Even
ghosts have regard for conventionalities. She _couldn't_--"
"How much more respectable than I," Penelope murmured plaintively.
"Forgive me," he implored.
"I would--only you are so wet."
The door above was locked, but Shaw swung the axe so vigorously that
any but a very strong-nerved ghost must have been frightened to death
once more.
"It's my house, you know," he explained from the top step. "There we
are! Come up, Penelope. The fort is yours."
She followed him into the hall above. In silence they walked along the
bare floors through empty rooms until at last he opened a door in what
proved to be the left wing. To her surprise, this room was comfortably
furnished. There were ashes in the big fireplace and there were lamps
which had been used recently--for they were filled with oil.
"Here's where I read sometimes," he explained. "I have slept on that
couch. Last winter I came up here to hunt. My cottage wasn't finished,
so I stayed here. I'll confess I've heard strange sounds--now, don't
shiver! Once or twice I've been a bit nervous, but I'm still alive,
you see." He lighted the wicks in the two big lamps while she looked
on with the chills creeping up and down her back. "I'll have a bully
fire in the fireplace in just a minute."
"Let me help you," she suggested, coming quite close to him with
uneasy glances over her shoulders.
Ten minutes later they were sitting before a roaring fire, quite
content even though there was a suggestion of amazed ghosts lurking in
the hallway behind them.
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