able than the fancied return of the dead to their battlefield, and a distrust, natural enough in a native, of the horde of new men gathered for the furnaces.
When he had stepped from the carriage he saw that the lights were confined to the lower hall and one room to the left. The rest of the great house stretched away with an air of decay and abandonment.
In response to his ring he heard a step drag across the floor, but the door was not opened at once. Instead a quavering voice demanded his identity.
With some impatience Garth grasped the knob, and as he heard the carriage retreat towards the town, called out:
"My name is Garth. I'm expected."
The door was swung back almost eagerly, and Garth stepped across the threshold of the lonely house.
An old man faced him, white-haired, bent at the shoulders, unkempt and so out of key with the neat hard-wood floor, the hangings, and the wainscot of the hall—a witness to an abrupt relaxation of discipline.
"Thank heavens you've come, sir," the old man said.
"Then you know," Garth answered. "What's wrong here?"
But before the other could reply a man's voice, uncertain, barely audible, came from the lighted room to the left.
