THE EMPTY HOUSE

AND OTHER GHOST STORIES

BY

ALGERNON BLACKWOOD

AUTHOR OF

"JOHN SILENCE" "THE LOST VALLEY" ETC. 

LONDONEVELEIGH NASH COMPANYLIMITED

1916

First Printed 1906Uniform Edition 1915Reprinted 1916

CONTENTS

THE EMPTY HOUSE

A HAUNTED ISLAND

A CASE OF EAVESDROPPING

KEEPING HIS PROMISE

WITH INTENT TO STEAL

THE WOOD OF THE DEAD

SMITH: AN EPISODE IN A LODGING-HOUSE

A SUSPICIOUS GIFT

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY IN NEW YORK

SKELETON LAKE: AN EPISODE IN CAMP

THE EMPTY HOUSE

Certain houses, like certain persons, manage somehow to proclaim at oncetheir character for evil. In the case of the latter, no particularfeature need betray them; they may boast an open countenance and aningenuous smile; and yet a little of their company leaves theunalterable conviction that there is something radically amiss withtheir being: that they are evil. Willy nilly, they seem to communicatean atmosphere of secret and wicked thoughts which makes those in theirimmediate neighbourhood shrink from them as from a thing diseased. 

And, perhaps, with houses the same principle is operative, and it is thearoma of evil deeds committed under a particular roof, long after theactual doers have passed away, that makes the gooseflesh come and thehair rise. Something of the original passion of the evil-doer, and ofthe horror felt by his victim, enters the heart of the innocent watcher, and he becomes suddenly conscious of tingling nerves, creeping skin, and a chilling of the blood. He is terror-stricken without apparentcause. 

There was manifestly nothing in the external appearance of thisparticular house to bear out the tales of the horror that was said toreign within. It was neither lonely nor unkempt. It stood, crowded intoa corner of the square, and looked exactly like the houses on eitherside of it. It had the same number of windows as its neighbours; thesame balcony overlooking the gardens; the same white steps leading up tothe heavy black front door; and, in the rear, there was the same narrowstrip of green, with neat box borders, running up to the wall thatdivided it from the backs of the adjoining houses. Apparently, too, thenumber of chimney pots on the roof was the same; the breadth and angleof the eaves; and even the height of the dirty area railings. 

And yet this house in the square, that seemed precisely similar to itsfifty ugly neighbours, was as a matter of fact entirelydifferent--horribly different. 

Wherein lay this marked, invisible difference is impossible to say. Itcannot be ascribed wholly to the imagination, because persons who hadspent some time in the house, knowing nothing of the facts, had declaredpositively that certain rooms were so disagreeable they would rather diethan enter them again, and that the atmosphere of the whole houseproduced in them symptoms of a genuine terror; while the series ofinnocent tenants who had tried to live in it and been forced to decampat the shortest possible notice, was indeed little less than a scandalin the town. 

When Shorthouse arrived to pay a "week-end" visit to his Aunt Julia inher little house on the sea-front at the other end of the town, he foundher charged to the brim with mystery and excitement. He had onlyreceived her telegram that morning, and he had come anticipatingboredom; but the moment he touched her hand and kissed her apple-skinwrinkled cheek, he caught the first wave of her electrical condition. The impression deepened when he learned that there were to be no othervisitors, and that he had been telegraphed for with a very specialobject. 

Something was in the wind, and the "something" would doubtless bearfruit; for this elderly spinster aunt, with a mania for psychicalresearch, had brains as well as will power, and by hook or by crook sheusually managed to accomplish her ends. The revelation was made soonafter tea, when she sidled close up to him as they paced slowly alongthe sea-front in the dusk. 

"I've got the keys, " she announced in a delighted, yet half awesomevoice. "Got them till Monday!"

"The keys of the bathing-machine, or--?" he asked innocently, lookingfrom the sea to the town. Nothing brought her so quickly to the point asfeigning stupidity. 

"Neither, " she whispered. "I've got the keys of the haunted house in thesquare--and I'm going there to-night. "

Shorthouse was conscious of the slightest possible tremor down his back. He dropped his teasing tone. Something in her voice and manner thrilledhim. She was in earnest. 

"But you can't go alone--" he began. 

"That's why I wired for you, " she said with decision. 

He turned to look at her. The ugly, lined, enigmatical face was alivewith excitement. There was the glow of genuine enthusiasm round it likea halo. The eyes shone. He caught another wave of her excitement, and asecond tremor, more marked than the first, accompanied it. 

"Thanks, Aunt Julia, " he said politely; "thanks awfully. "

"I should not dare to go quite alone, " she went on, raising her voice;"but with you I should enjoy it immensely. You're afraid of nothing, Iknow. "

"Thanks _so_ much, " he said again. "Er--is anything likely to happen?"

"A great deal _has_ happened, " she whispered, "though it's been mostcleverly hushed up. Three tenants have come and gone in the last fewmonths, and the house is said to be empty for good now. "

In spite of himself Shorthouse became interested. His aunt was so verymuch in earnest. 

"The house is very old indeed, " she went on, "and the story--anunpleasant one--dates a long way back. It has to do with a murdercommitted by a jealous stableman who had some affair with a servant inthe house. One night he managed to secrete himself in the cellar, andwhen everyone was asleep, he crept upstairs to the servants' quarters, chased the girl down to the next landing, and before anyone could cometo the rescue threw her bodily over the banisters into the hall below. "

"And the stableman--?"

"Was caught, I believe, and hanged for murder; but it all happened acentury ago, and I've not been able to get more details of the story. "

Shorthouse now felt his interest thoroughly aroused; but, though he wasnot particularly nervous for himself, he hesitated a little on hisaunt's account. 

"On one condition, " he said at length. 

"Nothing will prevent my going, " she said firmly; "but I may as wellhear your condition. "

"That you guarantee your power of self-control if anything reallyhorrible happens. I mean--that you are sure you won't get toofrightened. "

"Jim, " she said scornfully, "I'm not young, I know, nor are my nerves;but _with you_ I should be afraid of nothing in the world!"

This, of course, settled it, for Shorthouse had no pretensions to beingother than a very ordinary young man, and an appeal to his vanity wasirresistible. He agreed to go. 

Instinctively, by a sort of sub-conscious preparation, he kept himselfand his forces well in hand the whole evening, compelling anaccumulative reserve of control by that nameless inward process ofgradually putting all the emotions away and turning the key upon them--aprocess difficult to describe, but wonderfully effective, as all men whohave lived through severe trials of the inner man well understand. Later, it stood him in good stead. 

But it was not until half-past ten, when they stood in the hall, well inthe glare of friendly lamps and still surrounded by comforting humaninfluences, that he had to make the first call upon this store ofcollected strength. For, once the door was closed, and he saw thedeserted silent street stretching away white in the moonlight beforethem, it came to him clearly that the real test that night would be indealing with _two fears_ instead of one. He would have to carry hisaunt's fear as well as his own. And, as he glanced down at hersphinx-like countenance and realised that it might assume no pleasantaspect in a rush of real terror, he felt satisfied with only one thingin the whole adventure--that he had confidence in his own will and powerto stand against any shock that might come. 

Slowly they walked along the empty streets of the town; a bright autumnmoon silvered the roofs, casting deep shadows; there was no breath ofwind; and the trees in the formal gardens by the sea-front watched themsilently as they passed along. To his aunt's occasional remarksShorthouse made no reply, realising that she was simply surroundingherself with mental buffers--saying ordinary things to prevent herselfthinking of extra-ordinary things. Few windows showed lights, and fromscarcely a single chimney came smoke or sparks. Shorthouse had alreadybegun to notice everything, even the smallest details. Presently theystopped at the street corner and looked up at the name on the side ofthe house full in the moonlight, and with one accord, but withoutremark, turned into the square and crossed over to the side of it thatlay in shadow. 

"The number of the house is thirteen, " whispered a voice at his side;and neither of them made the obvious reference, but passed across thebroad sheet of moonlight and began to march up the pavement in silence. 

It was about half-way up the square that Shorthouse felt an arm slippedquietly but significantly into his own, and knew then that theiradventure had begun in earnest, and that his companion was alreadyyielding imperceptibly to the influences against them. She neededsupport. 

A few minutes later they stopped before a tall, narrow house that rosebefore them into the night, ugly in shape and painted a dingy white. Shutterless windows, without blinds, stared down upon them, shining hereand there in the moonlight. There were weather streaks in the wall andcracks in the paint, and the balcony bulged out from the first floor alittle unnaturally. But, beyond this generally forlorn appearance of anunoccupied house, there was nothing at first sight to single out thisparticular mansion for the evil character it had most certainlyacquired. 

Taking a look over their shoulders to make sure they had not beenfollowed, they went boldly up the steps and stood against the huge blackdoor that fronted them forbiddingly. But the first wave of nervousnesswas now upon them, and Shorthouse fumbled a long time with the keybefore he could fit it into the lock at all. For a moment, if truth weretold, they both hoped it would not open, for they were a prey to variousunpleasant emotions as they stood there on the threshold of theirghostly adventure. Shorthouse, shuffling with the key and hampered bythe steady weight on his arm, certainly felt the solemnity of themoment. It was as if the whole world--for all experience seemed at thatinstant concentrated in his own consciousness--were listening to thegrating noise of that key. A stray puff of wind wandering down the emptystreet woke a momentary rustling in the trees behind them, but otherwisethis rattling of the key was the only sound audible; and at last itturned in the lock and the heavy door swung open and revealed a yawninggulf of darkness beyond. 

With a last glance at the moonlit square, they passed quickly in, andthe door slammed behind them with a roar that echoed prodigiouslythrough empty halls and passages. But, instantly, with the echoes, another sound made itself heard, and Aunt Julia leaned suddenly soheavily upon him that he had to take a step backwards to save himselffrom falling. 

A man had coughed close beside them--so close that it seemed they musthave been actually by his side in the darkness. 

With the possibility of practical jokes in his mind, Shorthouse at onceswung his heavy stick in the direction of the sound; but it met nothingmore solid than air. He heard his aunt give a little gasp beside him. 

"There's someone here, " she whispered; "I heard him. "

"Be quiet!" he said sternly. "It was nothing but the noise of the frontdoor. "

"Oh! get a light--quick!" she added, as her nephew, fumbling with a boxof matches, opened it upside down and let them all fall with a rattle onto the stone floor. 

The sound, however, was not repeated; and there was no evidence ofretreating footsteps. In another minute they had a candle burning, usingan empty end of a cigar case as a holder; and when the first flare haddied down he held the impromptu lamp aloft and surveyed the scene. Andit was dreary enough in all conscience, for there is nothing moredesolate in all the abodes of men than an unfurnished house dimly lit, silent, and forsaken, and yet tenanted by rumour with the memories ofevil and violent histories. 

They were standing in a wide hall-way; on their left was the open doorof a spacious dining-room, and in front the hall ran, ever narrowing, into a long, dark passage that led apparently to the top of the kitchenstairs. The broad uncarpeted staircase rose in a sweep before them, everywhere draped in shadows, except for a single spot about half-way upwhere the moonlight came in through the window and fell on a brightpatch on the boards. This shaft of light shed a faint radiance above andbelow it, lending to the objects within its reach a misty outline thatwas infinitely more suggestive and ghostly than complete darkness. Filtered moonlight always seems to paint faces on the surrounding gloom, and as Shorthouse peered up into the well of darkness and thought of thecountless empty rooms and passages in the upper part of the old house, he caught himself longing again for the safety of the moonlit square, orthe cosy, bright drawing-room they had left an hour before. Thenrealising that these thoughts were dangerous, he thrust them away againand summoned all his energy for concentration on the present. 

"Aunt Julia, " he said aloud, severely, "we must now go through the housefrom top to bottom and make a thorough search. "

The echoes of his voice died away slowly all over the building, and inthe intense silence that followed he turned to look at her. In thecandle-light he saw that her face was already ghastly pale; but shedropped his arm for a moment and said in a whisper, stepping close infront of him--

"I agree. We must be sure there's no one hiding. That's the firstthing. "

She spoke with evident effort, and he looked at her with admiration. 

"You feel quite sure of yourself? It's not too late--"

"I think so, " she whispered, her eyes shifting nervously toward theshadows behind. "Quite sure, only one thing--"

"What's that?"

"You must never leave me alone for an instant. "

"As long as you understand that any sound or appearance must beinvestigated at once, for to hesitate means to admit fear. That isfatal. "

"Agreed, " she said, a little shakily, after a moment's hesitation. "I'lltry--"

Arm in arm, Shorthouse holding the dripping candle and the stick, whilehis aunt carried the cloak over her shoulders, figures of utter comedyto all but themselves, they began a systematic search. 

Stealthily, walking on tip-toe and shading the candle lest it shouldbetray their presence through the shutterless windows, they went firstinto the big dining-room. There was not a stick of furniture to beseen. Bare walls, ugly mantel-pieces and empty grates stared at them. Everything, they felt, resented their intrusion, watching them, as itwere, with veiled eyes; whispers followed them; shadows flittednoiselessly to right and left; something seemed ever at their back, watching, waiting an opportunity to do them injury. There was theinevitable sense that operations which went on when the room was emptyhad been temporarily suspended till they were well out of the way again. The whole dark interior of the old building seemed to become a malignantPresence that rose up, warning them to desist and mind their ownbusiness; every moment the strain on the nerves increased. 

Out of the gloomy dining-room they passed through large folding doorsinto a sort of library or smoking-room, wrapt equally in silence, darkness, and dust; and from this they regained the hall near the top ofthe back stairs. 

Here a pitch black tunnel opened before them into the lower regions, and--it must be confessed--they hesitated. But only for a minute. Withthe worst of the night still to come it was essential to turn fromnothing. Aunt Julia stumbled at the top step of the dark descent, illlit by the flickering candle, and even Shorthouse felt at least halfthe decision go out of his legs. 

"Come on!" he said peremptorily, and his voice ran on and lost itself inthe dark, empty spaces below. 

"I'm coming, " she faltered, catching his arm with unnecessary violence. 

They went a little unsteadily down the stone steps, a cold, damp airmeeting them in the face, close and mal-odorous. The kitchen, into whichthe stairs led along a narrow passage, was large, with a lofty ceiling. Several doors opened out of it--some into cupboards with empty jarsstill standing on the shelves, and others into horrible little ghostlyback offices, each colder and less inviting than the last. Black beetlesscurried over the floor, and once, when they knocked against a dealtable standing in a corner, something about the size of a cat jumpeddown with a rush and fled, scampering across the stone floor into thedarkness. Everywhere there was a sense of recent occupation, animpression of sadness and gloom. 

Leaving the main kitchen, they next went towards the scullery. The doorwas standing ajar, and as they pushed it open to its full extent AuntJulia uttered a piercing scream, which she instantly tried to stifle byplacing her hand over her mouth. For a second Shorthouse stoodstock-still, catching his breath. He felt as if his spine had suddenlybecome hollow and someone had filled it with particles of ice. 

Facing them, directly in their way between the doorposts, stood thefigure of a woman. She had dishevelled hair and wildly staring eyes, andher face was terrified and white as death. 

She stood there motionless for the space of a single second. Then thecandle flickered and she was gone--gone utterly--and the door framednothing but empty darkness. 

"Only the beastly jumping candle-light, " he said quickly, in a voicethat sounded like someone else's and was only half under control. "Comeon, aunt. There's nothing there. "

He dragged her forward. With a clattering of feet and a great appearanceof boldness they went on, but over his body the skin moved as ifcrawling ants covered it, and he knew by the weight on his arm that hewas supplying the force of locomotion for two. The scullery was cold, bare, and empty; more like a large prison cell than anything else. Theywent round it, tried the door into the yard, and the windows, but foundthem all fastened securely. His aunt moved beside him like a person ina dream. Her eyes were tightly shut, and she seemed merely to follow thepressure of his arm. Her courage filled him with amazement. At the sametime he noticed that a certain odd change had come over her face, achange which somehow evaded his power of analysis. 

