The dress was an exact duplicate of the masqueraders down to its minutest details, and only the closest observer would have noted the awkward way in which the figure moved as though not in the habit of walking in his disguise.
He quickly glanced about the hall, listened a moment to the sounds of revelry in the ballroom, closed the door of the small hall leading into it, reopened the panel and signalled.
In rapid succession eight more silent figures filed through the panel door. The leader whispered to his followers:
“He’s in the dining room. Guard every entrance now but that.”
In a moment a masked man stood guard at each door and the leader lowered the lamp on the table until only the dim outlines of the forms could be seen, and stepped back himself into the shadows of the alcove by the dining room door.
Aunt Julie Ann returned to the kitchen, and the Judge, afraid to go upstairs, came back into the hall to enter the ballroom as he promised Stella.. As he passed through the door of the dining room the shrouded figure standing in the alcove quickly followed, cutting off this retreat.
The Judge stopped, blinked his eyes around the dim hall and muttered:
“Why, why, the lamp’s gone out!” He quickly crossed the space to the table and extended his hand to turn up the lamp.
The figure behind him seized his arm and a guttural voice spoke through the mask:
“There’s light enough for our work, Judge.”
Butler staggered back in terror and glanced about him at the dim spectres closing around the table. With an effort he pulled himself together and stammered:
“Why, of course, boys. I see! I see! You’re going to initiate me! give me the third degree first--I see--a good joke!”
“You’ll find it a serious joke before you’re through,” replied the leader, gripping his dagger.
The Judge could see the movement of his hand as he slowly drew the knife from its sheath, the blade glistening for an instant in the dim lamplight, but he still thought the boys were playing a prank on him.
“Well, gentlemen, have your fun!” he cried with forced gaiety, “Have your way, I’m at your service. What is the penalty I must pay to-night for my many sins against the Klan?”
“The penalty is your life,” said the mask with sullen menace in his tones, stepping closer, “unless you agree to leave this state to-morrow and never enter it again--will you go?”