As he stood surrounded by that hostile silence, that evil darkness,
he grew somewhat accustomed to the dimness, and he could make out not
definite objects, but ghostly outlines. Presently he took out the
small electric torch which he carried and examined his surroundings.

The bin had not yet received the supply of winter coal and was almost
empty. He stepped out of it into a part of the basement which had been
used apparently for storing articles not worth keeping, but too good
to be thrown away--an American habit of thrift. Several decrepit
chairs and rickety cabinets and old console tables were piled together
in a tangled mass. Ronicky looked at them with an unaccountable
shudder, as if he read in them the history of the ruin and fall and
death of many an old inhabitant of this house. It seemed to his
excited imagination that the man with the sneer had been the cause of
all the destruction and would be the cause of more.

He passed back through the basement quickly, eager to be out of the
musty odors and his gloomy thoughts. He found the storerooms, reached
the kitchen stairs and ascended at once. Halfway up the stairs, the
door above him suddenly opened and light poured down at him. He saw
the flying figure of a cat, a broom behind it, a woman behind the
broom.

"Whisht! Out of here, dirty beast!"

The cat thudded against Ronicky's knee, screeched and disappeared
below; the woman of the broom shaded her eyes and peered down the
steps. "A queer cat!" she muttered, then slammed the door.

It seemed certain to Ronicky that she must have seen him, yet he