came down again in
torrents, worse than before if possible. They scampered for cover,
plunging three abreast beneath the same steps that had sheltered
Penelope and Shaw such a short time before.

"Ouch! Get off my foot!" roared the duke.

"Zounds! Who are you punching, demme! Hullo! What's this? A door and
open, as I live." The trio entered the cellar door without ceremony.
"Thank God, we're out of the rain, at least."

It was not until they had explored the basement and found it utterly
without signs of human occupancy that the truth of the situation began
to dawn upon them. Barminster's face was white and his voice shook as
he ventured the horrid speculation:

"The good Lord save us--it's that demmed haunted house Pen was talking
about!"

"But ze lights?" queried the count.

"Ghosts!"

"Let's get out of this place," said Lord Bazelhurst, moving toward the
door. "It's that beastly Renwood house. They say he comes back and
murders her every night or so."

"Mon Dieu!"

"Penelope isn't here. Let's move on," agreed the duke readily. But
even fear of the supernatural was not strong enough to drive them out
into the blinding storm. "I say! Look ahead there. By Harry, _there's_
Shaw's place."

Peering through the door they saw for the first time the many lights
in Shaw's windows, scarce a quarter of a mile away. For a long time
they stood and gazed at the distant windows. Dejectedly they sat down,
backs to the wall, and waited for the storm to spend its fury. Wet,
cold, and tired, they finally dozed. It was Lord Cecil who first saw
the signs of dawn. The rain storm had come to a mysterious end, but a
heavy fog in its stead loomed up. He aroused his companions and with
many groans of anguish they prepared to venture forth into the white
wall beyond.

Just as they were taking a last look about the wretched cellar
something happened that would have brought terror to the stoutest
heart. A wild, appalling shriek came from somewhere above, the cry of
a mortal soul in agony.

The next instant three human forms shot through the narrow door and
out into the fog, hair on end, eyes bulging but sightless, legs
traveling like the wind and as purposeless. It mattered not that the
way was hidden; it mattered less that weeds, brush, and stumps lurked
in ambush for unwary feet. They fled into the foggy dangers without a
thought of what lay before them--only of what stalked behind them.

Upstairs Randolph Shaw lay back again