How long she had been asleep, Penelope did not know.  She awoke with a start, her flesh creeping.  A nameless dread came over her; she felt that she was utterly alone and surrounded by horrors.  It was a full minute—­a sickening hour, it seemed—­before she realized that she was in the room with the man she loved.  Her frightened eyes caught sight of him lying back in the chair before the dying fire in the chimney place.  The lights were low, the shadows gaunt and chill.

A terrified exclamation started to her lips.  Her ears again caught the sound of some one moving in the house—­some alien visitor.  There was no mistaking the sound—­the distant, sepulchral laugh and the shuffling of feet, almost at the edge of the couch it seemed.

“Randolph!” she whispered hoarsely.  The man in the chair did not move.  She threw off the blanket and came to a sitting posture on the side of the couch, her fingers clutching the covering with tense horror.  Again the soft, rumbling laugh and the sound of footsteps on the stairway.  Like a flash she sped across the room and clutched frantically at Randolph’s shoulders.  He awoke with an exclamation, staring bewildered into the horrified face above.

“The—­the ghost!” she gasped, her eyes glued upon the hall door.  He leaped to his feet and threw his arms about her.

“You’ve had a bad dream,” he said.  “What a beast I was to fall asleep.  Lord, you’re frightened half out of your wits.  Don’t tremble so, dearest.  There’s no ghost.  Every one knows—­”

“Listen—­listen!” she whispered.  Together they stood motionless, almost breathless before the fire, the glow from which threw their shadows across the room to meet the mysterious invader.

“Good Lord,” he muttered, unwilling to believe his ears.  “There is some one in the house.  I’ve—­I’ve heard sounds here before, but not like these.”  Distinctly to their startled ears came the low, subdued murmur of a human voice and then unmistakable moans from the very depth of the earth—­from the grave, it seemed.

“Do you hear?” she whispered.  “Oh, this dreadful place!  Take me away, Randolph, dear—­”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, drawing her close.  “There’s nothing supernatural about those sounds.  They come from lips as much alive as ours.  I’ll investigate.”  He grabbed the heavy poker from the chimney corner, and started toward the door.  She followed close behind, his assurance restoring in a measure the courage that had temporarily deserted her.

In the hallway they paused to look out over the broad porch.  The storm had died away, sighing its own requiem in the misty tree-tops.  Dawn was not far away.  A thick fog was rising to meet the first glance of day.  In surprise Shaw looked at his watch, her face at his shoulder.  It was after five o’clock.

“Ghosts turn in at midnight, dear,” he said with a cheerful smile.  “They don’t keep such hours as these.”