizzically, hoping that the girl would announce her name, just as she had stated the name of the servant. Instead, the brunette continued to shake her head.
“I can not tell you who I am,” she declared emphatically. “I can only say that you would be wise to leave. If you go, I can explain your departure. You must leave at once.”
This time it was Goodling who shook his head. The girl sighed, hopelessly, and looked appealingly toward Lanford. For a moment, Fred was on the point of arguing with Goodling; but he saw the determined look on the prosecutor’s face and knew that persuasion would be useless.
“Very well,” said the girl, wearily. “I have advised you to go. Your own stubbornness will be to blame if your stay here becomes unpleasant.”
She turned about and started toward the door. Goodling moved forward, about to speak. He saw the girl stop short; he did the same. A man had stepped into view from the hallway.
THIS chap was the antithesis of Croy. He was of no more than medium height; he was light in build, almost frail. His face was a sensitive one, but exceedingly pale. His left arm was in a sling. Freshly wrapped bandages ran from his wrist to his elbow.
Yet there was sternness in the pale man’s gaze as he looked to the girl. His eyes, brilliant in their pallid setting, were half accusing, half inquiring.
“Why did you come in here?” the man asked calmly. “You knew that these visitors were to be announced. You should not have talked to them.”
“I saw Croy admit them,” returned the girl. “I came to warn them, Daggart. I told them it would be best for them to leave.”