"Not at all. Because this Mr. Ghost or some of his spooky friends are probably waiting at the top of the stairs with a long gun, and I'm no book hero."
"Suppose it might be dat dere Mrs. Princess'es brother?"
"Well, he might blow my head off because he doesn't know what I came here for, and if it's someone else they'd blow it off because they do know why I'm here. There's somebody trying to scare us, Rusty. They're probably watching every move we make.... That's where that pounding comes from—why don't they shoot?... They're trying to scare us as they did the poor boobs down in the village."
Rusty crossed toward the fireplace. He picked up an old mallet and chisel from the mantel, which was brighter now from the fire. He cried out in surprise:
"Look yere, Marse Warren. Look yere!"
He handed the tools over to the astounded Jarvis. "I found 'em on dat mantelpiece!"
Jarvis ran to the mantelpiece and clambered up on a chair, holding the lantern close to the wall.
"Good boy, Rusty! These are the Ghost's tools, all right. Someone was working in this room—but we've beaten him to it.... Mortar on the floor ... mortar on the mantle!... Look here at these stones. That's where he was working, Rusty, and we've beaten him to it."
He stopped, and both of them turned simultaneously to look at the big picture of the historical Spaniard. Rusty had drawn his own revolver, with Jarvis doing the same by a curious instinct.
"Did you feel dat, too, Marse Warren?" asked the frightened negro.