“Where are we?”
“Renwood's,” he called back. Their position was untenable. He was drenched; the raincoats protected her as she crouched back into the most remote corner. Looking about, he discovered a small door leading to the cellar. It opened the instant he touched the latch. “Come, quick,” he cried, lifting her to her feet. “In here—stoop! I have the light. This is the cellar. I'll have to break down a door leading to the upper part of the house, but that will not be difficult. Here's an axe or two. Good Lord, I'm soaked!”
“Whe—where are we going?” she gasped, as he drew her across the earthern floor.
“Upstairs. It's comfortable up there.” They were at the foot of the narrow stairway. She held back.
“Never! It's the—the haunted house! I can't—Randolph.”
“Pooh! Don't be afraid. I'm with you, dearest.”
“I know,” she gulped, “only one arm. Oh, I can't!”
“It's all nonsense about ghosts. I've slept here twenty times, Penelope. People have seen my light and my shadow, that 's all. I'm a pretty substantial ghost.”
“Oh, dear! What a disappointment. And there are no spooks? Not even Mrs. Renwood?”
“Of course she may come back, dear, but you'd hardly expect a respectable lady spook to visit the place with me stopping here. Even ghosts have regard for conventionalities. She could n't—”