"There's nothing here, aunty, " he repeated aloud quickly. "Let's goupstairs and see the rest of the house. Then we'll choose a room to waitup in. "

She followed him obediently, keeping close to his side, and they lockedthe kitchen door behind them. It was a relief to get up again. In thehall there was more light than before, for the moon had travelled alittle further down the stairs. Cautiously they began to go up into thedark vault of the upper house, the boards creaking under their weight. 

On the first floor they found the large double drawing-rooms, a searchof which revealed nothing. Here also was no sign of furniture or recentoccupancy; nothing but dust and neglect and shadows. They opened the bigfolding doors between front and back drawing-rooms and then came outagain to the landing and went on upstairs. 

They had not gone up more than a dozen steps when they bothsimultaneously stopped to listen, looking into each other's eyes with anew apprehension across the flickering candle flame. From the room theyhad left hardly ten seconds before came the sound of doors quietlyclosing. It was beyond all question; they heard the booming noise thataccompanies the shutting of heavy doors, followed by the sharp catchingof the latch. 

"We must go back and see, " said Shorthouse briefly, in a low tone, andturning to go downstairs again. 

Somehow she managed to drag after him, her feet catching in her dress, her face livid. 

When they entered the front drawing-room it was plain that the foldingdoors had been closed--half a minute before. Without hesitationShorthouse opened them. He almost expected to see someone facing him inthe back room; but only darkness and cold air met him. They went throughboth rooms, finding nothing unusual. They tried in every way to make thedoors close of themselves, but there was not wind enough even to set thecandle flame flickering. The doors would not move without strongpressure. All was silent as the grave. Undeniably the rooms were utterlyempty, and the house utterly still. 

"It's beginning, " whispered a voice at his elbow which he hardlyrecognised as his aunt's. 

He nodded acquiescence, taking out his watch to note the time. It wasfifteen minutes before midnight; he made the entry of exactly what hadoccurred in his notebook, setting the candle in its case upon the floorin order to do so. It took a moment or two to balance it safely againstthe wall. 

Aunt Julia always declared that at this moment she was not actuallywatching him, but had turned her head towards the inner room, where shefancied she heard something moving; but, at any rate, both positivelyagreed that there came a sound of rushing feet, heavy and veryswift--and the next instant the candle was out!

But to Shorthouse himself had come more than this, and he has alwaysthanked his fortunate stars that it came to him alone and not to hisaunt too. For, as he rose from the stooping position of balancing thecandle, and before it was actually extinguished, a face thrust itselfforward so close to his own that he could almost have touched it withhis lips. It was a face working with passion; a man's face, dark, withthick features, and angry, savage eyes. It belonged to a common man, andit was evil in its ordinary normal expression, no doubt, but as he sawit, alive with intense, aggressive emotion, it was a malignant andterrible human countenance. 

There was no movement of the air; nothing but the sound of rushingfeet--stockinged or muffled feet; the apparition of the face; and thealmost simultaneous extinguishing of the candle. 

In spite of himself, Shorthouse uttered a little cry, nearly losing hisbalance as his aunt clung to him with her whole weight in one moment ofreal, uncontrollable terror. She made no sound, but simply seized himbodily. Fortunately, however, she had seen nothing, but had only heardthe rushing feet, for her control returned almost at once, and he wasable to disentangle himself and strike a match. 

The shadows ran away on all sides before the glare, and his aunt stoopeddown and groped for the cigar case with the precious candle. Then theydiscovered that the candle had not been _blown_ out at all; it had been_crushed_ out. The wick was pressed down into the wax, which wasflattened as if by some smooth, heavy instrument. 

How his companion so quickly overcame her terror, Shorthouse neverproperly understood; but his admiration for her self-control increasedtenfold, and at the same time served to feed his own dying flame--forwhich he was undeniably grateful. Equally inexplicable to him was theevidence of physical force they had just witnessed. He at oncesuppressed the memory of stories he had heard of "physical mediums" andtheir dangerous phenomena; for if these were true, and either his auntor himself was unwittingly a physical medium, it meant that they weresimply aiding to focus the forces of a haunted house already charged tothe brim. It was like walking with unprotected lamps among uncoveredstores of gun-powder. 

So, with as little reflection as possible, he simply relit the candleand went up to the next floor. The arm in his trembled, it is true, andhis own tread was often uncertain, but they went on with thoroughness, and after a search revealing nothing they climbed the last flight ofstairs to the top floor of all. 

Here they found a perfect nest of small servants' rooms, with brokenpieces of furniture, dirty cane-bottomed chairs, chests of drawers, cracked mirrors, and decrepit bedsteads. The rooms had low slopingceilings already hung here and there with cobwebs, small windows, andbadly plastered walls--a depressing and dismal region which they wereglad to leave behind. 

It was on the stroke of midnight when they entered a small room on thethird floor, close to the top of the stairs, and arranged to makethemselves comfortable for the remainder of their adventure. It wasabsolutely bare, and was said to be the room--then used as a clothescloset--into which the infuriated groom had chased his victim andfinally caught her. Outside, across the narrow landing, began the stairsleading up to the floor above, and the servants' quarters where they hadjust searched. 

In spite of the chilliness of the night there was something in the airof this room that cried for an open window. But there was more thanthis. Shorthouse could only describe it by saying that he felt lessmaster of himself here than in any other part of the house. There wassomething that acted directly on the nerves, tiring the resolution, enfeebling the will. He was conscious of this result before he had beenin the room five minutes, and it was in the short time they stayed therethat he suffered the wholesale depletion of his vital forces, whichwas, for himself, the chief horror of the whole experience. 

They put the candle on the floor of the cupboard, leaving the door a fewinches ajar, so that there was no glare to confuse the eyes, and noshadow to shift about on walls and ceiling. Then they spread the cloakon the floor and sat down to wait, with their backs against the wall. 

Shorthouse was within two feet of the door on to the landing; hisposition commanded a good view of the main staircase leading down intothe darkness, and also of the beginning of the servants' stairs going tothe floor above; the heavy stick lay beside him within easy reach. 

The moon was now high above the house. Through the open window theycould see the comforting stars like friendly eyes watching in the sky. One by one the clocks of the town struck midnight, and when the soundsdied away the deep silence of a windless night fell again overeverything. Only the boom of the sea, far away and lugubrious, filledthe air with hollow murmurs. 

Inside the house the silence became awful; awful, he thought, becauseany minute now it might be broken by sounds portending terror. Thestrain of waiting told more and more severely on the nerves; theytalked in whispers when they talked at all, for their voices aloudsounded queer and unnatural. A chilliness, not altogether due to thenight air, invaded the room, and made them cold. The influences againstthem, whatever these might be, were slowly robbing them ofself-confidence, and the power of decisive action; their forces were onthe wane, and the possibility of real fear took on a new and terriblemeaning. He began to tremble for the elderly woman by his side, whosepluck could hardly save her beyond a certain extent. 

He heard the blood singing in his veins. It sometimes seemed so loudthat he fancied it prevented his hearing properly certain other soundsthat were beginning very faintly to make themselves audible in thedepths of the house. Every time he fastened his attention on thesesounds, they instantly ceased. They certainly came no nearer. Yet hecould not rid himself of the idea that movement was going on somewherein the lower regions of the house. The drawing-room floor, where thedoors had been so strangely closed, seemed too near; the sounds werefurther off than that. He thought of the great kitchen, with thescurrying black-beetles, and of the dismal little scullery; but, somehow or other, they did not seem to come from there either. Surelythey were not _outside_ the house!

Then, suddenly, the truth flashed into his mind, and for the space of aminute he felt as if his blood had stopped flowing and turned to ice. 

The sounds were not downstairs at all; they were _upstairs_--upstairs, somewhere among those horrid gloomy little servants' rooms with theirbits of broken furniture, low ceilings, and cramped windows--upstairswhere the victim had first been disturbed and stalked to her death. 

And the moment he discovered where the sounds were, he began to hearthem more clearly. It was the sound of feet, moving stealthily along thepassage overhead, in and out among the rooms, and past the furniture. 

He turned quickly to steal a glance at the motionless figure seatedbeside him, to note whether she had shared his discovery. The faintcandle-light coming through the crack in the cupboard door, threw herstrongly-marked face into vivid relief against the white of the wall. But it was something else that made him catch his breath and stareagain. An extraordinary something had come into her face and seemed tospread over her features like a mask; it smoothed out the deep linesand drew the skin everywhere a little tighter so that the wrinklesdisappeared; it brought into the face--with the sole exception of theold eyes--an appearance of youth and almost of childhood. 

He stared in speechless amazement--amazement that was dangerously nearto horror. It was his aunt's face indeed, but it was her face of fortyyears ago, the vacant innocent face of a girl. He had heard stories ofthat strange effect of terror which could wipe a human countenance cleanof other emotions, obliterating all previous expressions; but he hadnever realised that it could be literally true, or could mean anythingso simply horrible as what he now saw. For the dreadful signature ofovermastering fear was written plainly in that utter vacancy of thegirlish face beside him; and when, feeling his intense gaze, she turnedto look at him, he instinctively closed his eyes tightly to shut out thesight. 

Yet, when he turned a minute later, his feelings well in hand, he saw tohis intense relief another expression; his aunt was smiling, and thoughthe face was deathly white, the awful veil had lifted and the normallook was returning. 

"Anything wrong?" was all he could think of to say at the moment. Andthe answer was eloquent, coming from such a woman. 

"I feel cold--and a little frightened, " she whispered. 

He offered to close the window, but she seized hold of him and beggedhim not to leave her side even for an instant. 

"It's upstairs, I know, " she whispered, with an odd half laugh; "but Ican't possibly go up. "

But Shorthouse thought otherwise, knowing that in action lay their besthope of self-control. 

He took the brandy flask and poured out a glass of neat spirit, stiffenough to help anybody over anything. She swallowed it with a littleshiver. His only idea now was to get out of the house before hercollapse became inevitable; but this could not safely be done by turningtail and running from the enemy. Inaction was no longer possible; everyminute he was growing less master of himself, and desperate, aggressivemeasures were imperative without further delay. Moreover, the actionmust be taken _towards_ the enemy, not away from it; the climax, ifnecessary and unavoidable, would have to be faced boldly. He could do itnow; but in ten minutes he might not have the force left to act forhimself, much less for both!

Upstairs, the sounds were meanwhile becoming louder and closer, accompanied by occasional creaking of the boards. Someone was movingstealthily about, stumbling now and then awkwardly against thefurniture. 

Waiting a few moments to allow the tremendous dose of spirits to produceits effect, and knowing this would last but a short time under thecircumstances, Shorthouse then quietly got on his feet, saying in adetermined voice--

"Now, Aunt Julia, we'll go upstairs and find out what all this noise isabout. You must come too. It's what we agreed. "

He picked up his stick and went to the cupboard for the candle. A limpform rose shakily beside him breathing hard, and he heard a voice sayvery faintly something about being "ready to come. " The woman's courageamazed him; it was so much greater than his own; and, as they advanced, holding aloft the dripping candle, some subtle force exhaled from thistrembling, white-faced old woman at his side that was the true source ofhis inspiration. It held something really great that shamed him and gavehim the support without which he would have proved far less equal to theoccasion. 

They crossed the dark landing, avoiding with their eyes the deep blackspace over the banisters. Then they began to mount the narrow staircaseto meet the sounds which, minute by minute, grew louder and nearer. About half-way up the stairs Aunt Julia stumbled and Shorthouse turnedto catch her by the arm, and just at that moment there came a terrificcrash in the servants' corridor overhead. It was instantly followed by ashrill, agonised scream that was a cry of terror and a cry for helpmelted into one. 

Before they could move aside, or go down a single step, someone camerushing along the passage overhead, blundering horribly, racing madly, at full speed, three steps at a time, down the very staircase where theystood. The steps were light and uncertain; but close behind them soundedthe heavier tread of another person, and the staircase seemed to shake. 

Shorthouse and his companion just had time to flatten themselves againstthe wall when the jumble of flying steps was upon them, and two persons, with the slightest possible interval between them, dashed past at fullspeed. It was a perfect whirlwind of sound breaking in upon the midnightsilence of the empty building. 

The two runners, pursuer and pursued, had passed clean through themwhere they stood, and already with a thud the boards below had receivedfirst one, then the other. Yet they had seen absolutely nothing--not ahand, or arm, or face, or even a shred of flying clothing. 

There came a second's pause. Then the first one, the lighter of the two, obviously the pursued one, ran with uncertain footsteps into the littleroom which Shorthouse and his aunt had just left. The heavier onefollowed. There was a sound of scuffling, gasping, and smotheredscreaming; and then out on to the landing came the step--of a singleperson _treading weightily_. 

A dead silence followed for the space of half a minute, and then washeard a rushing sound through the air. It was followed by a dull, crashing thud in the depths of the house below--on the stone floor ofthe hall. 

Utter silence reigned after. Nothing moved. The flame of the candle wassteady. It had been steady the whole time, and the air had beenundisturbed by any movement whatsoever. Palsied with terror, Aunt Julia, without waiting for her companion, began fumbling her way downstairs;she was crying gently to herself, and when Shorthouse put his arm roundher and half carried her he felt that she was trembling like a leaf. Hewent into the little room and picked up the cloak from the floor, and, arm in arm, walking very slowly, without speaking a word or looking oncebehind them, they marched down the three flights into the hall. 

In the hall they saw nothing, but the whole way down the stairs theywere conscious that someone followed them; step by step; when they wentfaster IT was left behind, and when they went more slowly IT caught themup. But never once did they look behind to see; and at each turning ofthe staircase they lowered their eyes for fear of the following horrorthey might see upon the stairs above. 

With trembling hands Shorthouse opened the front door, and they walkedout into the moonlight and drew a deep breath of the cool night airblowing in from the sea. 

A HAUNTED ISLAND

The following events occurred on a small island of isolated position ina large Canadian lake, to whose cool waters the inhabitants of Montrealand Toronto flee for rest and recreation in the hot months. It is onlyto be regretted that events of such peculiar interest to the genuinestudent of the psychical should be entirely uncorroborated. Suchunfortunately, however, is the case. 

Our own party of nearly twenty had returned to Montreal that very day, and I was left in solitary possession for a week or two longer, in orderto accomplish some important "reading" for the law which I had foolishlyneglected during the summer. 

It was late in September, and the big trout and maskinonge were stirringthemselves in the depths of the lake, and beginning slowly to move up tothe surface waters as the north winds and early frosts lowered theirtemperature. Already the maples were crimson and gold, and the wildlaughter of the loons echoed in sheltered bays that never knew theirstrange cry in the summer. 

With a whole island to oneself, a two-storey cottage, a canoe, and onlythe chipmunks, and the farmer's weekly visit with eggs and bread, todisturb one, the opportunities for hard reading might be very great. Itall depends!

The rest of the party had gone off with many warnings to beware ofIndians, and not to stay late enough to be the victim of a frost thatthinks nothing of forty below zero. After they had gone, the lonelinessof the situation made itself unpleasantly felt. There were no otherislands within six or seven miles, and though the mainland forests lay acouple of miles behind me, they stretched for a very great distanceunbroken by any signs of human habitation. But, though the island wascompletely deserted and silent, the rocks and trees that had echoedhuman laughter and voices almost every hour of the day for two monthscould not fail to retain some memories of it all; and I was notsurprised to fancy I heard a shout or a cry as I passed from rock torock, and more than once to imagine that I heard my own name calledaloud. 

In the cottage there were six tiny little bedrooms divided from oneanother by plain unvarnished partitions of pine. A wooden bedstead, amattress, and a chair, stood in each room, but I only found two mirrors, and one of these was broken. 

