The storm, swerving with the capricious mountain winds, suddenly swept
their refuge with sheets of water. Randolph Shaw threw the raincoats
over his companion and both laughed hysterically at their plight,
suddenly remembered.
"We can't stay here," he shouted.
"We can't go out into it," she cried. "Where are we?"
"Renwood's," he called back. Their position was untenable. He was
drenched; the raincoats protected her as she crouched back into the
most remote corner. Looking about he discovered a small door leading
to the cellar. It opened the instant he touched the latch. "Come,
quick," he cried, lifting her to her feet. "In here--stoop! I have the
light. This is the cellar. I'll have to break down a door leading to
the upper part of the house, but that will not be difficult. Here's an
axe or two. Good Lord, I'm soaked!"
"Whe--where are we going?" she gasped, as he drew her across the
earthern floor.
"Upstairs. It's comfortable up there." They were at the foot of the
narrow stairway. She held back.
"Never! It's the--the haunted house! I can't--Randolph."
"Pooh! Don't be afraid. I'm with you, dearest."
"I know," she gulped. "But you have only one arm. Oh, I can't!"
"It's all nonsense about ghosts. I've slept here twenty times,
Penelope. People have seen my light and my shadow, that's all. I'm a
pretty substantial ghost."
"Oh, dear! What a disappointment. And there are no spooks? Not even
Mrs. Renwood?"
"Of course she may come back, dear, but you'd hardly expect a
respectable lady spook to visit the place with me stopping here.
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