other rooms that were downstairs in addition to the living room. There must also be a cellar, he decided; would not a man bent on hiding treasure think naturally of the cellar? Val thought that it was possible.
Turning towards the stairs, he creakily made his way down to the foyer. What was that? He heard a sibilant hissing, a whisper on the stairs he had just descended.
He whirled swiftly, thinking he heard a noise of some kind above the beating of the storm. He strained his eyes into the darkness and could see nothing.
With a muttered imprecation at the jumpy state of his nerves, he groped his way through the dark hall in what he supposed was the general direction of the kitchen and dining room. He stopped suddenly again, thinking he heard a slight movement.
Holding the lantern high over his head, he examined as much of the place as he could, the moldy plaster around him, the dilapidated ceiling and the half falling stairs. Nothing. He went on.
Around the bend he went, into the darkest place he had seen yet, sheltered from all possible light by the overhanging stairs. A dark, swift figure moved, and then another.
His quick eye caught it. He put down the lantern and reached for his automatic, but he was not quick enough. Two figures hurled themselves on him. His right arm shot out in a short jolt, and caught the first assailant under the ear, flinging him down hard on the creaking floor half a dozen feet away.
A great figure loomed in front of him now. Even in the darkness he could see who it was. There was no mistaking that menacing bulk.
“Oh, so it’s you, Iggy!” he shot out.
