light becoming visible through the widening crack. The movement was
deliberate and noiseless, but I dropped upon hands and knees in the
deepest remaining shadow and peered anxiously into the dimly revealed
interior. It was a basement room, half the width of the kitchen
overhead, I should judge; the walls of crude masonry, the floor of
brick, the ceiling, festooned by cobwebs, of rough-hewn beams. The
light, flickering and dim, came from a half-burned candle in an iron
holder screwed against the wall, revealing a small table, two chairs,
one without a back, and four narrow sleeping berths made of rough
boards. This was all, except a coat dangling from a beam, and a small
hand-hatchet lying on the floor. There was, in the instant I had to
view these things, no semblance of movement, or suggestion of human
presence. Assured of this, although holding myself alert and ready, I
slipped through the opening. Even as I stood there, uncertain, and
staring about, a sharp draught of air extinguished the candle, and I
heard the snap of the lock as the door behind blew back into position.
About me was the black silence of a grave.




CHAPTER XIX

A CHAMBER OF HORROR

I backed against the wall, crouching low, revolver in hand, scarcely
venturing to breathe, listening intently for the slightest sound to
break the intense silence. My heart beat like a trip-hammer, and there
were beads of cold perspiration on my face. The change had occurred so
swiftly as to leave me quaking like a coward at the unknown terrors of