The boards creaked a good deal as I moved about, and the signs ofoccupation were so recent that I could hardly believe I was alone. Ihalf expected to find someone left behind, still trying to crowd into abox more than it would hold. The door of one room was stiff, and refusedfor a moment to open, and it required very little persuasion to imaginesomeone was holding the handle on the inside, and that when it opened Ishould meet a pair of human eyes. 

A thorough search of the floor led me to select as my own sleepingquarters a little room with a diminutive balcony over the verandah roof. The room was very small, but the bed was large, and had the bestmattress of them all. It was situated directly over the sitting-roomwhere I should live and do my "reading, " and the miniature window lookedout to the rising sun. With the exception of a narrow path which ledfrom the front door and verandah through the trees to the boat-landing, the island was densely covered with maples, hemlocks, and cedars. Thetrees gathered in round the cottage so closely that the slightest windmade the branches scrape the roof and tap the wooden walls. A fewmoments after sunset the darkness became impenetrable, and ten yardsbeyond the glare of the lamps that shone through the sitting-roomwindows--of which there were four--you could not see an inch before yournose, nor move a step without running up against a tree. 

The rest of that day I spent moving my belongings from my tent to thesitting-room, taking stock of the contents of the larder, and choppingenough wood for the stove to last me for a week. After that, just beforesunset, I went round the island a couple of times in my canoe forprecaution's sake. I had never dreamed of doing this before, but when aman is alone he does things that never occur to him when he is one of alarge party. 

How lonely the island seemed when I landed again! The sun was down, andtwilight is unknown in these northern regions. The darkness comes up atonce. The canoe safely pulled up and turned over on her face, I gropedmy way up the little narrow pathway to the verandah. The six lamps weresoon burning merrily in the front room; but in the kitchen, where I"dined, " the shadows were so gloomy, and the lamplight was soinadequate, that the stars could be seen peeping through the cracksbetween the rafters. 

I turned in early that night. Though it was calm and there was no wind, the creaking of my bedstead and the musical gurgle of the water over therocks below were not the only sounds that reached my ears. As I layawake, the appalling emptiness of the house grew upon me. The corridorsand vacant rooms seemed to echo innumerable footsteps, shufflings, therustle of skirts, and a constant undertone of whispering. When sleep atlength overtook me, the breathings and noises, however, passed gently tomingle with the voices of my dreams. 

A week passed by, and the "reading" progressed favourably. On the tenthday of my solitude, a strange thing happened. I awoke after a goodnight's sleep to find myself possessed with a marked repugnance for myroom. The air seemed to stifle me. The more I tried to define the causeof this dislike, the more unreasonable it appeared. There was somethingabout the room that made me afraid. Absurd as it seems, this feelingclung to me obstinately while dressing, and more than once I caughtmyself shivering, and conscious of an inclination to get out of the roomas quickly as possible. The more I tried to laugh it away, the more realit became; and when at last I was dressed, and went out into thepassage, and downstairs into the kitchen, it was with feelings ofrelief, such as I might imagine would accompany one's escape from thepresence of a dangerous contagious disease. 

While cooking my breakfast, I carefully recalled every night spent inthe room, in the hope that I might in some way connect the dislike I nowfelt with some disagreeable incident that had occurred in it. But theonly thing I could recall was one stormy night when I suddenly awoke andheard the boards creaking so loudly in the corridor that I was convincedthere were people in the house. So certain was I of this, that I haddescended the stairs, gun in hand, only to find the doors and windowssecurely fastened, and the mice and black-beetles in sole possession ofthe floor. This was certainly not sufficient to account for the strengthof my feelings. 

The morning hours I spent in steady reading; and when I broke off in themiddle of the day for a swim and luncheon, I was very much surprised, if not a little alarmed, to find that my dislike for the room had, ifanything, grown stronger. Going upstairs to get a book, I experiencedthe most marked aversion to entering the room, and while within I wasconscious all the time of an uncomfortable feeling that was halfuneasiness and half apprehension. The result of it was that, instead ofreading, I spent the afternoon on the water paddling and fishing, andwhen I got home about sundown, brought with me half a dozen deliciousblack bass for the supper-table and the larder. 

As sleep was an important matter to me at this time, I had decided thatif my aversion to the room was so strongly marked on my return as it hadbeen before, I would move my bed down into the sitting-room, and sleepthere. This was, I argued, in no sense a concession to an absurd andfanciful fear, but simply a precaution to ensure a good night's sleep. Abad night involved the loss of the next day's reading, --a loss I was notprepared to incur. 

I accordingly moved my bed downstairs into a corner of the sitting-roomfacing the door, and was moreover uncommonly glad when the operationwas completed, and the door of the bedroom closed finally upon theshadows, the silence, and the strange _fear_ that shared the room withthem. 

The croaking stroke of the kitchen clock sounded the hour of eight as Ifinished washing up my few dishes, and closing the kitchen door behindme, passed into the front room. All the lamps were lit, and theirreflectors, which I had polished up during the day, threw a blaze oflight into the room. 

Outside the night was still and warm. Not a breath of air was stirring;the waves were silent, the trees motionless, and heavy clouds hung likean oppressive curtain over the heavens. The darkness seemed to haverolled up with unusual swiftness, and not the faintest glow of colourremained to show where the sun had set. There was present in theatmosphere that ominous and overwhelming silence which so often precedesthe most violent storms. 

I sat down to my books with my brain unusually clear, and in my heartthe pleasant satisfaction of knowing that five black bass were lying inthe ice-house, and that to-morrow morning the old farmer would arrivewith fresh bread and eggs. I was soon absorbed in my books. 

As the night wore on the silence deepened. Even the chipmunks werestill; and the boards of the floors and walls ceased creaking. I read onsteadily till, from the gloomy shadows of the kitchen, came the hoarsesound of the clock striking nine. How loud the strokes sounded! Theywere like blows of a big hammer. I closed one book and opened another, feeling that I was just warming up to my work. 

This, however, did not last long. I presently found that I was readingthe same paragraphs over twice, simple paragraphs that did not requiresuch effort. Then I noticed that my mind began to wander to otherthings, and the effort to recall my thoughts became harder with eachdigression. Concentration was growing momentarily more difficult. Presently I discovered that I had turned over two pages instead of one, and had not noticed my mistake until I was well down the page. This wasbecoming serious. What was the disturbing influence? It could not bephysical fatigue. On the contrary, my mind was unusually alert, and in amore receptive condition than usual. I made a new and determined effortto read, and for a short time succeeded in giving my whole attention tomy subject. But in a very few moments again I found myself leaning backin my chair, staring vacantly into space. 

Something was evidently at work in my sub-consciousness. There wassomething I had neglected to do. Perhaps the kitchen door and windowswere not fastened. I accordingly went to see, and found that they were!The fire perhaps needed attention. I went in to see, and found that itwas all right! I looked at the lamps, went upstairs into every bedroomin turn, and then went round the house, and even into the ice-house. Nothing was wrong; everything was in its place. Yet something _was_wrong! The conviction grew stronger and stronger within me. 

When I at length settled down to my books again and tried to read, Ibecame aware, for the first time, that the room seemed growing cold. Yetthe day had been oppressively warm, and evening had brought no relief. The six big lamps, moreover, gave out heat enough to warm the roompleasantly. But a chilliness, that perhaps crept up from the lake, madeitself felt in the room, and caused me to get up to close the glass dooropening on to the verandah. 

For a brief moment I stood looking out at the shaft of light that fellfrom the windows and shone some little distance down the pathway, andout for a few feet into the lake. 

As I looked, I saw a canoe glide into the pathway of light, andimmediately crossing it, pass out of sight again into the darkness. Itwas perhaps a hundred feet from the shore, and it moved swiftly. 

I was surprised that a canoe should pass the island at that time ofnight, for all the summer visitors from the other side of the lake hadgone home weeks before, and the island was a long way out of any line ofwater traffic. 

My reading from this moment did not make very good progress, for somehowthe picture of that canoe, gliding so dimly and swiftly across thenarrow track of light on the black waters, silhouetted itself againstthe background of my mind with singular vividness. It kept comingbetween my eyes and the printed page. The more I thought about it themore surprised I became. It was of larger build than any I had seenduring the past summer months, and was more like the old Indian warcanoes with the high curving bows and stern and wide beam. The more Itried to read, the less success attended my efforts; and finally Iclosed my books and went out on the verandah to walk up and down a bit, and shake the chilliness out of my bones. 

The night was perfectly still, and as dark as imaginable. I stumbleddown the path to the little landing wharf, where the water made the veryfaintest of gurgling under the timbers. The sound of a big tree fallingin the mainland forest, far across the lake, stirred echoes in the heavyair, like the first guns of a distant night attack. No other sounddisturbed the stillness that reigned supreme. 

As I stood upon the wharf in the broad splash of light that followed mefrom the sitting-room windows, I saw another canoe cross the pathway ofuncertain light upon the water, and disappear at once into theimpenetrable gloom that lay beyond. This time I saw more distinctly thanbefore. It was like the former canoe, a big birch-bark, withhigh-crested bows and stern and broad beam. It was paddled by twoIndians, of whom the one in the stern--the steerer--appeared to be avery large man. I could see this very plainly; and though the secondcanoe was much nearer the island than the first, I judged that they wereboth on their way home to the Government Reservation, which was situatedsome fifteen miles away upon the mainland. 

I was wondering in my mind what could possibly bring any Indians down tothis part of the lake at such an hour of the night, when a third canoe, of precisely similar build, and also occupied by two Indians, passedsilently round the end of the wharf. This time the canoe was very muchnearer shore, and it suddenly flashed into my mind that the three canoeswere in reality one and the same, and that only one canoe was circlingthe island!

This was by no means a pleasant reflection, because, if it were thecorrect solution of the unusual appearance of the three canoes in thislonely part of the lake at so late an hour, the purpose of the two mencould only reasonably be considered to be in some way connected withmyself. I had never known of the Indians attempting any violence uponthe settlers who shared the wild, inhospitable country with them; at thesame time, it was not beyond the region of possibility to suppose. . . . But then I did not care even to think of such hideous possibilities, andmy imagination immediately sought relief in all manner of othersolutions to the problem, which indeed came readily enough to my mind, but did not succeed in recommending themselves to my reason. 

Meanwhile, by a sort of instinct, I stepped back out of the bright lightin which I had hitherto been standing, and waited in the deep shadow ofa rock to see if the canoe would again make its appearance. Here I couldsee, without being seen, and the precaution seemed a wise one. 

After less than five minutes the canoe, as I had anticipated, made itsfourth appearance. This time it was not twenty yards from the wharf, andI saw that the Indians meant to land. I recognised the two men as thosewho had passed before, and the steerer was certainly an immense fellow. It was unquestionably the same canoe. There could be no longer any doubtthat for some purpose of their own the men had been going round andround the island for some time, waiting for an opportunity to land. Istrained my eyes to follow them in the darkness, but the night hadcompletely swallowed them up, and not even the faintest swish of thepaddles reached my ears as the Indians plied their long and powerfulstrokes. The canoe would be round again in a few moments, and this timeit was possible that the men might land. It was well to be prepared. Iknew nothing of their intentions, and two to one (when the two are bigIndians!) late at night on a lonely island was not exactly my idea ofpleasant intercourse. 

In a corner of the sitting-room, leaning up against the back wall, stoodmy Marlin rifle, with ten cartridges in the magazine and one lyingsnugly in the greased breech. There was just time to get up to the houseand take up a position of defence in that corner. Without an instant'shesitation I ran up to the verandah, carefully picking my way among thetrees, so as to avoid being seen in the light. Entering the room, I shutthe door leading to the verandah, and as quickly as possible turned outevery one of the six lamps. To be in a room so brilliantly lighted, where my every movement could be observed from outside, while I couldsee nothing but impenetrable darkness at every window, was by all lawsof warfare an unnecessary concession to the enemy. And this enemy, ifenemy it was to be, was far too wily and dangerous to be granted anysuch advantages. 

I stood in the corner of the room with my back against the wall, and myhand on the cold rifle-barrel. The table, covered with my books, laybetween me and the door, but for the first few minutes after the lightswere out the darkness was so intense that nothing could be discerned atall. Then, very gradually, the outline of the room became visible, andthe framework of the windows began to shape itself dimly before my eyes. 

After a few minutes the door (its upper half of glass), and the twowindows that looked out upon the front verandah, became speciallydistinct; and I was glad that this was so, because if the Indians cameup to the house I should be able to see their approach, and gathersomething of their plans. Nor was I mistaken, for there presently cameto my ears the peculiar hollow sound of a canoe landing and beingcarefully dragged up over the rocks. The paddles I distinctly heardbeing placed underneath, and the silence that ensued thereupon I rightlyinterpreted to mean that the Indians were stealthily approaching thehouse. . . . 

While it would be absurd to claim that I was not alarmed--evenfrightened--at the gravity of the situation and its possible outcome, Ispeak the whole truth when I say that I was not overwhelmingly afraidfor myself. I was conscious that even at this stage of the night I waspassing into a psychical condition in which my sensations seemed nolonger normal. Physical fear at no time entered into the nature of myfeelings; and though I kept my hand upon my rifle the greater part ofthe night, I was all the time conscious that its assistance could be oflittle avail against the terrors that I had to face. More than once Iseemed to feel most curiously that I was in no real sense a part of theproceedings, nor actually involved in them, but that I was playing thepart of a spectator--a spectator, moreover, on a psychic rather than ona material plane. Many of my sensations that night were too vague fordefinite description and analysis, but the main feeling that will staywith me to the end of my days is the awful horror of it all, and themiserable sensation that if the strain had lasted a little longer thanwas actually the case my mind must inevitably have given way. 

Meanwhile I stood still in my corner, and waited patiently for what wasto come. The house was as still as the grave, but the inarticulatevoices of the night sang in my ears, and I seemed to hear the bloodrunning in my veins and dancing in my pulses. 

If the Indians came to the back of the house, they would find thekitchen door and window securely fastened. They could not get in therewithout making considerable noise, which I was bound to hear. The onlymode of getting in was by means of the door that faced me, and I kept myeyes glued on that door without taking them off for the smallestfraction of a second. 

My sight adapted itself every minute better to the darkness. I saw thetable that nearly filled the room, and left only a narrow passage oneach side. I could also make out the straight backs of the wooden chairspressed up against it, and could even distinguish my papers and inkstandlying on the white oilcloth covering. I thought of the gay faces thathad gathered round that table during the summer, and I longed for thesunlight as I had never longed for it before. 

Less than three feet to my left the passage-way led to the kitchen, andthe stairs leading to the bedrooms above commenced in this passage-way, but almost in the sitting-room itself. Through the windows I could seethe dim motionless outlines of the trees: not a leaf stirred, not abranch moved. 

A few moments of this awful silence, and then I was aware of a softtread on the boards of the verandah, so stealthy that it seemed animpression directly on my brain rather than upon the nerves of hearing. Immediately afterwards a black figure darkened the glass door, and Iperceived that a face was pressed against the upper panes. A shiver randown my back, and my hair was conscious of a tendency to rise and standat right angles to my head. 

It was the figure of an Indian, broad-shouldered and immense; indeed, the largest figure of a man I have ever seen outside of a circus hall. By some power of light that seemed to generate itself in the brain, Isaw the strong dark face with the aquiline nose and high cheek-bonesflattened against the glass. The direction of the gaze I could notdetermine; but faint gleams of light as the big eyes rolled round andshowed their whites, told me plainly that no corner of the room escapedtheir searching. 

