Everett returned hastily to the drawing-room after a covert search of the hall for disturbers.  In the doorway he hovered an instant, and then advanced quickly to the figure on the floor.  Lifting the limp woman, he bore her out of the house and down the slushy steps.  With strength that had come through the madness of his new knowledge, he threw the body over into the graveyard and bounded after it.  Once more then he took Scraggy up, and, stumbling frequently in the half-light, carried her to the upper end of the cemetery.  Here he deposited the body in a snow-filled gully by a vault.  Ten minutes later he was staring at his mirrored reflection in his own room, convinced that, if he had not already killed her, the woman would be dead from exposure before morning.  The cat had disappeared, and all traces of the night’s visitation had been removed.

* * * * *

Several hours before, Lem Crabbe and Lon Cronk had slunk into Tarrytown.  The snow still fell heavily when they made their preparations to enter the home of Horace Shellington.  About five in the afternoon they had worked their way against this sharp north wind to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and had entered it.  Until night should fall and sleep overtake the city, they planned to remain there quietly.  Not far from the fence they took up their station in an unused toolhouse, smoking the next hours away in silence.

When ten o’clock neared, Lem stole out; but he came back almost immediately, cursing the wild night in superstitious fear.

“The wind’s full of shriekin’ devils, Lon,” he said, “and ’tain’t time for us to go out.  Be ye afeard to try it, old man?”

“Nope,” replied the other; “but I wish we had that cuss of a Flukey to open up them doors, or else Eli was here.  This climbin’ in windows be hard on a big man like me and you with yer hook, Lem.”

Lem grunted.

“I’ll soon have a boy what’ll take a hand in things, with us, Lon,” he said, presently.  “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ jest yet; but when ye see him ye’ll be glad to have him.”

“Whose boy be he?” demanded Lon.

“Ain’t goin’ to tell.”

Lon ceased questioning, dismissing the subject with a suggestion that he himself should reconnoiter the ground.  He left Lem, groped his way among the gravestones for several yards, and brought up abruptly at the fence.  From here he eyed the Brimbecomb mansion for some minutes; then he cast his glance to the steps of the Shellington home beyond.  After a few seconds a young man ran down the stairs, and Lon slunk back to Lem in the toolhouse.  An instant later both men were startled by the cry of an owl.  Lem rose uneasily, while Lon stared into the darkness.

“That weren’t a real owl, were it, Lon?” Lem muttered.

“Nope,” growled Lon; “it sounded more like Scraggy.”

He looked at the one-armed man with suspicion.

“Can’t prove it by me,” said Lem darkly.