“Yes—shall—we go down?”
“No,” said Ethel; “but we’re going to open the door and listen. I wouldn’t be surprised if we heard a scurry of little feet.”
“No doubt! No doubt!” muttered Marjorie.
They descended the staircase and went to the front door and unbolted it. Everything without was peaceful and beautiful in the soft morning light, and both girls breathed a sigh of relief. They were glad that the night was over.
“Now for the cellar!” said Marjorie, turning back into the hall. “What do you say if I shoot my revolver down once?”
“No! No!” objected Ethel. “It might frighten the neighbors.”
“All right—unless I hear something,” said Marjorie. “Now—come on!”
They stepped up to the cellar-door and unfastened it, thrusting their heads cautiously into the blackness. A moment later they heard the same rapping—distinct, menacing, ominous. Ethel grasped Marjorie’s hand in terror.
“Marj!” she whispered. “Oh—”
But a hollow, monotonous voice, like one from the spirit world, froze the sentence on her lips.