Tom, who was a shrewd lad, saw by the man’s manner that he was—to use a slang term—fishing. He therefore shook his head.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, “but I can tell you this—the police of Boston are on your track for abducting my cousin Jack.”
A swift look of alarm sped across Rook’s face. Radcliff’s hand, which he had raised to light a pipe, shook violently. Tom saw that he had scared them, and determined to follow up his advantage. But Rook interrupted him.
“Why, what do you know——” he began, when there came a startling interruption.
Somewhere upstairs a door slammed, and then there was the sound of a stealthy footstep creeping, apparently, toward the stairway. Radcliff started up in wild-eyed terror.
“What is it?” he gasped. “Oh! What is it?” Tom himself was considerably startled, and Rook turned pale.
“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “Hark!” They listened, hardly daring to breathe. The time, the place, and the ghostly stories that clustered about the old mansion, all combined to make the interruption an alarming one.
“It’s—it’s a ger-ger-ghost!” stammered Radcliff, his teeth chattering.
“Don’t be a fool!” hissed Rook. “There ain’t no such things. It’s a rat or a——”
A fearful yell suddenly broke the breathless silence. It rang through the deserted house in a way to make the blood run cold.