"Who's there?" he called.

By way of answer there came still another groan. It was hollow,
gruesome, and suggested the grave itself. But Jack Benson was a
healthy, intelligent boy, with sound digestion and well tuned nerves.

"If you're trying to work any ghostly trick on me," called Benson,
derisively, "try something else!"

Again the groan, a bit louder, but Jack's answer was a merry, ringing
laugh, in which there, was not a trace of dread.

"Thank you for the company, Mr. Groan," he called cheerily. "I was
beginning to feel a bit lonely. But say! Can't you bring a light--even
a ghostly one?"

"I am the spirit of Paul Jones," breathed a low, wailing voice.

"Oh nonsense!" jeered Jack. "Paul Jones never spoke with a cheap
French accent."

"I come to--to warn--you," sounded the same sepulchral accents.

"Bring the warning right in and let's have look at it," begged Jack,
heartily. Some convulsive sobs sounded out by the passageway.

"Oh, say," chuckled Jack, "as a vender of blood curdling noises you're
in need of repairs. Listen! I'll sound a much better line for you!"