And at eleven o’clock, grazia a Dios, I had the
thirteen dollars all safe, and would have whooped for joy, had I the
time. However, I wasn’t out of the woods yet, the sum of eighty-nine
dollars being often more easy of location than eighty-nine cents. The
latter must be found, also, before I could have the pleasure of shouting
in celebration thereof. At it I went again. After brain cudgeling and more adding and prayerful
thought I at last had under my thumb that abominable eighty cents. Eureka! Only nine cents out. I could get it all straight and have some
sleep, after all! Inspired by which thought I smothered my yawns and
again began to add. I looked at my watch--ten minutes to twelve. Perhaps
I could get it fixed before one. I suppose I had worked at the nine cents for about twenty minutes. One
of the cash entries looked to me to be in error. I compared it with the
voucher--yes, that was just where the trouble lay! Eleven
cents--ten--nine----

S-t-t! Out went the lights in the twinkling of an eye--as I sat, gaping
in my astonishment, from out of the pitchy darkness of the room came the
most dreary, horrible, blood-curdling groan imaginable. As I sat
paralyzed, not daring to breathe, doubting my senses for a moment, and
then thinking indignantly that it was some trick of that wretched
cashier, I felt long, thin, icy fingers passing gently over my face. Malgame Dios! what a sensation! At first I was afraid to move. Then I
nervously tried to brush the icy, bony things away. As fast as I
brushed, with my heart beating like a steam-hammer, and gasping with
deadly fear, the fingers would come back again; a cold wind was blowing
over me. Again came that dreadful groan, and too frightened to move or
scream, I tumbled in a heap on the floor, among the books and ledgers. Then I suppose I fainted. When I regained my senses I was still in a heap with the ledgers; still
it was dark and still I felt the cold fingers caressing my face. At
which I became thoroughly desperate. No ghost should own me! I had
laughed at the poor cashier and hinted darkly at cocktails. Pray, what
better was I? I scrambled to my feet, the fingers still stroking my face. I must
address them--what language--did they understand English or Spanish, I
wondered? Spanish would doubtless be most suitable, if indeed, it was
the ghost of the murdered count----. “Will you do me the favor, Senor Ghost,” I started out bravely, in my
best Spanish, but with a very trembling voice, “to inform me what it is
that you desire? Is there anything I can do for you? Because, if not, I
would like very much to be allowed to finish my work, which I cannot do
(if you will pardon my abruptness) if I am not alone.”

(Being the ghost of a gentleman and a diplomat, surely he would take the
hint and vanish. Ojala!) Perhaps the ghost did not understand my Spanish; at any rate there was
no articulate reply; there was another groan--again the fingers touched
me, and then there was such a mournful sigh that I felt sorry for the
poor thing--what could be the matter with it? With my pity, all fear was
lost for a moment, and I said to the darkness all about me:

“What is it that you wish, pobre senor? Can I not aid you? I am not
afraid--let me help you!”

The fingers moved uncertainly for a moment; then the ledgers all fell
down, with a loud bang; a cold hand caught mine, very gently--I tried
not to feel frightened, but it was difficult--and I was led off blindly,
through the offices. I could not see a thing--not a glimmer of light
showed; not a sound was heard except my own footsteps, and the faint
sound of the invisible something that was leading me along--there were
no more groans, thank goodness, else I should have shrieked and fainted,
without a doubt. Only the pattering footsteps and the cold hand that led
me on and on. We--the fingers and I--were somehow in the great hall, then on the
second floor, and at last on the stairs, going on down, flight after
flight. Then I knew that I was being led about by the fingers on the
tiled floor of the patio, and close to the portero’s lodge. Simpleton
that he was! Sleeping like a log, no doubt, while I was being led about
in the black darkness by an invisible hand, and no one to save me! I
would have yelled, of course, but for one fact--I found it utterly
impossible to speak or move my tongue, being a rare and uncomfortable
sensation. But where were we going? Back into the unused lumber rooms, joining onto
the patio? Nothing there, except barrels and slabs and empty boxes. What
could the ghost mean? He must be utterly demented, surely. In the middle of the first room we paused. I had an idea of rushing out
and screaming for the portero, but abandoned it when I found that my
feet wouldn’t go. I heard steps passing to and fro about the floor, and
waited, cold and trembling. They approached me; again my hand was taken,
and I was led over near the corner of the room. Obedient to the unseen
will, I bent down and groped about the floor, guided by the cold fingers
holding mine, until I felt something like a tiny ring, set firmly in the
floor. I pulled at it faintly, but it did not move, at which the ghost
gave a faint sigh. For a second the cold fingers pressed mine, quite
affectionately, then released me, and I heard steps passing slowly into
the patio, then dying away. Where was it going, and what on earth did it
all mean? But I was so tired and wrought up I tried to find the door, but couldn’t
(the cashier would have been revenged could he have seen me stupidly
fumbling at a barrel, thinking it was the door), and at last, too
fatigued and sleepy to stand, I dropped down on the cold stone floor
and went to sleep. I must have slept for some hours, for when I awoke the light of dawn was
coming in at the window, and I sat up and wondered if I had taken leave
of my senses during the night. What on earth could I be doing here in
the lumber-room? Then, like a flash, I remembered, and, half
unconsciously, crept about on the floor seeking the small ring. There it
was! I caught it and jerked at it hard. Hey, presto, change! For it
seemed to me that the entire floor was giving way. There was a sliding,
crashing sound, and I found myself hanging on for dear life to a barrel
that, fortunately, retained its equilibrium, and with my feet dangling
into space. Down below me was a small, stone-floored room, with big
boxes and small ones ranged about the walls. Treasure! Like a flash the
thought struck me, and with one leap I was down in the secret room
gazing about at the boxes. But, alas! upon investigation, the biggest chests proved empty. The bad,
wicked count! No wonder he couldn’t rest in his Spanish grave, but must
come back to the scene of his wickedness and deceit to make reparation!