For what seemed fully five minutes the dark figure stood there, with thehuge shoulders bent forward so as to bring the head down to the level ofthe glass; while behind him, though not nearly so large, the shadowyform of the other Indian swayed to and fro like a bent tree. While Iwaited in an agony of suspense and agitation for their next movementlittle currents of icy sensation ran up and down my spine and my heartseemed alternately to stop beating and then start off again withterrifying rapidity. They must have heard its thumping and the singingof the blood in my head! Moreover, I was conscious, as I felt a coldstream of perspiration trickle down my face, of a desire to scream, toshout, to bang the walls like a child, to make a noise, or do anythingthat would relieve the suspense and bring things to a speedy climax. 

It was probably this inclination that led me to another discovery, forwhen I tried to bring my rifle from behind my back to raise it and haveit pointed at the door ready to fire, I found that I was powerless tomove. The muscles, paralysed by this strange fear, refused to obey thewill. Here indeed was a terrifying complication!

 * * * * *

There was a faint sound of rattling at the brass knob, and the door waspushed open a couple of inches. A pause of a few seconds, and it waspushed open still further. Without a sound of footsteps that wasappreciable to my ears, the two figures glided into the room, and theman behind gently closed the door after him. 

They were alone with me between the four walls. Could they see mestanding there, so still and straight in my corner? Had they, perhaps, already seen me? My blood surged and sang like the roll of drums in anorchestra; and though I did my best to suppress my breathing, it soundedlike the rushing of wind through a pneumatic tube. 

My suspense as to the next move was soon at an end--only, however, togive place to a new and keener alarm. The men had hitherto exchanged nowords and no signs, but there were general indications of a movementacross the room, and whichever way they went they would have to passround the table. If they came my way they would have to pass within sixinches of my person. While I was considering this very disagreeablepossibility, I perceived that the smaller Indian (smaller by comparison)suddenly raised his arm and pointed to the ceiling. The other fellowraised his head and followed the direction of his companion's arm. Ibegan to understand at last. They were going upstairs, and the roomdirectly overhead to which they pointed had been until this night mybedroom. It was the room in which I had experienced that very morning sostrange a sensation of fear, and but for which I should then have beenlying asleep in the narrow bed against the window. 

The Indians then began to move silently around the room; they were goingupstairs, and they were coming round my side of the table. So stealthywere their movements that, but for the abnormally sensitive state of thenerves, I should never have heard them. As it was, their cat-like treadwas distinctly audible. Like two monstrous black cats they came roundthe table toward me, and for the first time I perceived that the smallerof the two dragged something along the floor behind him. As it trailedalong over the floor with a soft, sweeping sound, I somehow got theimpression that it was a large dead thing with outstretched wings, or alarge, spreading cedar branch. Whatever it was, I was unable to see iteven in outline, and I was too terrified, even had I possessed the powerover my muscles, to move my neck forward in the effort to determine itsnature. 

Nearer and nearer they came. The leader rested a giant hand upon thetable as he moved. My lips were glued together, and the air seemed toburn in my nostrils. I tried to close my eyes, so that I might not seeas they passed me; but my eyelids had stiffened, and refused to obey. Would they never get by me? Sensation seemed also to have left my legs, and it was as if I were standing on mere supports of wood or stone. Worse still, I was conscious that I was losing the power of balance, thepower to stand upright, or even to lean backwards against the wall. Someforce was drawing me forward, and a dizzy terror seized me that I shouldlose my balance, and topple forward against the Indians just as theywere in the act of passing me. 

Even moments drawn out into hours must come to an end some time, andalmost before I knew it the figures had passed me and had their feetupon the lower step of the stairs leading to the upper bedrooms. Therecould not have been six inches between us, and yet I was conscious onlyof a current of cold air that followed them. They had not touched me, and I was convinced that they had not seen me. Even the trailing thingon the floor behind them had not touched my feet, as I had dreaded itwould, and on such an occasion as this I was grateful even for thesmallest mercies. 

The absence of the Indians from my immediate neighbourhood broughtlittle sense of relief. I stood shivering and shuddering in my corner, and, beyond being able to breathe more freely, I felt no whit lessuncomfortable. Also, I was aware that a certain light, which, withoutapparent source or rays, had enabled me to follow their every gestureand movement, had gone out of the room with their departure. Anunnatural darkness now filled the room, and pervaded its every corner sothat I could barely make out the positions of the windows and the glassdoors. 

As I said before, my condition was evidently an abnormal one. Thecapacity for feeling surprise seemed, as in dreams, to be wholly absent. My senses recorded with unusual accuracy every smallest occurrence, butI was able to draw only the simplest deductions. 

The Indians soon reached the top of the stairs, and there they haltedfor a moment. I had not the faintest clue as to their next movement. They appeared to hesitate. They were listening attentively. Then I heardone of them, who by the weight of his soft tread must have been thegiant, cross the narrow corridor and enter the room directlyoverhead--my own little bedroom. But for the insistence of thatunaccountable dread I had experienced there in the morning, I should atthat very moment have been lying in the bed with the big Indian in theroom standing beside me. 

For the space of a hundred seconds there was silence, such as mighthave existed before the birth of sound. It was followed by a longquivering shriek of terror, which rang out into the night, and ended ina short gulp before it had run its full course. At the same moment theother Indian left his place at the head of the stairs, and joined hiscompanion in the bedroom. I heard the "thing" trailing behind him alongthe floor. A thud followed, as of something heavy falling, and then allbecame as still and silent as before. 

It was at this point that the atmosphere, surcharged all day with theelectricity of a fierce storm, found relief in a dancing flash ofbrilliant lightning simultaneously with a crash of loudest thunder. Forfive seconds every article in the room was visible to me with amazingdistinctness, and through the windows I saw the tree trunks standing insolemn rows. The thunder pealed and echoed across the lake and among thedistant islands, and the flood-gates of heaven then opened and let outtheir rain in streaming torrents. 

The drops fell with a swift rushing sound upon the still waters of thelake, which leaped up to meet them, and pattered with the rattle of shoton the leaves of the maples and the roof of the cottage. A moment later, and another flash, even more brilliant and of longer duration than thefirst, lit up the sky from zenith to horizon, and bathed the roommomentarily in dazzling whiteness. I could see the rain glistening onthe leaves and branches outside. The wind rose suddenly, and in lessthan a minute the storm that had been gathering all day burst forth inits full fury. 

Above all the noisy voices of the elements, the slightest sounds in theroom overhead made themselves heard, and in the few seconds of deepsilence that followed the shriek of terror and pain I was aware that themovements had commenced again. The men were leaving the room andapproaching the top of the stairs. A short pause, and they began todescend. Behind them, tumbling from step to step, I could hear thattrailing "thing" being dragged along. It had become ponderous!

I awaited their approach with a degree of calmness, almost of apathy, which was only explicable on the ground that after a certain pointNature applies her own anæsthetic, and a merciful condition of numbnesssupervenes. On they came, step by step, nearer and nearer, with theshuffling sound of the burden behind growing louder as they approached. 

They were already half-way down the stairs when I was galvanised afreshinto a condition of terror by the consideration of a new and horriblepossibility. It was the reflection that if another vivid flash oflightning were to come when the shadowy procession was in the room, perhaps when it was actually passing in front of me, I should seeeverything in detail, and worse, be seen myself! I could only hold mybreath and wait--wait while the minutes lengthened into hours, and theprocession made its slow progress round the room. 

The Indians had reached the foot of the staircase. The form of the hugeleader loomed in the doorway of the passage, and the burden with anominous thud had dropped from the last step to the floor. There was amoment's pause while I saw the Indian turn and stoop to assist hiscompanion. Then the procession moved forward again, entered the roomclose on my left, and began to move slowly round my side of the table. The leader was already beyond me, and his companion, dragging on thefloor behind him the burden, whose confused outline I could dimly makeout, was exactly in front of me, when the cavalcade came to a dead halt. At the same moment, with the strange suddenness of thunderstorms, thesplash of the rain ceased altogether, and the wind died away into uttersilence. 

For the space of five seconds my heart seemed to stop beating, and thenthe worst came. A double flash of lightning lit up the room and itscontents with merciless vividness. 

The huge Indian leader stood a few feet past me on my right. One leg wasstretched forward in the act of taking a step. His immense shoulderswere turned toward his companion, and in all their magnificentfierceness I saw the outline of his features. His gaze was directed uponthe burden his companion was dragging along the floor; but his profile, with the big aquiline nose, high cheek-bone, straight black hair andbold chin, burnt itself in that brief instant into my brain, never againto fade. 

Dwarfish, compared with this gigantic figure, appeared the proportionsof the other Indian, who, within twelve inches of my face, was stoopingover the thing he was dragging in a position that lent to his person theadditional horror of deformity. And the burden, lying upon a sweepingcedar branch which he held and dragged by a long stem, was the body of awhite man. The scalp had been neatly lifted, and blood lay in a broadsmear upon the cheeks and forehead. 

Then, for the first time that night, the terror that had paralysed mymuscles and my will lifted its unholy spell from my soul. With a loudcry I stretched out my arms to seize the big Indian by the throat, and, grasping only air, tumbled forward unconscious upon the ground. 

I had recognised the body, and _the face was my own_! . . . 

It was bright daylight when a man's voice recalled me to consciousness. I was lying where I had fallen, and the farmer was standing in the roomwith the loaves of bread in his hands. The horror of the night was stillin my heart, and as the bluff settler helped me to my feet and picked upthe rifle which had fallen with me, with many questions and expressionsof condolence, I imagine my brief replies were neither self-explanatorynor even intelligible. 

That day, after a thorough and fruitless search of the house, I left theisland, and went over to spend my last ten days with the farmer; andwhen the time came for me to leave, the necessary reading had beenaccomplished, and my nerves had completely recovered their balance. 

On the day of my departure the farmer started early in his big boat withmy belongings to row to the point, twelve miles distant, where a littlesteamer ran twice a week for the accommodation of hunters. Late in theafternoon I went off in another direction in my canoe, wishing to seethe island once again, where I had been the victim of so strange anexperience. 

In due course I arrived there, and made a tour of the island. I alsomade a search of the little house, and it was not without a curioussensation in my heart that I entered the little upstairs bedroom. Thereseemed nothing unusual. 

Just after I re-embarked, I saw a canoe gliding ahead of me around thecurve of the island. A canoe was an unusual sight at this time of theyear, and this one seemed to have sprung from nowhere. Altering mycourse a little, I watched it disappear around the next projecting pointof rock. It had high curving bows, and there were two Indians in it. Ilingered with some excitement, to see if it would appear again round theother side of the island; and in less than five minutes it came intoview. There were less than two hundred yards between us, and theIndians, sitting on their haunches, were paddling swiftly in mydirection. 

I never paddled faster in my life than I did in those next few minutes. When I turned to look again, the Indians had altered their course, andwere again circling the island. 

The sun was sinking behind the forests on the mainland, and thecrimson-coloured clouds of sunset were reflected in the waters of thelake, when I looked round for the last time, and saw the big bark canoeand its two dusky occupants still going round the island. Then theshadows deepened rapidly; the lake grew black, and the night wind blewits first breath in my face as I turned a corner, and a projecting bluffof rock hid from my view both island and canoe. 

A CASE OF EAVESDROPPING

Jim Shorthouse was the sort of fellow who always made a mess of things. Everything with which his hands or mind came into contact issued fromsuch contact in an unqualified and irremediable state of mess. Hiscollege days were a mess: he was twice rusticated. His schooldays were amess: he went to half a dozen, each passing him on to the next with aworse character and in a more developed state of mess. His early boyhoodwas the sort of mess that copy-books and dictionaries spell with a big"M, " and his babyhood--ugh! was the embodiment of howling, yowling, screaming mess. 

At the age of forty, however, there came a change in his troubled life, when he met a girl with half a million in her own right, who consentedto marry him, and who very soon succeeded in reducing his most messyexistence into a state of comparative order and system. 

Certain incidents, important and otherwise, of Jim's life would neverhave come to be told here but for the fact that in getting into his"messes" and out of them again he succeeded in drawing himself into theatmosphere of peculiar circumstances and strange happenings. Heattracted to his path the curious adventures of life as unfailingly asmeat attracts flies, and jam wasps. It is to the meat and jam of hislife, so to speak, that he owes his experiences; his after-life was allpudding, which attracts nothing but greedy children. With marriage theinterest of his life ceased for all but one person, and his path becameregular as the sun's instead of erratic as a comet's. 

The first experience in order of time that he related to me shows thatsomewhere latent behind his disarranged nervous system there lay psychicperceptions of an uncommon order. About the age of twenty-two--I thinkafter his second rustication--his father's purse and patience hadequally given out, and Jim found himself stranded high and dry in alarge American city. High and dry! And the only clothes that had noholes in them safely in the keeping of his uncle's wardrobe. 

Careful reflection on a bench in one of the city parks led him to theconclusion that the only thing to do was to persuade the city editor ofone of the daily journals that he possessed an observant mind and aready pen, and that he could "do good work for your paper, sir, as areporter. " This, then, he did, standing at a most unnatural anglebetween the editor and the window to conceal the whereabouts of theholes. 

"Guess we'll have to give you a week's trial, " said the editor, who, ever on the lookout for good chance material, took on shoals of men inthat way and retained on the average one man per shoal. Anyhow it gaveJim Shorthouse the wherewithal to sew up the holes and relieve hisuncle's wardrobe of its burden. 

Then he went to find living quarters; and in this proceeding his uniquecharacteristics already referred to--what theosophists would call hisKarma--began unmistakably to assert themselves, for it was in the househe eventually selected that this sad tale took place. 

There are no "diggings" in American cities. The alternatives for smallincomes are grim enough--rooms in a boarding-house where meals areserved, or in a room-house where no meals are served--not evenbreakfast. Rich people live in palaces, of course, but Jim had nothingto do with "sich-like. " His horizon was bounded by boarding-houses androom-houses; and, owing to the necessary irregularity of his meals andhours, he took the latter. 

It was a large, gaunt-looking place in a side street, with dirty windowsand a creaking iron gate, but the rooms were large, and the one heselected and paid for in advance was on the top floor. The landladylooked gaunt and dusty as the house, and quite as old. Her eyes weregreen and faded, and her features large. 

"Waal, " she twanged, with her electrifying Western drawl, "that's theroom, if you like it, and that's the price I said. Now, if you want it, why, just say so; and if you don't, why, it don't hurt me any. "

Jim wanted to shake her, but he feared the clouds of long-accumulateddust in her clothes, and as the price and size of the room suited him, he decided to take it. 

"Anyone else on this floor?" he asked. 

She looked at him queerly out of her faded eyes before she answered. 

"None of my guests ever put such questions to me before, " she said; "butI guess you're different. Why, there's no one at all but an old gentthat's stayed here every bit of five years. He's over thar, " pointingto the end of the passage. 

"Ah! I see, " said Shorthouse feebly. "So I'm alone up here?"

"Reckon you are, pretty near, " she twanged out, ending the conversationabruptly by turning her back on her new "guest, " and going slowly anddeliberately downstairs. 

The newspaper work kept Shorthouse out most of the night. Three times aweek he got home at 1 a. M. , and three times at 3 a. M. The room provedcomfortable enough, and he paid for a second week. His unusual hours hadso far prevented his meeting any inmates of the house, and not a soundhad been heard from the "old gent" who shared the floor with him. Itseemed a very quiet house. 

One night, about the middle of the second week, he came home tired aftera long day's work. The lamp that usually stood all night in the hall hadburned itself out, and he had to stumble upstairs in the dark. He madeconsiderable noise in doing so, but nobody seemed to be disturbed. Thewhole house was utterly quiet, and probably everybody was asleep. Therewere no lights under any of the doors. All was in darkness. It was aftertwo o'clock. 

After reading some English letters that had come during the day, anddipping for a few minutes into a book, he became drowsy and got readyfor bed. Just as he was about to get in between the sheets, he stoppedfor a moment and listened. There rose in the night, as he did so, thesound of steps somewhere in the house below. Listening attentively, heheard that it was somebody coming upstairs--a heavy tread, and the ownertaking no pains to step quietly. On it came up the stairs, tramp, tramp, tramp--evidently the tread of a big man, and one in something of ahurry. 

