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even worse face than she had done before. 'No one could live here.'
    'Then why are you whispering?' Robert asked.
    'Eeugh!' she repeated, more loudly this time. She bent down, and picked up a broken piece of wood. ' Eeugh!' she cried out again several times, as though challenging the darkness. But although her voice echoed, there was no other reply. Emily flung the piece of wood through the nearest door.
    There was a clattering, and the sound of china smashing. Both children scurried through to see what was broken. The light was much dimmer; even so, they could just make out the shattered fragments of a vase. Robert stared about him in amazement. Crockery and ornaments were everywhere. The house, he realised, must have been left utterly untouched — for almost fifteen years it had stood abandoned, and yet not a single thief had dared to pilfer it, not a single beggar had sheltered in its rooms. And then suddenly, he heard Emily whispering to him. 'Robert, come quick, through here, there's a tight!'
    She was in the next room and Robert hurried through to her. He realised they were standing in the hall. An oaken stairway rose ahead of them; it was still imposing, although spiders had woven the tapestries silver and fungus was oozing like sores from the wood. At the summit of the stairway stretched a gallery, where portraits could be made out dimly on the wall. Only one was lit so that the face could be seen; four candles, in a row, had been placed before it on the floor. 'No,' Robert whispered. 'No.' But though he wanted to shrink back, he had to make sure.
    'What is it?' Emily hissed.
    He pointed; then began to climb the stairs.
    'Robert!'
    She wasn't following him. He glanced back at her; her face, in the candlelight, seemed very pale. 'Can you not see it?' she whispered. There are no other footprints - none at all.' He looked down at where he had trodden, across the floor and up the steps; the trail was perfectly clear; for all around it, the dust and mould remained thick and undisturbed. Robert ran to the top and looked down either side of the gallery - again, his footprints were the only ones to be seen. And yet someone must have lit the candles - very recently too, for the wax had barely begun to flow. Robert looked up at the portrait, gazing at it in horror - and yet not in utter surprise. For he knew the face at once - he had seen it cowled and deathlike, the night before. It was the same man ... there could be no mistake.
    Robert stared at it a moment more; then shuddered violently, and turned and ran. As he did so, two of the candles were knocked to the floor, and in the sudden gloom, he almost fell down the stairs. He crashed into the side of the wall. As he struggled to regain his balance, he saw a cloaked form approaching him. It had risen from the darkness of the floor below, and was climbing the stairs. 'Emily,' Robert screamed, 'Emily, are you there?' But the blood was pounding in his ears, and he couldn't hear what she said - if she said anything at all. The figure was on him now. He thrashed out blindly - he struck it once - and then it seized his arms. 'Robert.' He froze. 'Robert,' he heard again, 'in the name of our dear Lord Jesus Christ - please!'
    He looked up into his father's face. Captain Foxe smiled. 'You are safe,' he said.
    Robert half-laughed, half-sobbed. He hugged his father as tightly as he could.
    Captain Foxe lifted his son up in his arms, and clasped him in turn. 'What was it?' he asked. 'What was it made you scream?'
    Robert turned and pointed at the portrait on the wall. His father inspected it briefly; then glanced round. Mr Webbe was just behind him; Emily was folded in the preacher's arms. The eyes of the two men met, and a shadow crossed the faces of both.
    'Who is he?' Robert asked, still gazing at the portrait. ' I saw him last night.'
    Again, Captain Foxe met Mr Webbe's eye; then he nodded. Mr Webbe set down Emily, and climbed the stairs; he heaved the painting down from the wall. As