I drew for myself rough outlines of the interior of

Glenarm House as it had appeared to me, and then I

tried to reconcile the little sketch with every part of

it.

"The Door of Bewilderment" was the charm that held

me. The phrase was in itself a lure. The man who had

built a preposterous house in the woods of Indiana and

called it "The House of a Thousand Candles" was quite

capable of other whims; and as I bent over this scrap of

paper in the candle-lighted library it occurred to me

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that possibly I had not done justice to my grandfather's

genius. My curiosity was thoroughly aroused as to the

hidden corners of the queer old house, round which the

wind shrieked tormentingly.

I went to my room, put on my corduroy coat for its

greater warmth in going through the cold halls, took a

candle and went below. One o'clock in the morning is

not the most cheering hour for exploring the dark recesses

of a strange house, but I had resolved to have a

look at the ravine-opening and determine, if possible,

whether it bore any relation to "The Door of Bewilderment."

All was quiet in the great cellar; only here and there

an area window rattled dolorously. I carried a tape-line

with me and made measurements of the length and

depth of the corridor and of the chambers that were set

off from it. These figures I entered in my note-book for

further use, and sat down on an empty nail-keg to reflect.

The place was certainly substantial; the candle

at my feet burned steadily with no hint of a draft; but

I saw no solution of my problem. All the doors along

the corridor were open, or yielded readily to my hand.

I was losing sleep for nothing; my grandfather's sketch

was meaningless, and I rose and picked up my candle,

yawning.

Then a curious thing happened. The candle, whose

thin flame had risen unwaveringly, sputtered and went

out as a sudden gust swept the corridor.

I had left nothing open behind me, and the outer

doors of the house were always locked and barred. But

some one had gained ingress to the cellar by an opening

of which I knew nothing.

I faced the stairway that led up to the back hall of the

house, when to my astonishment, steps sounded behind

me and, turning, I saw, coming toward me, a man carrying

a lantern. I marked his careless step; he was undoubtedly

on familiar ground. As I watched him he

paused, lifted the lantern to a level with his eyes and

began sounding the wall with a hammer.

Here, undoubtedly, was my friend Morgan,-again!

There was the same periodicity in the beat on the wall

that I had heard in my own rooms. He began at the

top and went methodically to the floor. I leaned

against the wall where I stood and watched the lantern

slowly coming toward me. The small revolver with

which I had fired at his flying figure in the wood was in

my pocket. It was just as well to have it out with the

fellow now. My chances were as good as his, though I

confess I did not relish the thought of being found dead

the next morning in the cellar of my own house. It

pleased my humor to let him approach in this way, unconscious

that he was watched, until I should thrust my

pistol into his face.




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