Again the wind shook the farmhouse and danced and howled to its crazy castanetting.  There was a creak in the hallway beyond.  Last night, too, when he had been talking to Wherry, there had been such a creak and for the moment, he recalled vividly, there had been no wind.  Then, disturbed by Dick’s utter collapse, he had carelessly dismissed it.  Now with his brain dangerously edged by the whiskey and his mind brooding intently over a series of mysterious and sinister adventures which had enlivened his summer, he rose and stealing catlike to the door, flung it suddenly back.

Kronberg, his dark, thin-lipped face ashen, fell headlong into the room with a revolver in his hand.

With the tigerish agility which had served him many a time before Carl leaped for the revolver and smiling with satanic interest leveled it at the man at his feet.

“So,” said he softly, “you, too, are a link in the chain.  Get up!”

Sullenly Kronberg obeyed.

“If you are a good shot,” commented Carl coolly, “the bullet you sent from this doorway would have gone through my head.  That was your intention?”

Kronberg made no pretense of reply.

“You’ve been here nine weeks,” sympathized Carl, “and were cautious enough to wait until Wherry departed.  What a pity you were so delayed!  Caution, my dear Kronberg, if I may fall into epigram, is frequently and paradoxically the mother of disaster.  As for instance your own case.  I imagine you’re a blunderer anyway,” he added impudently; “your fingers are too thick.  If you hadn’t been so anxious to learn when Wherry was likely to go,” guessed Carl suddenly, “you wouldn’t have listened and creaked at the keyhole last night.  And more than likely you’d have gotten that creak over on me to-night.”

Kronberg’s shifting glance roved desperately to the doorway.

“Try it,” invited Carl pleasantly.  “Do.  And I’ll help you over the threshold with a little lead.  Do you know the way to the attic door in the west wing?”

Kronberg, gulping with fear, said he did not.  He was shaking violently.

“Get the little lamp on the mantel there,” commanded Carl curtly, “and light it.  Bring it here.  Now you will kindly precede me to the door I spoke of.  I’ll direct you.  If you bolt or cry out, I’ll send a bullet through your head.  So that you may not be tempted to waste your blood and brains, if you have any, and my patience, pray recall that the Carmodys are snugly asleep by now in the east wing and the house is large.  They couldn’t hear you.”

It was the older portion of the house and one which by reason of its draughts was rarely used in winter, to which Carl drove his shaking prisoner.  In summer it was cool and pleasant.  In winter, however, it was cut off from heat and habitation by lock and key.

At Carl’s curt direction Kronberg turned the key in the door and passed through the icy file of rooms beyond to the second floor, thence to a dusty attic where the sweep of the wind and snow seemed very close, and on to an ancient cluster of storerooms.  Years back when the old farmhouse had been an inn, shivering servants had made these chill and dusty rooms more habitable.  Now with the deserted wing below and the wind-feet of the Bacchante on the roof above, they were inexpressibly lonely and dreary.