At once thoughts connected somehow with fire and police flashed throughJim's brain, but there were no sounds of voices with the steps, and hereflected in the same moment that it could only be the old gentlemankeeping late hours and tumbling upstairs in the darkness. He was in theact of turning out the gas and stepping into bed, when the house resumedits former stillness by the footsteps suddenly coming to a dead stopimmediately outside his own room. 

With his hand on the gas, Shorthouse paused a moment before turning itout to see if the steps would go on again, when he was startled by aloud knocking on his door. Instantly, in obedience to a curious andunexplained instinct, he turned out the light, leaving himself and theroom in total darkness. 

He had scarcely taken a step across the room to open the door, when avoice from the other side of the wall, so close it almost sounded in hisear, exclaimed in German, "Is that you, father? Come in. "

The speaker was a man in the next room, and the knocking, after all, hadnot been on his own door, but on that of the adjoining chamber, which hehad supposed to be vacant. 

Almost before the man in the passage had time to answer in German, "Letme in at once, " Jim heard someone cross the floor and unlock the door. Then it was slammed to with a bang, and there was audible the sound offootsteps about the room, and of chairs being drawn up to a table andknocking against furniture on the way. The men seemed wholly regardlessof their neighbour's comfort, for they made noise enough to waken thedead. 

"Serves me right for taking a room in such a cheap hole, " reflected Jimin the darkness. "I wonder whom she's let the room to!"

The two rooms, the landlady had told him, were originally one. She hadput up a thin partition--just a row of boards--to increase her income. The doors were adjacent, and only separated by the massive upright beambetween them. When one was opened or shut the other rattled. 

With utter indifference to the comfort of the other sleepers in thehouse, the two Germans had meanwhile commenced to talk both at once andat the top of their voices. They talked emphatically, even angrily. Thewords "Father" and "Otto" were freely used. Shorthouse understoodGerman, but as he stood listening for the first minute or two, aneavesdropper in spite of himself, it was difficult to make head or tailof the talk, for neither would give way to the other, and the jumble ofguttural sounds and unfinished sentences was wholly unintelligible. Then, very suddenly, both voices dropped together; and, after a moment'spause, the deep tones of one of them, who seemed to be the "father, "said, with the utmost distinctness--

"You mean, Otto, that you refuse to get it?"

There was a sound of someone shuffling in the chair before the answercame. "I mean that I don't know how to get it. It is so much, father. Itis _too_ much. A part of it--"

"A part of it!" cried the other, with an angry oath, "a part of it, whenruin and disgrace are already in the house, is worse than useless. Ifyou can get half you can get all, you wretched fool. Half-measures onlydamn all concerned. "

"You told me last time--" began the other firmly, but was not allowed tofinish. A succession of horrible oaths drowned his sentence, and thefather went on, in a voice vibrating with anger--

"You know she will give you anything. You have only been married a fewmonths. If you ask and give a plausible reason you can get all we wantand more. You can ask it temporarily. All will be paid back. It willre-establish the firm, and she will never know what was done with it. With that amount, Otto, you know I can recoup all these terrible losses, and in less than a year all will be repaid. But without it. . . . You mustget it, Otto. Hear me, you must. Am I to be arrested for the misuse oftrust moneys? Is our honoured name to be cursed and spat on?" The oldman choked and stammered in his anger and desperation. 

Shorthouse stood shivering in the darkness and listening in spite ofhimself. The conversation had carried him along with it, and he had beenfor some reason afraid to let his neighbourhood be known. But at thispoint he realised that he had listened too long and that he must informthe two men that they could be overheard to every single syllable. So hecoughed loudly, and at the same time rattled the handle of his door. Itseemed to have no effect, for the voices continued just as loudly asbefore, the son protesting and the father growing more and more angry. He coughed again persistently, and also contrived purposely in thedarkness to tumble against the partition, feeling the thin boards yieldeasily under his weight, and making a considerable noise in so doing. But the voices went on unconcernedly, and louder than ever. Could it bepossible they had not heard?

By this time Jim was more concerned about his own sleep than themorality of overhearing the private scandals of his neighbours, and hewent out into the passage and knocked smartly at their door. Instantly, as if by magic, the sounds ceased. Everything dropped into uttersilence. There was no light under the door and not a whisper could beheard within. He knocked again, but received no answer. 

"Gentlemen, " he began at length, with his lips close to the keyhole andin German, "please do not talk so loud. I can overhear all you say inthe next room. Besides, it is very late, and I wish to sleep. "

He paused and listened, but no answer was forthcoming. He turned thehandle and found the door was locked. Not a sound broke the stillness ofthe night except the faint swish of the wind over the skylight and thecreaking of a board here and there in the house below. The cold air of avery early morning crept down the passage, and made him shiver. Thesilence of the house began to impress him disagreeably. He looked behindhim and about him, hoping, and yet fearing, that something would breakthe stillness. The voices still seemed to ring on in his ears; but thatsudden silence, when he knocked at the door, affected him far moreunpleasantly than the voices, and put strange thoughts in hisbrain--thoughts he did not like or approve. 

Moving stealthily from the door, he peered over the banisters into thespace below. It was like a deep vault that might conceal in its shadowsanything that was not good. It was not difficult to fancy he saw anindistinct moving to-and-fro below him. Was that a figure sitting on thestairs peering up obliquely at him out of hideous eyes? Was that a soundof whispering and shuffling down there in the dark halls and forsakenlandings? Was it something more than the inarticulate murmur of thenight?

The wind made an effort overhead, singing over the skylight, and thedoor behind him rattled and made him start. He turned to go back to hisroom, and the draught closed the door slowly in his face as if therewere someone pressing against it from the other side. When he pushed itopen and went in, a hundred shadowy forms seemed to dart swiftly andsilently back to their corners and hiding-places. But in the adjoiningroom the sounds had entirely ceased, and Shorthouse soon crept into bed, and left the house with its inmates, waking or sleeping, to take care ofthemselves, while he entered the region of dreams and silence. 

Next day, strong in the common sense that the sunlight brings, hedetermined to lodge a complaint against the noisy occupants of the nextroom and make the landlady request them to modify their voices at suchlate hours of the night and morning. But it so happened that she was notto be seen that day, and when he returned from the office at midnight itwas, of course, too late. 

Looking under the door as he came up to bed he noticed that there was nolight, and concluded that the Germans were not in. So much the better. He went to sleep about one o'clock, fully decided that if they came uplater and woke him with their horrible noises he would not rest till hehad roused the landlady and made her reprove them with thatauthoritative twang, in which every word was like the lash of a metallicwhip. 

However, there proved to be no need for such drastic measures, forShorthouse slumbered peacefully all night, and his dreams--chiefly ofthe fields of grain and flocks of sheep on the far-away farms of hisfather's estate--were permitted to run their fanciful course unbroken. 

Two nights later, however, when he came home tired out, after adifficult day, and wet and blown about by one of the wickedest storms hehad ever seen, his dreams--always of the fields and sheep--were notdestined to be so undisturbed. 

He had already dozed off in that delicious glow that follows the removalof wet clothes and the immediate snuggling under warm blankets, when hisconsciousness, hovering on the borderland between sleep and waking, wasvaguely troubled by a sound that rose indistinctly from the depths ofthe house, and, between the gusts of wind and rain, reached his earswith an accompanying sense of uneasiness and discomfort. It rose on thenight air with some pretence of regularity, dying away again in the roarof the wind to reassert itself distantly in the deep, brief hushes ofthe storm. 

For a few minutes Jim's dreams were coloured only--tinged, as it were, by this impression of fear approaching from somewhere insensibly uponhim. His consciousness, at first, refused to be drawn back from thatenchanted region where it had wandered, and he did not immediatelyawaken. But the nature of his dreams changed unpleasantly. He saw thesheep suddenly run huddled together, as though frightened by theneighbourhood of an enemy, while the fields of waving corn becameagitated as though some monster were moving uncouthly among the crowdedstalks. The sky grew dark, and in his dream an awful sound camesomewhere from the clouds. It was in reality the sound downstairsgrowing more distinct. 

Shorthouse shifted uneasily across the bed with something like a groanof distress. The next minute he awoke, and found himself sittingstraight up in bed--listening. Was it a nightmare? Had he been dreamingevil dreams, that his flesh crawled and the hair stirred on his head?

The room was dark and silent, but outside the wind howled dismally anddrove the rain with repeated assaults against the rattling windows. Hownice it would be--the thought flashed through his mind--if all winds, like the west wind, went down with the sun! They made such fiendishnoises at night, like the crying of angry voices. In the daytime theyhad such a different sound. If only--

Hark! It was no dream after all, for the sound was momentarily growinglouder, and its _cause_ was coming up the stairs. He found himselfspeculating feebly what this cause might be, but the sound was still tooindistinct to enable him to arrive at any definite conclusion. 

The voice of a church clock striking two made itself heard above thewind. It was just about the hour when the Germans had commenced theirperformance three nights before. Shorthouse made up his mind that ifthey began it again he would not put up with it for very long. Yet hewas already horribly conscious of the difficulty he would have ofgetting out of bed. The clothes were so warm and comforting against hisback. The sound, still steadily coming nearer, had by this time becomedifferentiated from the confused clamour of the elements, and hadresolved itself into the footsteps of one or more persons. 

"The Germans, hang 'em!" thought Jim. "But what on earth is the matterwith me? I never felt so queer in all my life. "

He was trembling all over, and felt as cold as though he were in afreezing atmosphere. His nerves were steady enough, and he felt nodiminution of physical courage, but he was conscious of a curious senseof malaise and trepidation, such as even the most vigorous men have beenknown to experience when in the first grip of some horrible and deadlydisease. As the footsteps approached this feeling of weakness increased. He felt a strange lassitude creeping over him, a sort of exhaustion, accompanied by a growing numbness in the extremities, and a sensation ofdreaminess in the head, as if perhaps the consciousness were leaving itsaccustomed seat in the brain and preparing to act on another plane. Yet, strange to say, as the vitality was slowly withdrawn from his body, hissenses seemed to grow more acute. 

Meanwhile the steps were already on the landing at the top of thestairs, and Shorthouse, still sitting upright in bed, heard a heavy bodybrush past his door and along the wall outside, almost immediatelyafterwards the loud knocking of someone's knuckles on the door of theadjoining room. 

Instantly, though so far not a sound had proceeded from within, heheard, through the thin partition, a chair pushed back and a man quicklycross the floor and open the door. 

"Ah! it's you, " he heard in the son's voice. Had the fellow, then, beensitting silently in there all this time, waiting for his father'sarrival? To Shorthouse it came not as a pleasant reflection by anymeans. 

There was no answer to this dubious greeting, but the door was closedquickly, and then there was a sound as if a bag or parcel had beenthrown on a wooden table and had slid some distance across it beforestopping. 

"What's that?" asked the son, with anxiety in his tone. 

"You may know before I go, " returned the other gruffly. Indeed his voicewas more than gruff: it betrayed ill-suppressed passion. 

Shorthouse was conscious of a strong desire to stop the conversationbefore it proceeded any further, but somehow or other his will was notequal to the task, and he could not get out of bed. The conversationwent on, every tone and inflexion distinctly audible above the noise ofthe storm. 

In a low voice the father continued. Jim missed some of the words at thebeginning of the sentence. It ended with: " . . . But now they've all left, and I've managed to get up to you. You know what I've come for. " Therewas distinct menace in his tone. 

"Yes, " returned the other; "I have been waiting. "

"And the money?" asked the father impatiently. 

No answer. 

"You've had three days to get it in, and I've contrived to stave off theworst so far--but to-morrow is the end. "

No answer. 

"Speak, Otto! What have you got for me? Speak, my son; for God's sake, tell me. "

There was a moment's silence, during which the old man's vibratingaccents seemed to echo through the rooms. Then came in a low voice theanswer--

"I have nothing. "

"Otto!" cried the other with passion, "nothing!"

"I can get nothing, " came almost in a whisper. 

"You lie!" cried the other, in a half-stifled voice. "I swear you lie. Give me the money. "

A chair was heard scraping along the floor. Evidently the men had beensitting over the table, and one of them had risen. Shorthouse heard thebag or parcel drawn across the table, and then a step as if one of themen was crossing to the door. 

"Father, what's in that? I must know, " said Otto, with the first signsof determination in his voice. There must have been an effort on theson's part to gain possession of the parcel in question, and on thefather's to retain it, for between them it fell to the ground. A curiousrattle followed its contact with the floor. Instantly there were soundsof a scuffle. The men were struggling for the possession of the box. Theelder man with oaths, and blasphemous imprecations, the other with shortgasps that betokened the strength of his efforts. It was of shortduration, and the younger man had evidently won, for a minute later washeard his angry exclamation. 

"I knew it. Her jewels! You scoundrel, you shall never have them. It isa crime. "

The elder man uttered a short, guttural laugh, which froze Jim's bloodand made his skin creep. No word was spoken, and for the space of tenseconds there was a living silence. Then the air trembled with the soundof a thud, followed immediately by a groan and the crash of a heavy bodyfalling over on to the table. A second later there was a lurching fromthe table on to the floor and against the partition that separated therooms. The bed quivered an instant at the shock, but the unholy spellwas lifted from his soul and Jim Shorthouse sprang out of bed and acrossthe floor in a single bound. He knew that ghastly murder had beendone--the murder by a father of his son. 

With shaking fingers but a determined heart he lit the gas, and thefirst thing in which his eyes corroborated the evidence of his ears wasthe horrifying detail that the lower portion of the partition bulgedunnaturally into his own room. The glaring paper with which it wascovered had cracked under the tension and the boards beneath it bentinwards towards him. What hideous load was behind them, he shuddered tothink. 

All this he saw in less than a second. Since the final lurch against thewall not a sound had proceeded from the room, not even a groan or afoot-step. All was still but the howl of the wind, which to his earshad in it a note of triumphant horror. 

Shorthouse was in the act of leaving the room to rouse the house andsend for the police--in fact his hand was already on the door-knob--whensomething in the room arrested his attention. Out of the corner of hiseyes he thought he caught sight of something moving. He was sure of it, and turning his eyes in the direction, he found he was not mistaken. 

Something was creeping slowly towards him along the floor. It wassomething dark and serpentine in shape, and it came from the place wherethe partition bulged. He stooped down to examine it with feelings ofintense horror and repugnance, and he discovered that it was movingtoward him from the _other side_ of the wall. His eyes were fascinated, and for the moment he was unable to move. Silently, slowly, from side toside like a thick worm, it crawled forward into the room beneath hisfrightened eyes, until at length he could stand it no longer andstretched out his arm to touch it. But at the instant of contact hewithdrew his hand with a suppressed scream. It was sluggish--and it waswarm! and he saw that his fingers were stained with living crimson. 

A second more, and Shorthouse was out in the passage with his hand onthe door of the next room. It was locked. He plunged forward with allhis weight against it, and, the lock giving way, he fell headlong into aroom that was pitch dark and very cold. In a moment he was on his feetagain and trying to penetrate the blackness. Not a sound, not amovement. Not even the sense of a presence. It was empty, miserablyempty!

Across the room he could trace the outline of a window with rainstreaming down the outside, and the blurred lights of the city beyond. But the room was empty, appallingly empty; and so still. He stood there, cold as ice, staring, shivering listening. Suddenly there was a stepbehind him and a light flashed into the room, and when he turned quicklywith his arm up as if to ward off a terrific blow he found himself faceto face with the landlady. Instantly the reaction began to set in. 

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning, and he was standing therewith bare feet and striped pyjamas in a small room, which in themerciful light he perceived to be absolutely empty, carpetless, andwithout a stick of furniture, or even a window-blind. There he stoodstaring at the disagreeable landlady. And there she stood too, staringand silent, in a black wrapper, her head almost bald, her face white aschalk, shading a sputtering candle with one bony hand and peering overit at him with her blinking green eyes. She looked positively hideous. 

