"The ghost's attire," thought Carl. "Somebody comes here and frightens people. Wonder what for? Probably to scare 'em away for some purpose of his, or her, own. This is interesting."
He replaced the garment, letting it fall and arranging it as nearly as possible as he found it. He went down again, feeling the wall as he descended. It was damp; drops stood out, burst and trickled down. He found the stone steps leading to the dungeon under the moat; they were smooth, broken in places. He was careful in stepping; a slip and he might be landed at the bottom with a sprained ankle, a broken leg, or worse. It was a slippery descent; once or twice he fell down; but he intended seeing what was at the bottom and at last succeeded.
The dark dungeon had a curious odor in it, probably due to the water and lack of fresh air; but there was a scent undefinable as well. He struck a match; it went out immediately, just as though somebody, or something, had blown upon it. He was not a nervous man, but when the second and third match went out in the same way he was inclined to beat a retreat.
"One more try," he thought, and struck three or four wax matches at once; this proved effective and gave him time to see in the corner, propped up, what looked like the body of a man. He must be mistaken; he lit more matches, dropping the others on the floor, where they spluttered in the wet and fizzled out.
It was a man, could be nothing else. He went toward the body, for such he supposed it, bent down to feel it, and found nothing. This was strange. He lit more matches. Now he saw space; there was no body there. He stepped back several paces, astonished, lost in wonder; then he saw the thing again, saw it distinctly, and it seemed to move. It came toward him, or in his excited state of mind he fancied so. His light went out; he had no more matches. As he groped his way to the steps, or where he thought they were, something touched him on the shoulder. It was enough to startle any man, and he cried out in alarm. There was a faint, squeaking noise and a fluttering, then the thing touched his cheek and he smelt a deathlike odor. Thoroughly alarmed he groped out. He felt the damp wall; he had lost the steps; he must walk round, feeling until he came to them, being a circular dungeon he must come to them. It seemed an interminable time before he came to the opening and began to scramble up on his hands and knees.
Tom Thrush waited in the boat. He thought him a long time gone and hoped nothing had happened. He knew it was a queer place to roam around. He whistled for company, then lit his pipe. Why didn't he come out of the beastly place? What was that? It sounded like a startled cry; it came from the tower. Tom shivered. He wasn't going in there to look for Carl Meason, not for any money. The smoke came from his pipe in jerky whiffs.
Just as he was about to step out of the boat, go to the door and call, Carl Meason came out with a quick movement. Tom stared at him in amazement, not unmingled with fear.
Meason was covered in dirt and damp from head to foot, there was blood on his hands, his face was blanched, a wild look in his eyes. He had no time to pull himself together before Tom saw it. His recovery however was remarkably quick considering what he had gone through. He had no desire to give himself away. He looked at his clothes and laughed. In the open again his courage revived.
"It's the dirtiest damp hole I ever was in!" he said; and Tom recognized a difference in his voice.
"Yer all over filth," said Tom. "Yer hands are bloody, ye've torn yer trousers. Where've yer been? Have yer seen anything?"