Williams left and he quickly completed his preparations. The antlers served his purpose well, the depending cord was in exactly the right position and before he made his final adjustment of the two wires he unloosed the latch of the door that it might open easily and noiselessly at the first push of a stealthy hand. Then, his camera in place, he turned off the lights. The room was suddenly plunged into Egyptian blackness; he had to feel for the chair he had pulled up and grasping the tripod, nearly upset it. Swearing under his breath he found the arms of the chair and let himself down upon it carefully, to avoid creaking. The silence of the house closed round him, a silence that was like oblivion. The darkness showed no break as his glance traveled over it. A solid impenetrable wall, it was hard to look at, the eye required something to rest upon. After he had stared into it for what seemed a measureless stretch of time, he felt he must shut his eyes for a moment of respite. He did so, his head drooped, nodded, sunk, and he lay a big crumpled figure held in the embrace of the chair. A bang--in that silence as loud as a cannon shot--a rending burst of light, waked him. He leaped to his feet his senses scattered, not knowing where he was or what had happened. Then from every side of the house noise broke, groans, screams, slamming of doors, thudding footfalls. It was terrifying in the darkness, like a company of ghosts wailing and running about in some black inferno. Williams’ voice shouted the first intelligible words: “You got them--good work! Where the hell are the lights?” That shook Shine into consciousness, and he called to the gallery whence a patter of bare feet and shrill female cries rose: “It’s all right. Don’t be scared. It’s only a flashlight.” Male voices followed, harsh and loud as the men came rushing in: Rawson’s from the left with the crash of the door flung back against the wall. “What are you doing in here? What was that?” Bassett’s from the entrance, his body colliding with furniture as he ran blindly forward. Somewhere in the darkness behind, Stokes’ high and choked, breaking into curses. And over all Miss Pinkney’s riding the tumult like the war cry of the Valkyries: “Why don’t some of you fools turn on the electricity? The button’s on the right side of the door.” Bassett’s hand found it and the room was flooded with light. The women in straight white nightgowns stood on the gallery huddled together. The dreadful darkness lifted, they leaned over the railing, their faces pallid between hanging locks of hair, dropping a shower of questions on the men below. One of them was hysterical and gave forth a sobbing wail, and Williams shouted with angry authority: “Keep quiet up there. Nothing’s the matter. Didn’t you hear it was a flashlight?”