"Not at all. Because this Mr. Ghost or some of his spooky friends are probably waiting at the top of the stairs with a long gun, and I'm no book hero." "Suppose it might be dat dere Mrs. Princess'es brother?" "Well, he might blow my head off because he doesn't know what I came here for, and if it's someone else they'd blow it off because they do know why I'm here. There's somebody trying to scare us, Rusty. They're probably watching every move we make.... That's where that pounding comes from--why don't they shoot?... They're trying to scare us as they did the poor boobs down in the village." Rusty crossed toward the fireplace. He picked up an old mallet and chisel from the mantel, which was brighter now from the fire. He cried out in surprise: "Look yere, Marse Warren. Look yere!" He handed the tools over to the astounded Jarvis. "I found 'em on dat mantelpiece!" Jarvis ran to the mantelpiece and clambered up on a chair, holding the lantern close to the wall. "Good boy, Rusty! These are the Ghost's tools, all right. Someone was working in this room--but we've beaten him to it.... Mortar on the floor ... mortar on the mantle!... Look here at these stones. That's where he was working, Rusty, and we've beaten him to it." He stopped, and both of them turned simultaneously to look at the big picture of the historical Spaniard. Rusty had drawn his own revolver, with Jarvis doing the same by a curious instinct. "Did you feel dat, too, Marse Warren?" asked the frightened negro. Jarvis said nothing. He went to the picture and, lighting a match, passed it all around the frame, examining it, without the discovery of a suspicious thing. He turned away, then faced it once more as he backed toward the low balustrade of the steps over which stood one of the suits of armor. "By George, that's weird. You could feel that just as plain...." Rusty was still looking with fascination at the picture. "It sure is, Marse Warren, it sure is...." He turned slowly, facing Warren Jarvis. He had just time for one piercing howl--a veritable high-pitched scream: "_My Gawd, look out!_" XVII CONCLUSION Rusty had dived under the table. The great sword of the armored figure was swinging swiftly up in air, and Jarvis leaped with all the sinewy strength of his young manhood. It was none too soon. The great Damascus blade struck fire from the stone balustrade where he sat a second before. Jarvis spun about, and his automatic barked. With the instinct of the born fighting man he fired for the heart: this was his error. The bullets spattered off the angle-braced breastplate. Down the steps came the horrid figure, raising the great sword again. The leaden shower did not halt the clanging monster, as the iron-clad advanced. He remembered now that Rusty had two more revolvers--but Rusty was scuttling on hands and knees for the shelter of the turret entrance across the room.