“Why, here are the cards themselves!” cried he; and he pulled a brown towel from something in the centre of the sideboard. Sure enough it was a pile of playing-cards—forty packs, I should think, at the least—which had lain there ever since that tragic game which was played before I was born.
“I wonder whence that stair leads?” said Jim.
“Don’t go up there, Jim!” I cried, clutching at his arm. “That must lead to the room of the murder.”
“How do you know that?”
“The vicar said that they saw on the ceiling—Oh, Jim, you can see it even now!”
He held up his candle, and there was a great, dark smudge upon the white plaster above us.
“I believe you’re right,” said he; “but anyhow I’m going to have a look at it.”
“Don’t, Jim, don’t!” I cried.
“Tut, Roddy! you can stay here if you are afraid. I won’t be more than a minute. There’s no use going on a ghost hunt unless—Great Lord, there’s something coming down the stairs!”
I heard it too—a shuffling footstep in the room above, and then a creak from the steps, and then another creak, and another. I saw Jim’s face as if it had been carved out of ivory, with his parted lips and his staring eyes fixed upon the black square of the stair opening. He still held the light, but his fingers twitched, and with every twitch the shadows sprang from the walls to the ceiling. As to myself, my knees gave way under me, and I found myself on the floor crouching down behind Jim, with a scream frozen in my throat. And still the step came slowly from stair to stair.