"Waal?" she drawled at length, "I heard yer right enough. Guess youcouldn't sleep! Or just prowlin' round a bit--is that it?"

The empty room, the absence of all traces of the recent tragedy, thesilence, the hour, his striped pyjamas and bare feet--everythingtogether combined to deprive him momentarily of speech. He stared at herblankly without a word. 

"Waal?" clanked the awful voice. 

"My dear woman, " he burst out finally, "there's been something awful--"So far his desperation took him, but no farther. He positively stuck atthe substantive. 

"Oh! there hasn't been nothin', " she said slowly still peering at him. "I reckon you've only seen and heard what the others did. I never cankeep folks on this floor long. Most of 'em catch on sooner orlater--that is, the ones that's kind of quick and sensitive. Only youbeing an Englishman I thought you wouldn't mind. Nothin' really happens;it's only thinkin' like. "

Shorthouse was beside himself. He felt ready to pick her up and drop herover the banisters, candle and all. 

"Look there, " he said, pointing at her within an inch of her blinkingeyes with the fingers that had touched the oozing blood; "look there, mygood woman. Is that only thinking?"

She stared a minute, as if not knowing what he meant. 

"I guess so, " she said at length. 

He followed her eyes, and to his amazement saw that his fingers were aswhite as usual, and quite free from the awful stain that had been thereten minutes before. There was no sign of blood. No amount of staringcould bring it back. Had he gone out of his mind? Had his eyes and earsplayed such tricks with him? Had his senses become false and perverted?He dashed past the landlady, out into the passage, and gained his ownroom in a couple of strides. Whew! . . . The partition no longer bulged. The paper was not torn. There was no creeping, crawling thing on thefaded old carpet. 

"It's all over now, " drawled the metallic voice behind him. "I'm goingto bed again. "

He turned and saw the landlady slowly going downstairs again, stillshading the candle with her hand and peering up at him from time to timeas she moved. A black, ugly, unwholesome object, he thought, as shedisappeared into the darkness below, and the last flicker of her candlethrew a queer-shaped shadow along the wall and over the ceiling. 

Without hesitating a moment, Shorthouse threw himself into his clothesand went out of the house. He preferred the storm to the horrors of thattop floor, and he walked the streets till daylight. In the evening hetold the landlady he would leave next day, in spite of her assurancesthat nothing more would happen. 

"It never comes back, " she said--"that is, not after he's killed. "

Shorthouse gasped. 

"You gave me a lot for my money, " he growled. 

"Waal, it aren't my show, " she drawled. "I'm no spirit medium. You takechances. Some'll sleep right along and never hear nothin'. Others, likeyourself, are different and get the whole thing. "

"Who's the old gentleman?--does he hear it?" asked Jim. 

"There's no old gentleman at all, " she answered coolly. "I just toldyou that to make you feel easy like in case you did hear anythin'. Youwere all alone on the floor. "

"Say now, " she went on, after a pause in which Shorthouse could think ofnothing to say but unpublishable things, "say now, do tell, did you feelsort of cold when the show was on, sort of tired and weak, I mean, as ifyou might be going to die?"

"How can I say?" he answered savagely; "what I felt God only knows. "

"Waal, but He won't tell, " she drawled out. "Only I was wonderin' howyou really did feel, because the man who had that room last was foundone morning in bed--"

"In bed?"

"He was dead. He was the one before you. Oh! You don't need to getrattled so. You're all right. And it all really happened, they do say. This house used to be a private residence some twenty-five years ago, and a German family of the name of Steinhardt lived here. They had a bigbusiness in Wall Street, and stood 'way up in things. "

"Ah!" said her listener. 

"Oh yes, they did, right at the top, till one fine day it all bust andthe old man skipped with the boodle--"

"Skipped with the boodle?"

"That's so, " she said; "got clear away with all the money, and the sonwas found dead in his house, committed soocide it was thought. Thoughthere was some as said he couldn't have stabbed himself and fallen inthat position. They said he was murdered. The father died in prison. They tried to fasten the murder on him, but there was no motive, or noevidence, or no somethin'. I forget now. "

"Very pretty, " said Shorthouse. 

"I'll show you somethin' mighty queer any-ways, " she drawled, "if you'llcome upstairs a minute. I've heard the steps and voices lots of times;they don't pheaze me any. I'd just as lief hear so many dogs barkin'. You'll find the whole story in the newspapers if you look it up--notwhat goes on here, but the story of the Germans. My house would beruined if they told all, and I'd sue for damages. "

They reached the bedroom, and the woman went in and pulled up the edgeof the carpet where Shorthouse had seen the blood soaking in theprevious night. 

"Look thar, if you feel like it, " said the old hag. Stooping down, hesaw a dark, dull stain in the boards that corresponded exactly to theshape and position of the blood as he had seen it. 

That night he slept in a hotel, and the following day sought newquarters. In the newspapers on file in his office after a long search hefound twenty years back the detailed story, substantially as the womanhad said, of Steinhardt & Co. 's failure, the absconding and subsequentarrest of the senior partner, and the suicide, or murder, of his sonOtto. The landlady's room-house had formerly been their privateresidence. 

KEEPING HIS PROMISE

It was eleven o'clock at night, and young Marriott was locked into hisroom, cramming as hard as he could cram. He was a "Fourth Year Man" atEdinburgh University and he had been ploughed for this particularexamination so often that his parents had positively declared they couldno longer supply the funds to keep him there. 

His rooms were cheap and dingy, but it was the lecture fees that tookthe money. So Marriott pulled himself together at last and definitelymade up his mind that he would pass or die in the attempt, and for someweeks now he had been reading as hard as mortal man can read. He wastrying to make up for lost time and money in a way that showedconclusively he did not understand the value of either. For no ordinaryman--and Marriott was in every sense an ordinary man--can afford todrive the mind as he had lately been driving his, without sooner orlater paying the cost. 

Among the students he had few friends or acquaintances, and these fewhad promised not to disturb him at night, knowing he was at last readingin earnest. It was, therefore, with feelings a good deal stronger thanmere surprise that he heard his door-bell ring on this particular nightand realised that he was to have a visitor. Some men would simply havemuffled the bell and gone on quietly with their work. But Marriott wasnot this sort. He was nervous. It would have bothered and pecked at hismind all night long not to know who the visitor was and what he wanted. The only thing to do, therefore, was to let him in--and out again--asquickly as possible. 

The landlady went to bed at ten o'clock punctually, after which hournothing would induce her to pretend she heard the bell, so Marriottjumped up from his books with an exclamation that augured ill for thereception of his caller, and prepared to let him in with his own hand. 

The streets of Edinburgh town were very still at this late hour--it waslate for Edinburgh--and in the quiet neighbourhood of F---- Street, where Marriott lived on the third floor, scarcely a sound broke thesilence. As he crossed the floor, the bell rang a second time, withunnecessary clamour, and he unlocked the door and passed into thelittle hallway with considerable wrath and annoyance in his heart at theinsolence of the double interruption. 

"The fellows all know I'm reading for this exam. Why in the world dothey come to bother me at such an unearthly hour?"

The inhabitants of the building, with himself, were medical students, general students, poor Writers to the Signet, and some others whosevocations were perhaps not so obvious. The stone staircase, dimlylighted at each floor by a gas-jet that would not turn above a certainheight, wound down to the level of the street with no pretence at carpetor railing. At some levels it was cleaner than at others. It depended onthe landlady of the particular level. 

The acoustic properties of a spiral staircase seem to be peculiar. Marriott, standing by the open door, book in hand, thought every momentthe owner of the footsteps would come into view. The sound of the bootswas so close and so loud that they seemed to travel disproportionatelyin advance of their cause. Wondering who it could be, he stood readywith all manner of sharp greetings for the man who dared thus to disturbhis work. But the man did not appear. The steps sounded almost underhis nose, yet no one was visible. 

A sudden queer sensation of fear passed over him--a faintness and ashiver down the back. It went, however, almost as soon as it came, andhe was just debating whether he would call aloud to his invisiblevisitor, or slam the door and return to his books, when the cause of thedisturbance turned the corner very slowly and came into view. 

It was a stranger. He saw a youngish man short of figure and very broad. His face was the colour of a piece of chalk and the eyes, which werevery bright, had heavy lines underneath them. Though the cheeks and chinwere unshaven and the general appearance unkempt, the man was evidentlya gentleman, for he was well dressed and bore himself with a certainair. But, strangest of all, he wore no hat, and carried none in hishand; and although rain had been falling steadily all the evening, heappeared to have neither overcoat nor umbrella. 

A hundred questions sprang up in Marriott's mind and rushed to his lips, chief among which was something like "Who in the world are you?" and"What in the name of heaven do you come to me for?" But none of thesequestions found time to express themselves in words, for almost at oncethe caller turned his head a little so that the gas light in the hallfell upon his features from a new angle. Then in a flash Marriottrecognised him. 

"Field! Man alive! Is it you?" he gasped. 

The Fourth Year Man was not lacking in intuition, and he perceived atonce that here was a case for delicate treatment. He divined, withoutany actual process of thought, that the catastrophe often predicted hadcome at last, and that this man's father had turned him out of thehouse. They had been at a private school together years before, andthough they had hardly met once since, the news had not failed to reachhim from time to time with considerable detail, for the family livednear his own and between certain of the sisters there was greatintimacy. Young Field had gone wild later, he remembered hearing aboutit all--drink, a woman, opium, or something of the sort--he could notexactly call to mind. 

"Come in, " he said at once, his anger vanishing. "There's been somethingwrong, I can see. Come in, and tell me all about it and perhaps I canhelp--" He hardly knew what to say, and stammered a lot more besides. The dark side of life, and the horror of it, belonged to a world thatlay remote from his own select little atmosphere of books and dreamings. But he had a man's heart for all that. 

He led the way across the hall, shutting the front door carefully behindhim, and noticed as he did so that the other, though certainly sober, was unsteady on his legs, and evidently much exhausted. Marriott mightnot be able to pass his examinations, but he at least knew the symptomsof starvation--acute starvation, unless he was much mistaken--when theystared him in the face. 

"Come along, " he said cheerfully, and with genuine sympathy in hisvoice. "I'm glad to see you. I was going to have a bite of something toeat, and you're just in time to join me. "

The other made no audible reply, and shuffled so feebly with his feetthat Marriott took his arm by way of support. He noticed for the firsttime that the clothes hung on him with pitiful looseness. The broadframe was literally hardly more than a frame. He was as thin as askeleton. But, as he touched him, the sensation of faintness and dreadreturned. It only lasted a moment, and then passed off, and he ascribedit not unnaturally to the distress and shock of seeing a former friendin such a pitiful plight. 

"Better let me guide you. It's shamefully dark--this hall. I'm alwayscomplaining, " he said lightly, recognising by the weight upon his armthat the guidance was sorely needed, "but the old cat never doesanything except promise. " He led him to the sofa, wondering all the timewhere he had come from and how he had found out the address. It must beat least seven years since those days at the private school when theyused to be such close friends. 

"Now, if you'll forgive me for a minute, " he said, "I'll get supperready--such as it is. And don't bother to talk. Just take it easy on thesofa. I see you're dead tired. You can tell me about it afterwards, andwe'll make plans. "

The other sat down on the edge of the sofa and stared in silence, whileMarriott got out the brown loaf, scones, and huge pot of marmalade thatEdinburgh students always keep in their cupboards. His eyes shone with abrightness that suggested drugs, Marriott thought, stealing a glance athim from behind the cupboard door. He did not like yet to take a fullsquare look. The fellow was in a bad way, and it would have been so likean examination to stare and wait for explanations. Besides, he wasevidently almost too exhausted to speak. So, for reasons ofdelicacy--and for another reason as well which he could not exactlyformulate to himself--he let his visitor rest apparently unnoticed, while he busied himself with the supper. He lit the spirit lamp to makecocoa, and when the water was boiling he drew up the table with the goodthings to the sofa, so that Field need not have even the trouble ofmoving to a chair. 

"Now, let's tuck in, " he said, "and afterwards we'll have a pipe and achat. I'm reading for an exam, you know, and I always have somethingabout this time. It's jolly to have a companion. "

He looked up and caught his guest's eyes directed straight upon his own. An involuntary shudder ran through him from head to foot. The faceopposite him was deadly white and wore a dreadful expression of pain andmental suffering. 

"By Gad!" he said, jumping up, "I quite forgot. I've got some whiskysomewhere. What an ass I am. I never touch it myself when I'm workinglike this. "

He went to the cupboard and poured out a stiff glass which the otherswallowed at a single gulp and without any water. Marriott watched himwhile he drank it, and at the same time noticed something else aswell--Field's coat was all over dust, and on one shoulder was a bit ofcobweb. It was perfectly dry; Field arrived on a soaking wet nightwithout hat, umbrella, or overcoat, and yet perfectly dry, even dusty. Therefore he had been under cover. What did it all mean? Had he beenhiding in the building? . . . 

It was very strange. Yet he volunteered nothing; and Marriott had prettywell made up his mind by this time that he would not ask any questionsuntil he had eaten and slept. Food and sleep were obviously what thepoor devil needed most and first--he was pleased with his powers ofready diagnosis--and it would not be fair to press him till he hadrecovered a bit. 

They ate their supper together while the host carried on a runningone-sided conversation, chiefly about himself and his exams and his "oldcat" of a landlady, so that the guest need not utter a single wordunless he really wished to--which he evidently did not! But, while hetoyed with his food, feeling no desire to eat, the other atevoraciously. To see a hungry man devour cold scones, stale oatcake, andbrown bread laden with marmalade was a revelation to this inexperiencedstudent who had never known what it was to be without at least threemeals a day. He watched in spite of himself, wondering why the fellowdid not choke in the process. 

But Field seemed to be as sleepy as he was hungry. More than once hishead dropped and he ceased to masticate the food in his mouth. Marriotthad positively to shake him before he would go on with his meal. Astronger emotion will overcome a weaker, but this struggle between thesting of real hunger and the magical opiate of overpowering sleep was acurious sight to the student, who watched it with mingled astonishmentand alarm. He had heard of the pleasure it was to feed hungry men, andwatch them eat, but he had never actually witnessed it, and he had noidea it was like this. Field ate like an animal--gobbled, stuffed, gorged. Marriott forgot his reading, and began to feel something verymuch like a lump in his throat. 

"Afraid there's been awfully little to offer you, old man, " he managedto blurt out when at length the last scone had disappeared, and therapid, one-sided meal was at an end. Field still made no reply, for hewas almost asleep in his seat. He merely looked up wearily andgratefully. 

"Now you must have some sleep, you know, " he continued, "or you'll go topieces. I shall be up all night reading for this blessed exam. You'remore than welcome to my bed. To-morrow we'll have a late breakfastand--and see what can be done--and make plans--I'm awfully good atmaking plans, you know, " he added with an attempt at lightness. 

Field maintained his "dead sleepy" silence, but appeared to acquiesce, and the other led the way into the bedroom, apologising as he did so tothis half-starved son of a baronet--whose own home was almost apalace--for the size of the room. The weary guest, however, made nopretence of thanks or politeness. He merely steadied himself on hisfriend's arm as he staggered across the room, and then, with all hisclothes on, dropped his exhausted body on the bed. In less than a minutehe was to all appearances sound asleep. 

For several minutes Marriott stood in the open door and watched him;praying devoutly that he might never find himself in a like predicament, and then fell to wondering what he would do with his unbidden guest onthe morrow. But he did not stop long to think, for the call of his bookswas imperative, and happen what might, he must see to it that he passedthat examination. 

