“Jim，” she said scornfully， “I’m not young， I know， nor are mynerves； but with you I should be afraid of nothing in the world！”
This， of course， settled it， for Shorthouse had no pretensionsto being other than a very ordinary young man， and an appealto his vanity was irresistible. He agreed to go.
Instinctively， by a sort of sub-conscious preparation， hekept himself and his forces well in hand the whole evening，compelling an accumulativereserve of control by that namelessinward process of gradually putting all the emotions away andturning the key upon them—a process difficult to describe，but wonderfully effective， as all men who have lived throughsevere trials of the inner man well understand. Later， it stoodhim in good stead.
But it was not until half-past ten， when they stood in thehall， well in the glare of friendly lamps and still surroundedby comforting human influences， that he had to make the firstcall upon this store of collected strength. For， once the doorwas closed， and he saw the deserted silent street stretchingaway white in the moonlight before them， it came to himclearly that the real test that night would be in dealing withtwo fearsinstead of one. He would have to carry his aunt’s fearas well as his own. And， as he glanced down at her sphinx-likecountenance and realised that it might assume no pleasant aspectin a rush of real terror， he felt satisfied with only one thing in thewhole adventure—that he had confidence in his own will andpower to stand against any shock that might come.
Slowly they walked along the empty streets of the town； abright autumn moon silvered the roofs，casting deep shadows；there was no breath of wind； and the trees in the formalgardens by the sea-front watched them silently as they passedalong. To his aunt’s occasional remarks Shorthouse made noreply， realising that she was simply surrounding herself withmental buffers—saying ordinary things to prevent herselfthinking of extra-ordinary things. Few windows showed lights，and from scarcely a single chimney came smoke or sparks.
Shorthouse had already begun to notice everything， even thesmallest details. Presently they stopped at the street cornerand looked up at the name on the side of the house full in themoonlight， and with one accord， but without remark， turned intothe square and crossed over to the side of it that lay in shadow.
“The number of the house is thirteen，” whispered a voice athis side； and neither of them made the obvious reference， butpassed across the broad sheet of moonlight and began to marchup the pavement in silence.
It was about half-way up the square that Shorthouse feltan arm slipped quietly but significantly into his own， andknew then that their adventure had begun in earnest， and thathis companion was already yielding imperceptibly to theinfluences against them. She needed support.
A few minutes later they stopped before a tall， narrow housethat rose before them into the night， ugly in shape and painteda dingy white. Shutterless windows， without blinds， stareddown upon them， shining here and there in the moonlight.
There were weather streaks in the wall and cracks in thepaint， and the balcony bulged out from the first floor a littleunnaturally. But， beyond this generally forlorn appearance ofan unoccupied house， there was nothing at first sight to singleout this particular mansion for the evil character it had mostcertainly acquired.
Taking a look over their shoulders to make sure they had notbeen followed， they went boldly up the steps and stood againstthe huge black door that fronted them forbiddingly. But thefirst wave of nervousness was now upon them， and Shorthousefumbled a long time with the key before he could fit it into thelock at all. For a moment， if truth were told， they both hopedit would not open， for they were a prey to various unpleasantemotions as they stood there on the threshold of their ghostlyadventure. Shorthouse， shuffling with the key and hamperedby thesteady weight on his arm， certainly felt the solemnity ofthe moment. It was as if the whole world—for all experienceseemed at that instant concentrated in his own consciousness—were listening to the grating noise of that key. A stray puff ofwind wandering down the empty street woke a momentaryrustling in the trees behind them， but otherwise this rattling ofthe key was the only sound audible； and at last it turned in thelock and the heavy door swung open and revealed a yawninggulf of darkness beyond.
With a last glance at the moonlit square， they passed quicklyin， and the door slammed behind them with a roar that echoedprodigiously through empty halls and passages. But， instantly，with the echoes， another sound made itself heard， and AuntJulia leaned suddenly so heavily upon him that he had to takea step backwards to save himself from falling.
A man had coughed close beside them—so close thatit seemed they must have been actually by his side in thedarkness.
With the possibility of practical jokes in his mind， Shorthouseat once swung his heavy stick in the direction of the sound； butit met nothingmore solid than air. He heard his aunt give alittle gasp beside him.
“There’s someone here，” she whispered； “I heard him.”
“Be quiet！” he said sternly. “It was nothing but the noise ofthe front door.”
“Oh！ get a light—quick！” she added， as her nephew， fumblingwith a box of matches， opened it upside down and let them allfall with a rattle on to the stone floor.
The sound， however， was not repeated； and there was noevidence of retreating footsteps. In another minute they had acandle burning， using an empty end of a cigar case as a holder；and when the first flare had died down he held the impromptulamp aloft and surveyed the scene. And it was dreary enoughin all conscience， for there is nothing more desolate in all theabodes of men than an unfurnished house dimly lit， silent， andforsaken， and yet tenanted by rumour with the memories ofevil and violent histories.