The house was situated in Central Park, West. It was of modern
architecture, a residence such as only rich men can afford to build.
It was in utter gloom; not a single light could be seen at any window.
It looked, indeed, as if tragedy sat enthroned within. Warrington's
spine wrinkled a bit as he got out of the cab and offered his hand to
the girl.

Mute and mysterious as a sphinx, the girl walked to the steps, not
even looking around to see if he was coming after her. Perhaps she
knew the power of curiosity. Without hesitance she mounted the steps;
he followed, a step behind. At the door, however, she paused. He could
hear her breath coming in quick gasps. Oddly enough, the recollection
of some detective stories flashed through his mind.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing, nothing; only I am afraid."

She stooped; there was a grating sound, a click, and the door opened.
Warrington was a man of courage, but he afterward confessed that it
took all his nerve force to move his foot across the threshold.

"Do not be frightened," she said calmly; "there is nothing but ghosts
here to frighten any one."

"Ghosts?"

"Yes."

"Have you brought me here to tell me a ghost story?" with an effort at