“There’s nothing here, aunty,” he repeated aloud quickly.  “Let’s go upstairs and see the rest of the house.  Then we’ll choose a room to wait up in.”

She followed him obediently, keeping close to his side, and they locked the kitchen door behind them.  It was a relief to get up again.  In the hall there was more light than before, for the moon had travelled a little further down the stairs.  Cautiously they began to go up into the dark vault of the upper house, the boards creaking under their weight.

On the first floor they found the large double drawing-rooms, a search of which revealed nothing.  Here also was no sign of furniture or recent occupancy; nothing but dust and neglect and shadows.  They opened the big folding doors between front and back drawing-rooms and then came out again to the landing and went on upstairs.

They had not gone up more than a dozen steps when they both simultaneously stopped to listen, looking into each other’s eyes with a new apprehension across the flickering candle flame.  From the room they had left hardly ten seconds before came the sound of doors quietly closing.  It was beyond all question; they heard the booming noise that accompanies the shutting of heavy doors, followed by the sharp catching of the latch.

“We must go back and see,” said Shorthouse briefly, in a low tone, and turning to go downstairs again.

Somehow she managed to drag after him, her feet catching in her dress, her face livid.

When they entered the front drawing-room it was plain that the folding doors had been closed—­half a minute before.  Without hesitation Shorthouse opened them.  He almost expected to see someone facing him in the back room; but only darkness and cold air met him.  They went through both rooms, finding nothing unusual.  They tried in every way to make the doors close of themselves, but there was not wind enough even to set the candle flame flickering.  The doors would not move without strong pressure.  All was silent as the grave.  Undeniably the rooms were utterly empty, and the house utterly still.

“It’s beginning,” whispered a voice at his elbow which he hardly recognised as his aunt’s.

He nodded acquiescence, taking out his watch to note the time.  It was fifteen minutes before midnight; he made the entry of exactly what had occurred in his notebook, setting the candle in its case upon the floor in order to do so.  It took a moment or two to balance it safely against the wall.

Aunt Julia always declared that at this moment she was not actually watching him, but had turned her head towards the inner room, where she fancied she heard something moving; but, at any rate, both positively agreed that there came a sound of rushing feet, heavy and very swift—­and the next instant the candle was out!