“There is a peculiar spring in the lock,” he explains a moment later; “and, if the door slammed to, we should find it impossible to open it from the inside, and might remain here prisoners forever unless the household came to the rescue.”

“Oh, Captain Ringwood, pray be careful!” cries Dora falteringly.  “Our very lives depend upon your attention!”

“Miss Villiers, do come here and help me to remember my duty,” says Captain Ringwood, planting his back against the open door lest by any means it should shut.

The chamber is round, and has, instead of windows, three narrow apertures in the walls, through which can be obtained a glimpse of the sky, but of nothing else.  These apertures are just large enough to admit a man’s hand.  The room is without furniture of any description, and on the boards the dark stains of blood are distinctly visible.

“Dynecourt, tell them a story or two,” calls out Ringwood to Sir Adrian.  “They won’t believe it is veritably haunted unless you call up a ghost to frighten them.”

But they all protest in a body that they do not wish to hear any ghost stories, so Sir Adrian laughingly refuses to comply with Ringwood’s request.

“Are we far from the other parts of the house?” asks Florence at length, who has been examining some writing on the walls.

“So far that, if you were immured here, no cry, however loud, could penetrate the distance,” replies Sir Adrian.  “You are as thoroughly removed from the habitable parts of the castle as if you were in the next county.”

“How interesting!” observes Dora, with a little simper.

“The servants are so afraid of this room that they would not venture here even by daylight,” Sir Adrian goes on.  “You can see how the dust of years is on it.  One might be slowly starved to death here without one’s friends being a bit the wiser.”

He laughs as he says this, but, long afterward, his words come back to his listeners’ memories, filling their breasts with terror and despair.

“I wonder you don’t have this dangerous lock removed,” says Captain Ringwood.  “It is a regular trap.  Some day you’ll be sorry for it.”

Prophetic words!

“Yes; I wish it were removed,” responds Florence, with a strange quick shiver.

Sir Adrian laughs.

“Why, that is one of the old tower’s greatest charms,” he says.  “It belongs to the dark ages, and suggests all sorts of horrible possibilities.  This room would be nothing without its mysterious lock.”

At this moment Dora’s eyes turn slowly toward Arthur Dynecourt.  She herself hardly knows why, at this particular time, she should look at him, yet she feels that some unaccountable fascination is compelling her gaze to encounter his.  Their eyes meet.  As they do so, Dora shudders and turns deadly pale.  There is that in Arthur Dynecourt’s dark and sullen eyes that strikes her cold with terror and