No light penetrated from the outside. The air was dead.
Spiders had clothed the corners and the ceiling with their silk,
over which the dust of years lay thick and ugly. He felt, with
a queer little shiver, that the eyes of a thousand spiders peered
gloatingly down upon him from the murky fastnesses.
He hurried on. The rooms on the lower floor had been stripped of
all signs of habitation. His footsteps resounded throughout the
house. Boards creaked under his tread. Without actually realizing
what he was doing, he began to tiptoe toward the stairway that led
to the upper floor. He laughed at himself for this precaution, and
yet could not rid himself of the feeling that some one was listening,
that the stealth of the midnight burglar was necessary. The stairs
groaned under his weight, the dust-covered banister cracked loudly
when he laid his hand upon it. He had the strange notion that they
were sounding the alarm to some guardian occupant of the premises,--to
a slumbering ghost perhaps.
He came at last to the room where Alix and David had played at
book-writing. In the centre stood a kitchen table, on either side
of which was a rudely constructed bench,--evidently the handiwork
of David Strong. Two strips of rag carpet served as a rug. At each
end of the table was a candlestick containing a half-used tallow
candle. There was a single ink pot, but there were two penholders
beside it, and a couple of blue blotters.
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