THE DOOR
OF
BEWILDERMENT
“There are dead men inside, I dare say! Here, my lad, it’s not for me to turn loose the family skeletons,” —and Larry stood aside while I swung the ax and brought it down with a crash on the padlock. It was of no flimsy stuff and the remaining bricks cramped me, but half a dozen blows broke it off.
“The house of a thousand ghosts,” chanted the irrepressible Larry, as I pushed the door open and crawled through.
Whatever the place was it had a floor and I set my feet firmly upon it and turned to take the lantern.
“Hold a bit,” he exclaimed. “Some one’s coming,” —and bending toward the opening I heard the sound of steps down the corridor. In a moment Bates ran up, calling my name with more spirit than I imagined possible in him.
“What is it?” I demanded, crawling out into the tunnel.
“It’s Mr. Pickering. The sheriff has come with him, sir.”
As he spoke his glance fell upon the broken wall and open door. The light of Larry’s lantern struck full upon him. Amazement, and, I thought, a certain satisfaction, were marked upon his countenance.
“Run along, Jack,—I’ll be up a little later,” said Larry. “If the fellow has come in daylight with the sheriff, he isn’t dangerous. It’s his friends that shoot in the dark that give us the trouble.”
I crawled out and stood upright. Bates, staring at the opening, seemed reluctant to leave the spot.