away into a black abyss that seemed bottomless.

The door was of iron, rounded at the top to fit the arch, and covered
with rust. It looked as if it had been in its place since the house was
built, and Keith had heard that the house could not be less than two
hundred years old. The key, which Keith had been permitted to carry
going down, was of iron too, and nearly twice as long as Keith's hand.
The lock was in keeping with the key, enormous in size and so stiff that
Lena had to use both hands to turn the key.

Having laid a firm hold of Lena's skirt, Keith followed her several
steps down until they reached a place in the opposite wall where a
single very tall step led up to another iron door, square-cut and
narrow, back of which lay the cellar used by the Wellanders. Lena
lighted a candle that burned with difficulty in the clammy air.

Inside nothing could be seen at first but a number of boxes and barrels
full of supplies, and back of them walls built out of enormous stone
blocks and dripping with moisture. As his eyes became accustomed to the
dim light, however, Keith perceived that the end toward the lane was
closed by a wall which even his inexperienced glance recognized as brick
and comparatively new. Squeezing between two large barrels of potatoes
he saw two stone steps at the foot of that wall and managed actually to
put his foot on one of them.

"I wish I knew what's back of that wall," he remarked at last.

"Oh, nothing," said Lena indifferently.

"There might be skeletons," he ventured after a pause.

"Jesus Christ, child," Lena almost screamed, looking as if she had
caught sight of a ghost. "Where in the world does he get such notions
from? Come out of here now. I think the master will have to go down for
potatoes himself hereafter."

"There was a skeleton in the story you told me the other night," Keith
protested with dignity, but not unaffected by the girl's
unmistakable fright.

"This is no place for stories of that kind," she declared pulling him
away from the barrels and almost forgetting to close the cellar door
behind her.

That evening Keith kept thinking of the story and the steps in the
cellar. He was sorry not to be able to walk up those stairs. And there
must be some old things left lying about on them. Then he imagined
himself a conspirator, hearing the police beating at the doors and
making his way through the stairway and the tunnel to some quiet,
unobserved doorway in another la