There was an odor of mustiness and damp about the place, as though it had not been occupied for years.
There were no furnishings of any kind, no blinds to the windows, and most of the panes of glass were missing; but even in the dim light that Alan's "spot" afforded we could see it had an old-time elegance. Probably at one time monstrous log fires had burnt in the massive brick fireplaces at the end of the two rooms opening off the separating hallway. The woodwork appeared to be of black walnut, the floors unquestionably had been highly polished, though now they were worn and earth-stained. The ceilings were falling, and the wallpaper hung in great strips from the plastering — a more uninviting place could not be imagined. I clung to Alan's arm, half afraid to venture farther.
"I'm awfully cold," I whimpered, through chattering teeth. "D'ye suppose there's a stove in the kitchen? Maybe we can find some paper and start a fire if there is."
Alan did not answer, but led the way to the back of the house. Before some swinging doors he hesitated a second, then flung them open and entered; I followed. It was an old-fashioned brick-floored kitchen. In one corner stood a battered, rust-covered coal-range. The chimney was disconnected, and part of it lay on the floor before the open oven. Piles of old rags and broken bits of twigs and newspaper filled a box near it.
Alan thrust the spot light into my hand and pounced upon the debris. In a little while he had a fire burning in the old stove, and the kitchen was filled with sooty smoke and blessed warmth.
I stripped off my soggy motor coat, and flung it across the box to dry out; Alan removed his coat and did likewise.
"Now, if I just had a cup of coffee and a sandwich I wouldn't be at all unhappy," I said.
"Forget it!" he laughed. "Nothing doing. It's a lucky thing for us this old barn is well built. If it wasn't I could see visions of that wind lifting it off its pins and tossing it down into the cavern."
I shuddered. "Let's not think about it. The car may not even be there in the morning."
To kill time and to get our minds off the storm outside I suggested that we rummage around a bit, and see what the place was like upstairs.
As we stepped into the long open hallway, a gust of wind whipped through the swinging door and carried with it a perfect torrent of rain, that made little puddles at our feet.
Fearfully I followed Alan up the long, broad flight of stairs, feeling that uncanny something that is so often present in an old, unused house. I half expected some spectre of the past to reach out and lay clammy, unearthly hands upon me, or a shadowy something to greet us on the landing where we paused and looked about.
There were six doors leading off the corridor, all exactly alike. With the exception of one they were slightly ajar — the sixth appeared to be locked.
Curiosity prompted me to go toward it first. The knob turned in my hand, but the door stayed closed.
"Bluebeard's den!" laughed Alan. "Take care that you aren't another Ann."
"It's locked."
"Obviously."
"I wonder why."
"Possibly for the same reason that all the others aren't. The owner, when he left the place, didn't take the trouble to unlock it."
I twisted and turned the knob, trying to force an entrance, but the lock held in spite of its age and rustiness. Alan laughed at my efforts, then he pushed open the door to his right, which was slightly ajar. His exclamation of surprise called my attention from the bolted door.
"What is it?" I gasped.
"By George, Nell, look here!"
II
I followed him into the room. My surprise equalled his own at what I saw. In direct contrast to the barrenness of the rooms below, this one was beautifully furnished with rich draperies covering the crumbling walls, and rugs upon the floor. The furniture was evidently new, and though a trifle gaudy, not without taste.
A table in the centre of the room covered with a damask cloth, china and silver, was spread as though for a meal. There was a half-emptied bottle of wine, and two glasses. One glass still contained the liquor. Even a loaf of bread and some cold cuts and salad remained. An open lunch kit rested in a chair near the table.
I looked at Alan in amazement. He gave me a glance of equal astonishment.
"I don't quite understand it," he murmured. "Do you suppose it is possible that some one lives here?"
I shook my head. "With the whole lower floor going to rack and ruin, and overrun with rats? No, it isn't possible."
"Nell, this bread is soft." He lifted the loaf and thrust his finger into the crust; then he glanced half apprehensively over his shoulder at some velvet draperies which covered the double doors.
I don't know why, but I shivered. Judging from their juxtaposition those doors led into the room which was bolted from the hallway.
Alan lowered his voice as he spoke.
"Someone is either in this house or has been here but a short time ago," he said. "This food is fresh. For some reason it has not been eaten."
I gave a little cry, half of protest, half of fear, as he parted the draperies, and drew back the heavy-paneled doors behind them.
Then I cried out in horror. Lying across a canopied bed was' a man in evening clothes. It needed no second glance even in the small light Alan's spot afforded to show us he was dead. That eit her s uicide or murder had caused his death, for on the white bosom of his shirt was a hideous red spot, and the blue satin and lace of the bedspread was stained with blood.
"My God!" Alan whispered hoarsely.
As if to accentuate the gruesomeness of the picture and its surroundings, a streak of lightning flashed directly upon that supine figure on the bed. The burst of thunder which followed seemed to rend the sky in two. The wind careening madly around the house, rocked and banged the shutters of the one window.
"Let's — let's try to go on!" I sobbed. "This is awful, I can't stand it here like this!"
"It looks like murder—" he muttered.
Seemingly compelled against his will he advanced toward the bed. I watched him in fascination as he let his light play upon the features of the man lying there. Then more fearful of the shadows behind me, and the blackness of the room we had left than of the dead, I crept close to him.
Almost of one accord, we exclaimed, "Judge MacPherson!"
A tall lean man with reddish grey hair, a trifle long, a sandy beard and no mustache, keen, cruel eyes with crisscross wrinkles about them. MacPherson, in life, was a man not easily forgotten if once known, and not to be mistaken for anyone else, even in death. The man stretched out before us was unquestionably Judge MacPherson. Then, too, I recognized an unusual sapphire and diamond ring on his finger which I had admired at a dinner party not a month before.
"It is murder," Alan said. "He hasn't been robbed, either. I wonder if there is a telephone here."
"Why?"
"To call up the police, of course."
"There isn't any, I'm sure of it."
I was right. Though the two rooms we had just entered were furnished and appeared to have been recently occupied, all the others were in the same state of decay as the lower floor. There was no telephone in any of them.
After a while Alan closed the double doors, and drew the velvet hangings, then silently, dazed and horror-stricken, we retraced our steps to the kitchen. The fire we had built at least had life and a certain cheerfulness, and the horror of the thing we had discovered made it impossible for us to stay in the furnished rooms upstairs.
"We can't go on tonight," he said. "With daylight we may find a detour, but we can't risk it in the dark; we don't know how close the road is to the edge of the ravine."