To end what he probably considered a weakness, Sweetwater approached the door staring somewhat blankly from the flat front of the primitive old house whose privacy they were about to invade, and rapped on its weather-beaten panels, first gently and then with quick insistence.

There was no response from within; no sound of movement; no token that he had been so much as heard.  Sweetwater turned and consulted his companion before making another attempt.

“It’s early.  Perhaps she’s not up yet,” rejoined the old detective as he painfully advanced.  The storm of the preceding night had got into his bones.

“I don’t know.  There’s something uncanny about this silence.  She ought to be here; but I’m afraid she isn’t.”  Sweetwater rapped again, this time with decided vehemence.

Suddenly in one of the uncurtained windows a face appeared.  They saw it, and both drew a deep breath.  The eyes were looking their way, but they were like ghost’s eyes.  Without sight or speculation in them, they simply looked; then the face slowly withdrew, growing ghastlier every minute, and the window stared on, but the woman was gone.  Yet the door did not open.

“I hate to use force,” objected Sweetwater.

Before answering, Mr. Gryce stepped to one side and cast a glance around the corner of the house in the direction of the gorge opening in the rear.

“There is something like a yard at the back,” he announced, “but the fence which shut it in is so high and so protected by means of prickly underbrush that you would have difficulty in climbing it.”

“Just so at this end,” called out Sweetwater after a short run to the left.  “If we get in at all,” he remarked on coming back, “it will have to be by the window you see there with one pane knocked out.”

“I don’t like that; I don’t like any of it.  But we can’t stay out here any longer.  The looks of the woman herself forbid it.  We sha’n’t forget that hollow stare.”

“They said the woman who lived here was dead.”

“Yes.  It’s a bad business, Sweetwater.  Rap once more, and then if she doesn’t come, throw up the window and climb in.”

Sweetwater did as he was bid, and meeting with no more response than before, thrust his hand through the hole made by the broken pane; and finding the window had been left unlocked, he pushed it up and entered.  In another moment he appeared at the front door, where Mr. Gryce joined him, and together they took their first look at the small but surprisingly well-furnished interior.

The hall in which they stood was without staircase and had many of the appointments of a room.  Doors opened here and there along its length, and in the rear they saw a closed one evidently leading into the yard.  There was no one within sight.  One would have said that with the death and carrying out of the owner of this little dwelling, all life had departed from it.  Yet these two men knew that life was there; and raising his voice, Mr. Gryce called out in the least alarming way possible: