“Que diable!” exclaimed the count, sinking into the back-ground.

“We might reconnoitre a bit,” said Bazelhurst.  “Have a look at the rear, you know.”

Around the corner of the house they trailed, finally bringing up at the back steps.  The windows were not only dark but boarded up.  While they stood there amazed and uncertain, the rain 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 against the wall and shook with laughter.  Penelope’s convulsed face was glued to the kitchen window, her eyes peering into the fog beyond.  Shadowy figures leaped into the white mantle; the crash of brush came back to her ears, and then, like the barking of a dog, there arose from the mystic gray the fast diminishing cry: