"But Marse Warren," pleaded the frightened darky, "I'm powerful 'fraid I might lose you!"
"A fine chance," snorted Jarvis, looking about. "Well, Rusty, we've been through this old place pretty thoroughly, and not a sign of a soul—unless they pound or carry a smoky lantern. It's a clew, Rusty, it's a clew. We'll stick right here until we find out. This is the best room of the castle, and the ghost may prefer it."
Jarvis crossed to the fireplace again, and striking a match, held it into the opening. Its flicker indicated a good draught.
"There, Rusty," he said. "It's a good chance for a fire. The chimney's clear. Now break up that lopsided, rickety table there and make a fire. You won't feel half so scared with a good blaze behind you."
He turned toward the half-flight of stairs, with a studious expression as he mentally measured the heights and thickness of the walls and ceiling.
"I'll scout around a bit, Rusty."
"Don't you do scoutin' outsiden dis room."
Rusty crossed to the fireplace, with the pieces of easily-smashed table legs, and began to light the fire.
"This was probably the banquet hall, Rusty."
"Yes, and say, Marse Warren, when we-all goin' ter eat?"