This,
by the way, was crossed by a double row of spike-
heads. In his resistance to the supernatural, Mr.
Beeson had not disdained the use of material
precautions.
The fire was now low, the flames burning bluely
and petulantly, with occasional flashes, projecting
spectral shadows on the walls--shadows that
moved mysteriously about, now dividing, now unit-
ing. The shadow of the pendent queue, however, kept
moodily apart, near the roof at the farther end of
the room, looking like a note of admiration. The
song of the pines outside had now risen to the dignity
of a triumphal hymn. In the pauses the silence was
dreadful.
It was during one of these intervals that the trap
in the floor began to lift. Slowly and steadily it rose,
and slowly and steadily rose the swaddled head of
the old man in the bunk to observe it. Then, with a
clap that shook the house to its foundation, it was
thrown clean back, where it lay with its unsightly
spikes pointing threateningly upward. Mr. Beeson
awoke, and without rising, pressed his fingers into
his eyes. He shuddered; his teeth chattered. His
guest was now reclining on one elbow, watching the
proceedings with the goggles that glowed like lamps.
Suddenly a howling gust of wind swooped down
the chimney, scattering ashes and smoke in all di-
rections, for a moment obscuring everything. When
the fire-light again illuminated the room there was
seen, sitting gingerly on the edge of a stool by the
hearth-side, a swarthy little man of prepossessing
appearance and dressed with faultless taste, nodding
to the old man with a friendly and engaging smile.
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