“I see,” murmured Steeley, and he began walking towards the house.
“Where are you going?” I asked sharply.
“We may as well have a look inside, now we’re here,” he answered in an off-hand manner.
“Yes, I suppose we may,” I agreed. But I don’t know what it was, and it may sound childish, but I would rather have been kicked than go into that dreadful-looking mausoleum. Naturally, I did not say so, nor would I have admitted an apprehension so groundless. Possibly it was the association of poor Hales that affected me; I don’t know.
Steeley kept his eyes on the ground all the way to the imposing portal—one could hardly call it a doorway—over which hung an enormous lamp or lantern, a massive affair of wrought-iron in which an electric bulb looked absurdly inadequate and out of place. He eyed
