“It’s purty near,” said the chauffeur.

“Pretty near the house, or pretty near here?”

“Just outside the kitchen; and it makes a creaky noise.”

“You mean you don’t want to go?”

Fred’s answer was unintelligible.

“You wait here with Miss Forbes,” said the young man.  “And I’ll get the water.”

“Yes, sir!” said Fred, quite distinctly.

“No, sir!” said Miss Forbes, with equal distinctness.  “I’m not going to be left here alone—­with all these trees.  I’m going with you.”

“There may be a dog,” suggested the young man, “or, I was thinking if they heard me prowling about, they might take a shot—­just for luck.  Why don’t you go back to the car with Fred?”

“Down that long road in the dark?” exclaimed the girl.  “Do you think I have no imagination?”

The man in front, the girl close on his heels, and the boy with the buckets following, crawled through the broken gate, and moved cautiously up the gravel driveway.

Within fifty feet of the house the courage of the chauffeur returned.

“You wait here,” he whispered, “and if I wake ’em up, you shout to ’em that it’s all right, that it’s only me.”

“Your idea being,” said the young man, “that they will then fire at me.  Clever lad.  Run along.”

There was a rustling of the dead weeds, and instantly the chauffeur was swallowed in the encompassing shadows.

Miss Forbes leaned toward the young man.

“Do you see a light in that lower story?” she whispered.

“No,” said the man.  “Where?”

After a pause the girl answered:  “I can’t see it now, either.  Maybe I didn’t see it.  It was very faint—­just a glow—­it might have been phosphorescence.”

“It might,” said the man.  He gave a shrug of distaste.  “The whole place is certainly old enough and decayed enough.”

For a brief space they stood quite still, and at once, accentuated by their own silence, the noises of the night grew in number and distinctness.  A slight wind had risen and the boughs of the pines rocked restlessly, making mournful complaint; and at their feet the needles dropping in a gentle desultory shower had the sound of rain in springtime.  From every side they were startled by noises they could not place.  Strange movements and rustlings caused them to peer sharply into the shadows; footsteps, that seemed to approach, and, then, having marked them, skulk away; branches of bushes that suddenly swept together, as though closing behind some one in stealthy retreat.  Although they knew that in the deserted garden they were alone, they felt that from the shadows they were being spied upon, that the darkness of the place was peopled by malign presences.

The young man drew a cigar from his case and put it unlit between his teeth.

“Cheerful, isn’t it?” he growled.  “These dead leaves make it damp as a tomb.  If I’ve seen one ghost, I’ve seen a dozen.  I believe we’re standing in the Carey family’s graveyard.”