"No wonder Dorothy said that she was afraid of them," Paul reflected;
"their portraits alone would drive me mad." He took another long
searching look; and as his eyes grew accustomed to the faded
coloring, he observed how cleverly the work had been done. Evidently
the pictures had been painted from life, though under what
circumstances Henley could never imagine. The faces were all those of
a feminine type; they were of young women, apparently but little more
than girls, and each with this life-like, though dreadful expression.
As Paul stood marveling and wondering, a new interest seized him. At
first he could not quite understand what it was, but it became
stronger and better defined, he knew, for he recognized one of the
faces. Yes, there could be no mistake about it; the picture on the
left was a portrait of Dorothy herself. Henley rubbed his eyes, and
looked again and again; he could not believe their evidence, but they
had not deceived him. He tried to make himself believe that it was
the likeness of some ancestor, to whom she had a strange resemblance;
but, despite the look of pain, it could be no other than Dorothy, and
indeed this very expression helped to heighten the likeness, for had
he not seen a similar expression at the breakfast table? The longer
he gazed at it, the more convinced he became that this was a portrait
of Miss Guir. At last, thoroughly mystified, he turned away,
intending to leave this grewsome chamber of horrors forever; but now
for the first time the heap of rubbish in the center of the floor
engaged his attention. Taking his hinge, he stirred up the mass; some
shreds of cloth, which fell to pieces on being touched, and beneath
them some human bones. This was all, but it was enough; and
overwhelmed with horror, Henley rushed out of the room, bounding
through the aperture he had made in the wall, and up the rickety
stairs into his own bed chamber. He carefully closed the scuttle,
heaped some firewood upon it, shut the closet door and fastened it
securely from without. He then built up a roaring fire, lit another
candle, and sat meditating over what he had seen until the dawn of
day. When the light of the sun came streaming into his room, he
undressed and went to bed.
Whatever may have been Mr. Henley's suspicions concerning the
implication of the Guirs with the crime which he could no longer
doubt had been committed in their house, they were promptly
dispelled, so far as the young lady was concerned, upon meeting
Dorothy at the breakfast table. Her innocent though serious face was
a direct rebuke to any distrust he might have entertained; and he
even doubted if she had any knowledge of the state of things he had
discovered in the vault. This, of course, only added to the mystery;
nor was Mr. Henley's self-esteem fortified by the memory of how
unscrupulously he had become the guest of these people, and of how
equivocal had been his treatment of their hospitality. All this,
however, related to the past, and, as he felt, could not be now
undone. He must act to the best of his ability in the extraordinary
position in which he found himself.