Having again locked the door into the hall, he sat down to his books andresumed his notes on _materia medica_ where he had left off when thebell rang. But it was difficult for some time to concentrate his mind onthe subject. His thoughts kept wandering to the picture of thatwhite-faced, strange-eyed fellow, starved and dirty, lying in hisclothes and boots on the bed. He recalled their schooldays togetherbefore they had drifted apart, and how they had vowed eternalfriendship--and all the rest of it. And now! What horrible straits to bein. How could any man let the love of dissipation take such hold uponhim?

But one of their vows together Marriott, it seemed, had completelyforgotten. Just now, at any rate, it lay too far in the background ofhis memory to be recalled. 

Through the half-open door--the bedroom led out of the sitting-room andhad no other door--came the sound of deep, long-drawn breathing, theregular, steady breathing of a tired man, so tired that, even to listento it made Marriott almost want to go to sleep himself. 

"He needed it, " reflected the student, "and perhaps it came only just intime!"

Perhaps so; for outside the bitter wind from across the Forth howledcruelly and drove the rain in cold streams against the window-panes, anddown the deserted streets. Long before Marriott settled down againproperly to his reading, he heard distantly, as it were, through thesentences of the book, the heavy, deep breathing of the sleeper in thenext room. 

A couple of hours later, when he yawned and changed his books, he stillheard the breathing, and went cautiously up to the door to look round. 

At first the darkness of the room must have deceived him, or else hiseyes were confused and dazzled by the recent glare of the reading lamp. For a minute or two he could make out nothing at all but dark lumps offurniture, the mass of the chest of drawers by the wall, and the whitepatch where his bath stood in the centre of the floor. 

Then the bed came slowly into view. And on it he saw the outline of thesleeping body gradually take shape before his eyes, growing up strangelyinto the darkness, till it stood out in marked relief--the long blackform against the white counterpane. 

He could hardly help smiling. Field had not moved an inch. He watchedhim a moment or two and then returned to his books. The night was fullof the singing voices of the wind and rain. There was no sound oftraffic; no hansoms clattered over the cobbles, and it was still tooearly for the milk carts. He worked on steadily and conscientiously, only stopping now and again to change a book, or to sip some of thepoisonous stuff that kept him awake and made his brain so active, and onthese occasions Field's breathing was always distinctly audible in theroom. Outside, the storm continued to howl, but inside the house all wasstillness. The shade of the reading lamp threw all the light upon thelittered table, leaving the other end of the room in comparativedarkness. The bedroom door was exactly opposite him where he sat. Therewas nothing to disturb the worker, nothing but an occasional rush ofwind against the windows, and a slight pain in his arm. 

This pain, however, which he was unable to account for, grew once ortwice very acute. It bothered him; and he tried to remember how, andwhen, he could have bruised himself so severely, but without success. 

At length the page before him turned from yellow to grey, and there weresounds of wheels in the street below. It was four o'clock. Marriottleaned back and yawned prodigiously. Then he drew back the curtains. Thestorm had subsided and the Castle Rock was shrouded in mist. Withanother yawn he turned away from the dreary outlook and prepared tosleep the remaining four hours till breakfast on the sofa. Field wasstill breathing heavily in the next room, and he first tip-toed acrossthe floor to take another look at him. 

Peering cautiously round the half-opened door his first glance fell uponthe bed now plainly discernible in the grey light of morning. He staredhard. Then he rubbed his eyes. Then he rubbed his eyes again and thrusthis head farther round the edge of the door. With fixed eyes he staredharder still, and harder. 

But it made no difference at all. He was staring into an empty room. 

The sensation of fear he had felt when Field first appeared upon thescene returned suddenly, but with much greater force. He becameconscious, too, that his left arm was throbbing violently and causinghim great pain. He stood wondering, and staring, and trying to collecthis thoughts. He was trembling from head to foot. 

By a great effort of the will he left the support of the door and walkedforward boldly into the room. 

There, upon the bed, was the impress of a body, where Field had lain andslept. There was the mark of the head on the pillow, and the slightindentation at the foot of the bed where the boots had rested on thecounterpane. And there, plainer than ever--for he was closer to it--was_the breathing_!

Marriott tried to pull himself together. With a great effort he foundhis voice and called his friend aloud by name!

"Field! Is that you? Where are you?"

There was no reply; but the breathing continued without interruption, coming directly from the bed. His voice had such an unfamiliar soundthat Marriott did not care to repeat his questions, but he went down onhis knees and examined the bed above and below, pulling the mattress offfinally, and taking the coverings away separately one by one. Butthough the sounds continued there was no visible sign of Field, nor wasthere any space in which a human being, however small, could haveconcealed itself. He pulled the bed out from the wall, but the sound_stayed where it was_. It did not move with the bed. 

Marriott, finding self-control a little difficult in his wearycondition, at once set about a thorough search of the room. He wentthrough the cupboard, the chest of drawers, the little alcove where theclothes hung--everything. But there was no sign of anyone. The smallwindow near the ceiling was closed; and, anyhow, was not large enough tolet a cat pass. The sitting-room door was locked on the inside; he couldnot have got out that way. Curious thoughts began to trouble Marriott'smind, bringing in their train unwelcome sensations. He grew more andmore excited; he searched the bed again till it resembled the scene of apillow fight; he searched both rooms, knowing all the time it wasuseless, --and then he searched again. A cold perspiration broke out allover his body; and the sound of heavy breathing, all this time, neverceased to come from the corner where Field had lain down to sleep. 

Then he tried something else. He pushed the bed back exactly into itsoriginal position--and himself lay down upon it just where his guest hadlain. But the same instant he sprang up again in a single bound. Thebreathing was close beside him, almost on his cheek, and between him andthe wall! Not even a child could have squeezed into the space. 

He went back into his sitting-room, opened the windows, welcoming allthe light and air possible, and tried to think the whole matter overquietly and clearly. Men who read too hard, and slept too little, heknew were sometimes troubled with very vivid hallucinations. Again hecalmly reviewed every incident of the night; his accurate sensations;the vivid details; the emotions stirred in him; the dreadful feast--nosingle hallucination could ever combine all these and cover so long aperiod of time. But with less satisfaction he thought of the recurringfaintness, and curious sense of horror that had once or twice come overhim, and then of the violent pains in his arm. These were quiteunaccountable. 

Moreover, now that he began to analyse and examine, there was one otherthing that fell upon him like a sudden revelation: _During the wholetime Field had not actually uttered a single word!_ Yet, as though inmockery upon his reflections, there came ever from that inner room thesound of the breathing, long-drawn, deep, and regular. The thing wasincredible. It was absurd. 

Haunted by visions of brain fever and insanity, Marriott put on his capand macintosh and left the house. The morning air on Arthur's Seat wouldblow the cobwebs from his brain; the scent of the heather, and aboveall, the sight of the sea. He roamed over the wet slopes above Holyroodfor a couple of hours, and did not return until the exercise had shakensome of the horror out of his bones, and given him a ravening appetiteinto the bargain. 

As he entered he saw that there was another man in the room, standingagainst the window with his back to the light. He recognised hisfellow-student Greene, who was reading for the same examination. 

"Read hard all night, Marriott, " he said, "and thought I'd drop in hereto compare notes and have some breakfast. You're out early?" he added, by way of a question. Marriott said he had a headache and a walk hadhelped it, and Greene nodded and said "Ah!" But when the girl had setthe steaming porridge on the table and gone out again, he went on withrather a forced tone, "Didn't know you had any friends who drank, Marriott?"

This was obviously tentative, and Marriott replied drily that he did notknow it either. 

"Sounds just as if some chap were 'sleeping it off' in there, doesn'tit, though?" persisted the other, with a nod in the direction of thebedroom, and looking curiously at his friend. The two men staredsteadily at each other for several seconds, and then Marriott saidearnestly--

"Then you hear it too, thank God!"

"Of course I hear it. The door's open. Sorry if I wasn't meant to. "

"Oh, I don't mean that, " said Marriott, lowering his voice. "But I'mawfully relieved. Let me explain. Of course, if you hear it too, thenit's all right; but really it frightened me more than I can tell you. Ithought I was going to have brain fever, or something, and you know whata lot depends on this exam. It always begins with sounds, or visions, orsome sort of beastly hallucination, and I--"

"Rot!" ejaculated the other impatiently. "What _are_ you talking about?"

"Now, listen to me, Greene, " said Marriott, as calmly as he could, forthe breathing was still plainly audible, "and I'll tell you what Imean, only don't interrupt. " And thereupon he related exactly what hadhappened during the night, telling everything, even down to the pain inhis arm. When it was over he got up from the table and crossed the room. 

"You hear the breathing now plainly, don't you?" he said. Greene said hedid. "Well, come with me, and we'll search the room together. " Theother, however, did not move from his chair. 

"I've been in already, " he said sheepishly; "I heard the sounds andthought it was you. The door was ajar--so I went in. "

Marriott made no comment, but pushed the door open as wide as it wouldgo. As it opened, the sound of breathing grew more and more distinct. 

"_Someone_ must be in there, " said Greene under his breath. 

"_Someone_ is in there, but _where_?" said Marriott. Again he urged hisfriend to go in with him. But Greene refused point-blank; said he hadbeen in once and had searched the room and there was nothing there. Hewould not go in again for a good deal. 

They shut the door and retired into the other room to talk it all overwith many pipes. Greene questioned his friend very closely, but withoutilluminating result, since questions cannot alter facts. 

"The only thing that ought to have a proper, a logical, explanation isthe pain in my arm, " said Marriott, rubbing that member with an attemptat a smile. "It hurts so infernally and aches all the way up. I can'tremember bruising it, though. "

"Let me examine it for you, " said Greene. "I'm awfully good at bones inspite of the examiners' opinion to the contrary. " It was a relief toplay the fool a bit, and Marriott took his coat off and rolled up hissleeve. 

"By George, though, I'm bleeding!" he exclaimed. "Look here! What onearth's this?"

On the forearm, quite close to the wrist, was a thin red line. There wasa tiny drop of apparently fresh blood on it. Greene came over and lookedclosely at it for some minutes. Then he sat back in his chair, lookingcuriously at his friend's face. 

"You've scratched yourself without knowing it, " he said presently. 

"There's no sign of a bruise. It must be something else that made thearm ache. "

Marriott sat very still, staring silently at his arm as though thesolution of the whole mystery lay there actually written upon the skin. 

"What's the matter? I see nothing very strange about a scratch, " saidGreene, in an unconvincing sort of voice. "It was your cuff linksprobably. Last night in your excitement--"

But Marriott, white to the very lips, was trying to speak. The sweatstood in great beads on his forehead. At last he leaned forward close tohis friend's face. 

"Look, " he said, in a low voice that shook a little. "Do you see thatred mark? I mean _underneath_ what you call the scratch?"

Greene admitted he saw something or other, and Marriott wiped the placeclean with his handkerchief and told him to look again more closely. 

"Yes, I see, " returned the other, lifting his head after a moment'scareful inspection. "It looks like an old scar. "

"It _is_ an old scar, " whispered Marriott, his lips trembling. "_Now_ itall comes back to me. "

"All what?" Greene fidgeted on his chair. He tried to laugh, but withoutsuccess. His friend seemed bordering on collapse. 

"Hush! Be quiet, and--I'll tell you, " he said. "_Field made that scar. _"

For a whole minute the two men looked each other full in the facewithout speaking. 

"Field made that scar!" repeated Marriott at length in a louder voice. 

"Field! You mean--last night?"

"No, not last night. Years ago--at school, with his knife. And I made ascar in his arm with mine. " Marriott was talking rapidly now. 

"We exchanged drops of blood in each other's cuts. He put a drop into myarm and I put one into his--"

"In the name of heaven, what for?"

"It was a boys' compact. We made a sacred pledge, a bargain. I rememberit all perfectly now. We had been reading some dreadful book and weswore to appear to one another--I mean, whoever died first swore to showhimself to the other. And we sealed the compact with each other's blood. I remember it all so well--the hot summer afternoon in the playground, seven years ago--and one of the masters caught us and confiscated theknives--and I have never thought of it again to this day--"

"And you mean--" stammered Greene. 

But Marriott made no answer. He got up and crossed the room and lay downwearily upon the sofa, hiding his face in his hands. 

Greene himself was a bit non-plussed. He left his friend alone for alittle while, thinking it all over again. Suddenly an idea seemed tostrike him. He went over to where Marriott still lay motionless on thesofa and roused him. In any case it was better to face the matter, whether there was an explanation or not. Giving in was always the sillyexit. 

"I say, Marriott, " he began, as the other turned his white face up tohim. "There's no good being so upset about it. I mean--if it's all anhallucination we know what to do. And if it isn't--well, we know what tothink, don't we?"

"I suppose so. But it frightens me horribly for some reason, " returnedhis friend in a hushed voice. "And that poor devil--"

"But, after all, if the worst is true and--and that chap _has_ kept hispromise--well, he has, that's all, isn't it?"

Marriott nodded. 

"There's only one thing that occurs to me, " Greene went on, "and thatis, are you quite sure that--that he really ate like that--I mean thathe actually _ate anything at all_?" he finished, blurting out all histhought. 

Marriott stared at him for a moment and then said he could easily makecertain. He spoke quietly. After the main shock no lesser surprise couldaffect him. 

"I put the things away myself, " he said, "after we had finished. Theyare on the third shelf in that cupboard. No one's touched 'em since. "

He pointed without getting up, and Greene took the hint and went over tolook. 

"Exactly, " he said, after a brief examination; "just as I thought. Itwas partly hallucination, at any rate. The things haven't been touched. Come and see for yourself. "

Together they examined the shelf. There was the brown loaf, the plate ofstale scones, the oatcake, all untouched. Even the glass of whiskyMarriott had poured out stood there with the whisky still in it. 

"You were feeding--no one, " said Greene "Field ate and drank nothing. Hewas not there at all!"

"But the breathing?" urged the other in a low voice, staring with adazed expression on his face. 

Greene did not answer. He walked over to the bedroom, while Marriottfollowed him with his eyes. He opened the door, and listened. There wasno need for words. The sound of deep, regular breathing came floatingthrough the air. There was no hallucination about that, at any rate. Marriott could hear it where he stood on the other side of the room. 

Greene closed the door and came back. "There's only one thing to do, " hedeclared with decision. "Write home and find out about him, andmeanwhile come and finish your reading in my rooms. I've got an extrabed. "

"Agreed, " returned the Fourth Year Man; "there's no hallucination aboutthat exam; I must pass that whatever happens. "

And this was what they did. 

It was about a week later when Marriott got the answer from his sister. Part of it he read out to Greene--

"It is curious, " she wrote, "that in your letter you should haveenquired after Field. It seems a terrible thing, but you know only ashort while ago Sir John's patience became exhausted, and he turned himout of the house, they say without a penny. Well, what do you think? Hehas killed himself. At least, it looks like suicide. Instead of leavingthe house, he went down into the cellar and simply starved himself todeath. . . . They're trying to suppress it, of course, but I heard it allfrom my maid, who got it from their footman. . . . They found the body onthe 14th and the doctor said he had died about twelve hours before. . . . He was dreadfully thin. . . . "

"Then he died on the 13th, " said Greene. 

Marriott nodded. 

"That's the very night he came to see you. "

Marriott nodded again. 

WITH INTENT TO STEAL

To sleep in a lonely barn when the best bedrooms in the house were atour disposal, seemed, to say the least, unnecessary, and I felt thatsome explanation was due to our host. 

But Shorthouse, I soon discovered, had seen to all that; our enterprisewould be tolerated, not welcomed, for the master kept this sort of thingdown with a firm hand. And then, how little I could get this man, Shorthouse, to tell me. There was much I wanted to ask and hear, but hesurrounded himself with impossible barriers. It was ludicrous; he wassurely asking a good deal of me, and yet he would give so little inreturn, and his reason--that it was for my good--may have been perfectlytrue, but did not bring me any comfort in its train. He gave me sops nowand then, however, to keep up my curiosity, till I soon was aware thatthere were growing up side by side within me a genuine interest and anequally genuine fear; and something of both these is probably necessaryto all real excitement. 

