For an instant I stood so, rigid with horror, scarcely breathing, scarcely daring to believe my eyes. Then Godfrey snatched the torch from my nerveless fingers, and bent down into the grave.

"Good God!" he murmured, after a moment's inspection of what lay there. "I would never have guessed this! This is a thousand times worse than I imagined! Here, Lester, hold the light. I'll uncover the face," and thrusting the torch into my hands, he attacked the loose earth at the other end of the grave.

I, too, moved somehow to the other end, and threw the light down into the shallow hole. Godfrey worked with desperate energy, hurling the dirt right and left. I watched the flying hands in such an agony of horror as I hope never again to experience; stared down into the deepening hole, with the cold sweat starting out across my forehead at the thought of what any instant might reveal.

Again Godfrey dropped to his knees, and I was conscious of a face growing beneath his hands, almost as if he were calling it out of the darkness. Clearer and clearer it grew, as he brushed away the clinging clay; then he stood erect with a little sigh of mingled horror and satisfaction.

Staring up at us was a face—not a woman's face—not Marcia Lawrence's face—but a man's face, florid, heavy-jowled, with a black moustache; dead, yet not calm in death, but contorted by a hideous grimace, as though chuckling with satisfaction.

"Miss Lawrence may, indeed, have sailed on the Umbria," murmured Godfrey, after a moment's silent contemplation of the ghastly countenance. "She had every reason to flee—to the earth's end, if possible. For she left her husband here!"

I could find no word of answer; my throat was dry, contracted; I felt that I was suffocating. So this was the secret! No wonder we had not guessed it!

"One can easily build up the story," went on Godfrey, in a voice carefully lowered. "She came here called by the note, desperate, ready for anything—ready even to kill the devil who'd written it. For he was a devil, Lester—look at his face!"

It was in truth, repellent enough—doubly repellent now with that triumphant leer upon it—cold and hard, with cruel lines about the mouth; a bloated face, too, marked by dissipation and bestiality. I shuddered at the thought that Marcia Lawrence may have once been in his power—that he had tried to drag her down from her sweet girlish innocence——

"He deserved it!" I said hoarsely. "He deserved it—and more!"

"Yes," agreed Godfrey, "no doubt he did. If she was ever in his hands, she must have suffered the torments of hell."

He fell silent a moment, staring down at the face.

"But I don't understand," I burst out, forgetting for a moment to lower my voice; "I can't understand——"

Godfrey laid his hand sternly upon my lips.

"Neither do I," he said; "but don't shout like that."

The words recalled me suddenly to a sense of our danger.

"We'd better get out of this," I whispered.

"Yes—and as soon as we can. We'll have to call in the police. Besides," he added grimly, "I've got to get off the story and it's getting late."

"The story?" I echoed, suddenly sick at heart.

"So far as I know it, Lester. There can be no doubt about this body, I suppose?"

A curious sound behind me, as of a dog panting for breath, sent a sudden chill through me. I raised the torch and sent a beam of light sweeping about the cellar. It rested for an instant on a face peering at us around a corner of the wall—a face so distorted, so demoniac, that it seemed scarcely human. Then there was a flash of flame, a report, and the torch crashed from my hand, while a gust of acrid smoke whirled into my face.

I felt Godfrey clutch me and pull me down beside him into the half-filled grave; I even fancied that I touched the staring face which lay there. In an agony of horror I struggled to free myself, to stand erect, ready to brave any danger rather than that, but he held me fast.

"Steady, Lester, steady," he whispered. "If she fires again, I'll drop her," and I knew that he held his revolver in his hand.

"Don't do that!" I gasped. "Don't do that! You've no right to do that!"

"I have the right to defend myself," retorted Godfrey grimly, and waited, his muscles tense.

But she did not fire again. Instead, there was a long, unbroken silence, during which, it seemed to me, I could feel my hair whitening on my head. I also became conscious of a stinging numbness in my right hand. Minute after minute passed, and still no sound came from the outer cellar. I felt that if the silence endured a moment longer, I should shriek aloud.

"Lie still," whispered Godfrey, at last, "and I'll try to find the torch. Did she hit you?"

"My hand feels numb."

"Let me see," and I felt his fingers touching it softly here and there. "It's just a scratch, I think. But wait till I find the torch."

I heard him groping about for it; then for a time all was still again. Suddenly, from an angle of the wall, a shaft of light shot about the cellar. It was empty.

"All right, Lester," said Godfrey's voice. "Let's have a look at the hand."

I got up unsteadily and went to him. A moment's examination showed that my wound was indeed only a scratch. The bullet had grazed the back of the hand and struck the wrist-bone a glancing blow.

"We'll have it dressed as soon as we can," said Godfrey. "And now the next thing is to get out of this place alive. Our enemy is probably lying in wait for us with a loaded gun at the top of the stairs. By the way, I caught only the merest glimpse of the face. Did you recognise it?"

"Yes," I said; "it was the elder Miss Kingdon."

Godfrey gave a little whistle.

"It looked positively devilish," he said. "It gave me the worst scare I've had for a long time. Did you notice the eyes, how they glared at us?"

"Yes," I said, and shivered a little.

"I confess I don't like the thought of going up those stairs," he went on, "but there's no other way out. This window's too small. So we'll have to chance it. Give me your hand."

I stretched out my uninjured hand. In an instant we were in darkness, and I knew that he had exchanged the torch for his revolver.

"Come on," he whispered, and we started forward.

At the foot of the stair we paused for a moment, listening; but no sound came from above. We mounted a step, two steps, three——

Suddenly I felt a convulsive pressure on my hand. From above came a quick succession of sharp taps, as of some one rapping with his knuckles upon the wall. It rose, fell, rose again——

Involuntarily we retreated to the foot of the stair and took refuge against the farther wall. The light flashed out again, and I saw Godfrey mopping his face with his handkerchief. As for myself, I was fairly bathed in perspiration.

"What was it?" I asked hoarsely.

"I don't know," Godfrey answered, in the same tone. "But I know one thing—if we stay down here much longer, we'll both of us lose our nerve completely. I'm going to make a dash for it," and he started for the cellar steps.

I followed him, clenching my teeth convulsively.

But again a sound from overhead stopped us—a quick step across the floor, the opening of a door, and then a scream so shrill, so agonised, that it made my heart stand still.

"Come on!" cried Godfrey, and dashed up the stair.

In an instant, we reached the top. The kitchen was dark, but a stream of light poured through the open door from the room beyond. We sprang to it. I saw it was the dining-room; a light stood on the table and for a second I thought the room was empty. Then my ear caught a kind of dry sobbing, which seemed to come from one corner.

In an alcove between the chimney and the wall was a closet. Its door was open and, as we peered into it, I saw a woman's figure clothed in white straining at some dark and heavy object.

Godfrey took but one glance at it.

"Good God!" he cried, and sprang into the closet. "Bring the light, Lester."

So shaken by I knew not what new horror that I could scarcely walk, I yet had self-control enough to obey. I tottered to the table, took up the lamp, and returned to the closet door. The rays of the light fell within, revealing the whole terrible scene—Lucy Kingdon and Godfrey holding up a figure clothed in black, a figure which swayed and wabbled, turning at last so that I caught a glimpse of the swollen, distorted face—the same face which had glared at us around a corner of the cellar wall.