Evidently years had passed since this portion of the house had been occupied. From the appearance presented there could be little doubt that it had been used for storage purposes by its miserly owner, who met death by violence on the floor below.
The parlor floor, the kitchen, and even the cellar itself, did not escape examination.
Equally to no purpose.
Some of the rooms were furnished, others were not.
Everywhere the furnishings were green with mold and sinking rapidly to decay.
No trace, not even so much as a footprint on the dust-covered floors of the ghostly visitant was anywhere found.
"It's no use, Lije," said Tisdale, hoarsely, as they paused at length in the great hall at the foot of the staircase which they had ascended upon their first entrance to the house. "You may search all night, but you'll find nothing. It was poor Maria's spirit that we saw."
"Nonsense, Reuben Tisdale! Do you mean to tell me that at your time of life you are going to give way to a belief in ghosts?"
"I didn't believe in them any more than you until to-night, but, after what we saw, what is a man to think?"
"I tell you it's a trick. This house has the reputation of being haunted, brought about by my own nocturnal searches within its walls. Some one saw us enter, and followed us to give us a scare."