The barn in question was some distance from the house, on the side ofthe stables, and I had passed it on several of my journeyings to and frowondering at its forlorn and untarred appearance under a régime whereeverything was so spick and span; but it had never once occurred to meas possible that I should come to spend a night under its roof with acomparative stranger, and undergo there an experience belonging to anorder of things I had always rather ridiculed and despised. 

At the moment I can only partially recall the process by whichShorthouse persuaded me to lend him my company. Like myself, he was aguest in this autumn house-party, and where there were so many tochatter and to chaff, I think his taciturnity of manner had appealed tome by contrast, and that I wished to repay something of what I owed. There was, no doubt, flattery in it as well, for he was more than twicemy age, a man of amazingly wide experience, an explorer of all theworld's corners where danger lurked, and--most subtle flattery ofall--by far the best shot in the whole party, our host included. 

At first, however, I held out a bit. 

"But surely this story you tell, " I said, "has the parentage common toall such tales--a superstitious heart and an imaginative brain--and hasgrown now by frequent repetition into an authentic ghost story? Besides, this head gardener of half a century ago, " I added, seeing that he stillwent on cleaning his gun in silence, "who was he, and what positiveinformation have you about him beyond the fact that he was found hangingfrom the rafters, dead?"

"He was no mere head gardener, this man who passed as such, " he repliedwithout looking up, "but a fellow of splendid education who used thiscurious disguise for his own purposes. Part of this very barn, of whichhe always kept the key, was found to have been fitted up as a completelaboratory, with athanor, alembic, cucurbite, and other appliances, someof which the master destroyed at once--perhaps for the best--and which Ihave only been able to guess at--"

"Black Arts, " I laughed. 

"Who knows?" he rejoined quietly. "The man undoubtedly possessedknowledge--dark knowledge--that was most unusual and dangerous, and Ican discover no means by which he came to it--no ordinary means, thatis. But I _have_ found many facts in the case which point to theexercise of a most desperate and unscrupulous will; and the strangedisappearances in the neighbourhood, as well as the bones found buriedin the kitchen garden, though never actually traced to him, seem to mefull of dreadful suggestion. "

I laughed again, a little uncomfortably perhaps, and said it remindedone of the story of Giles de Rays, maréchal of France, who was said tohave killed and tortured to death in a few years no less than onehundred and sixty women and children for the purposes of necromancy, andwho was executed for his crimes at Nantes. But Shorthouse would not"rise, " and only returned to his subject. 

"His suicide seems to have been only just in time to escape arrest, " hesaid. 

"A magician of no high order then, " I observed sceptically, "if suicidewas his only way of evading the country police. "

"The police of London and St. Petersburg rather, " returned Shorthouse;"for the headquarters of this pretty company was somewhere in Russia, and his apparatus all bore the marks of the most skilful foreign make. ARussian woman then employed in the household--governess, orsomething--vanished, too, about the same time and was never caught. Shewas no doubt the cleverest of the lot. And, remember, the object of thisappalling group was not mere vulgar gain, but a kind of knowledge thatcalled for the highest qualities of courage and intellect in theseekers. "

I admit I was impressed by the man's conviction of voice and manner, forthere is something very compelling in the force of an earnest man'sbelief, though I still affected to sneer politely. 

"But, like most Black Magicians, the fellow only succeeded in compassinghis own destruction--that of his tools, rather, and of escapinghimself. "

"So that he might better accomplish his objects _elsewhere andotherwise_, " said Shorthouse, giving, as he spoke, the most minuteattention to the cleaning of the lock. 

"Elsewhere and otherwise, " I gasped. 

"As if the shell he left hanging from the rafter in the barn in no wayimpeded the man's spirit from continuing his dreadful work under newconditions, " he added quietly, without noticing my interruption. "Theidea being that he sometimes revisits the garden and the barn, chieflythe barn--"

"The barn!" I exclaimed; "for what purpose?"

"Chiefly the barn, " he finished, as if he had not heard me, "that is, when there is anybody in it. "

I stared at him without speaking, for there was a wonder in me how hewould add to this. 

"When he wants fresh material, that is--he comes to steal from theliving. "

"Fresh material!" I repeated aghast. "To steal from the living!" Eventhen, in broad daylight, I was foolishly conscious of a creepingsensation at the roots of my hair, as if a cold breeze were passing overmy skull. 

"The strong vitality of the living is what this sort of creature issupposed to need most, " he went on imperturbably, "and where he hasworked and thought and struggled before is the easiest place for him toget it in. The former conditions are in some way more easilyreconstructed--" He stopped suddenly, and devoted all his attention tothe gun. "It's difficult to explain, you know, rather, " he addedpresently, "and, besides, it's much better that you should not know tillafterwards. "

I made a noise that was the beginning of a score of questions and of asmany sentences, but it got no further than a mere noise, and Shorthouse, of course, stepped in again. 

"Your scepticism, " he added, "is one of the qualities that induce me toask you to spend the night there with me. "

"In those days, " he went on, in response to my urging for moreinformation, "the family were much abroad, and often travelled for yearsat a time. This man was invaluable in their absence. His wonderfulknowledge of horticulture kept the gardens--French, Italian, English--inperfect order. He had carte blanche in the matter of expense, and ofcourse selected all his own underlings. It was the sudden, unexpectedreturn of the master that surprised the amazing stories of thecountryside before the fellow, with all his cleverness, had time toprepare or conceal. "

"But is there no evidence, no more recent evidence, to show thatsomething is likely to happen if we sit up there?" I asked, pressing himyet further, and I think to his liking, for it showed at least that Iwas interested. "Has anything happened there lately, for instance?"

Shorthouse glanced up from the gun he was cleaning so assiduously, andthe smoke from his pipe curled up into an odd twist between me and theblack beard and oriental, sun-tanned face. The magnetism of his look andexpression brought more sense of conviction to me than I had felthitherto, and I realised that there had been a sudden little change inmy attitude and that I was now much more inclined to go in for theadventure with him. At least, I thought, with such a man, one would besafe in any emergency; for he is determined, resourceful, and to bedepended upon. 

"There's the point, " he answered slowly; "for there has apparently beena fresh outburst--an attack almost, it seems, --quite recently. There isevidence, of course, plenty of it, or I should not feel the interest Ido feel, but--" he hesitated a moment, as though considering how much heought to let me know, "but the fact is that three men this summer, onseparate occasions, who have gone into that barn after nightfall, havebeen _accosted_--"

"Accosted?" I repeated, betrayed into the interruption by his choice ofso singular a word. 

"And one of the stablemen--a recent arrival and quite ignorant of thestory--who had to go in there late one night, saw a dark substancehanging down from one of the rafters, and when he climbed up, shakingall over, to cut it down--for he said he felt sure it was a corpse--theknife passed through nothing but air, and he heard a sound up under theeaves as if someone were laughing. Yet, while he slashed away, andafterwards too, the thing went on swinging there before his eyes andturning slowly with its own weight, like a huge joint on a spit. The mandeclares, too, that it had a large bearded face, and that the mouth wasopen and drawn down like the mouth of a hanged man. "

"Can we question this fellow?"

"He's gone--gave notice at once, but not before I had questioned himmyself very closely. "

"Then this was quite recent?" I said, for I knew Shorthouse had not beenin the house more than a week. 

"Four days ago, " he replied. "But, more than that, only three days ago acouple of men were in there together in full daylight when one of themsuddenly turned deadly faint. He said that he felt an overmasteringimpulse to hang himself; and he looked about for a rope and was furiouswhen his companion tried to prevent him--"

"But he did prevent him?"

"Just in time, but not before he had clambered on to a beam. He was veryviolent. "

I had so much to say and ask that I could get nothing out in time, andShorthouse went on again. 

"I've had a sort of watching brief for this case, " he said with a smile, whose real significance, however, completely escaped me at the time, "and one of the most disagreeable features about it is the deliberateway the servants have invented excuses to go out to the place, andalways after dark; some of them who have no right to go there, and noreal occasion at all--have never been there in their lives beforeprobably--and now all of a sudden have shown the keenest desire anddetermination to go out there about dusk, or soon after, and with themost paltry and foolish excuses in the world. Of course, " he added, "they have been prevented, but the desire, stronger than theirsuperstitious dread, and which they cannot explain, is very curious. "

"Very, " I admitted, feeling that my hair was beginning to stand upagain. 

"You see, " he went on presently, "it all points to volition--in fact todeliberate arrangement. It is no mere family ghost that goes with everyivied house in England of a certain age; it is something real, andsomething very malignant. "

He raised his face from the gun barrel, and for the first time his eyecaught mine in the full. Yes, he was very much in earnest. Also, he knewa great deal more than he meant to tell. 

"It's worth tempting--and fighting, _I_ think, " he said; "but I want acompanion with me. Are you game?" His enthusiasm undoubtedly caught me, but I still wanted to hedge a bit. 

"I'm very sceptical, " I pleaded. 

"All the better, " he said, almost as if to himself. "You have the pluck;I have the knowledge--"

"The knowledge?"

He looked round cautiously as if to make sure that there was no onewithin earshot. 

"I've been in the place myself, " he said in a lowered voice, "quitelately--in fact only three nights ago--the day the man turned queer. "

I stared. 

"But--I was obliged to come out--"

Still I stared. 

"Quickly, " he added significantly. 

"You've gone into the thing pretty thoroughly, " was all I could find tosay, for I had almost made up my mind to go with him, and was not surethat I wanted to hear too much beforehand. 

He nodded. "It's a bore, of course, but I must do everythingthoroughly--or not at all. "

"That's why you clean your own gun, I suppose?"

"That's why, when there's any danger, I take as few chances aspossible, " he said, with the same enigmatical smile I had noticedbefore; and then he added with emphasis, "And that is also why I ask youto keep me company now. "

Of course, the shaft went straight home, and I gave my promise withoutfurther ado. 

Our preparations for the night--a couple of rugs and a flask of blackcoffee--were not elaborate, and we found no difficulty, about teno'clock, in absenting ourselves from the billiard-room withoutattracting curiosity. Shorthouse met me by arrangement under the cedaron the back lawn, and I at once realised with vividness what adifference there is between making plans in the daytime and carryingthem out in the dark. One's common-sense--at least in matters of thissort--is reduced to a minimum, and imagination with all her attendantsprites usurps the place of judgment. Two and two no longer makefour--they make a mystery, and the mystery loses no time in growing intoa menace. In this particular case, however, my imagination did not findwings very readily, for I knew that my companion was the most_unmovable_ of men--an unemotional, solid block of a man who wouldnever lose his head, and in any conceivable state of affairs wouldalways take the right as well as the strong course. So my faith in theman gave me a false courage that was nevertheless very consoling, and Ilooked forward to the night's adventure with a genuine appetite. 

Side by side, and in silence, we followed the path that skirted the EastWoods, as they were called, and then led across two hay fields, andthrough another wood, to the barn, which thus lay about half a mile fromthe Lower Farm. To the Lower Farm, indeed, it properly belonged; andthis made us realise more clearly how very ingenious must have been theexcuses of the Hall servants who felt the desire to visit it. 

It had been raining during the late afternoon, and the trees were stilldripping heavily on all sides, but the moment we left the second woodand came out into the open, we saw a clearing with the stars overhead, against which the barn outlined itself in a black, lugubrious shadow. Shorthouse led the way--still without a word--and we crawled in througha low door and seated ourselves in a soft heap of hay in the extremecorner. 

"Now, " he said, speaking for the first time, "I'll show you the insideof the barn, so that you may know where you are, and what to do, incase anything happens. "

A match flared in the darkness, and with the help of two more thatfollowed I saw the interior of a lofty and somewhat rickety-lookingbarn, erected upon a wall of grey stones that ran all round and extendedto a height of perhaps four feet. Above this masonry rose the woodensides, running up into the usual vaulted roof, and supported by a doubletier of massive oak rafters, which stretched across from wall to walland were intersected by occasional uprights. I felt as if we were insidethe skeleton of some antediluvian monster whose huge black ribscompletely enfolded us. Most of this, of course, only sketched itself tomy eye in the uncertain light of the flickering matches, and when I saidI had seen enough, and the matches went out, we were at once envelopedin an atmosphere as densely black as anything that I have ever known. And the silence equalled the darkness. 

We made ourselves comfortable and talked in low voices. The rugs, whichwere very large, covered our legs; and our shoulders sank into a reallyluxurious bed of softness. Yet neither of us apparently felt sleepy. Icertainly didn't, and Shorthouse, dropping his customary brevity thatfell little short of gruffness, plunged into an easy run of talkingthat took the form after a time of personal reminiscences. This rapidlybecame a vivid narration of adventure and travel in far countries, andat any other time I should have allowed myself to become completelyabsorbed in what he told. But, unfortunately, I was never able for asingle instant to forget the real purpose of our enterprise, andconsequently I felt all my senses more keenly on the alert than usual, and my attention accordingly more or less distracted. It was, indeed, arevelation to hear Shorthouse unbosom himself in this fashion, and to ayoung man it was of course doubly fascinating; but the little soundsthat always punctuate even the deepest silence out of doors claimed someportion of my attention, and as the night grew on I soon became awarethat his tales seemed somewhat disconnected and abrupt--and that, infact, I heard really only part of them. 

It was not so much that I actually heard other sounds, but that I_expected_ to hear them; this was what stole the other half of mylistening. There was neither wind nor rain to break the stillness, andcertainly there were no physical presences in our neighbourhood, for wewere half a mile even from the Lower Farm; and from the Hall andstables, at least a mile. Yet the stillness was being continuallybroken--perhaps _disturbed_ is a better word--and it was to these veryremote and tiny disturbances that I felt compelled to devote at leasthalf my listening faculties. 

From time to time, however, I made a remark or asked a question, to showthat I was listening and interested; but, in a sense, my questionsalways seemed to bear in one direction and to make for one issue, namely, my companion's previous experience in the barn when he had beenobliged to come out "quickly. "

Apparently I could not help myself in the matter, for this was reallythe one consuming curiosity I had; and the fact that it was better forme not to know it made me the keener to know it all, even the worst. 

Shorthouse realised this even better than I did. I could tell it by theway he dodged, or wholly ignored, my questions, and this subtle sympathybetween us showed plainly enough, had I been able at the time to reflectupon its meaning, that the nerves of both of us were in a very sensitiveand highly-strung condition. Probably, the complete confidence I felt inhis ability to face whatever might happen, and the extent to which alsoI relied upon him for my own courage, prevented the exercise of myordinary powers of reflection, while it left my senses free to a morethan usual degree of activity. 

Things must have gone on in this way for a good hour or more, when Imade the sudden discovery that there was something unusual in theconditions of our environment. This sounds a roundabout mode ofexpression, but I really know not how else to put it. The discoveryalmost rushed upon me. By rights, we were two men waiting in an allegedhaunted barn for something to happen; and, as two men who trusted oneanother implicitly (though for very different reasons), there shouldhave been two minds keenly alert, with the ordinary senses in activeco-operation. Some slight degree of nervousness, too, there might alsohave been, but beyond this, nothing. It was therefore with something ofdismay that I made the sudden discovery that there _was_ something more, and something that I ought to have noticed very much sooner than Iactually did notice it. 

The fact was--Shorthouse's stream of talk was wholly unnatural. He wastalking with a purpose. He did not wish to be cornered by my questions, true, but he had another and a deeper purpose still, and it grew uponme, as an unpleasant deduction from my discovery, that this strong, cynical, unemotional man by my side was talking--and had been talkingall this time--to gain a particular end. And this end, I soon feltclearly, was to _convince himself_. But, of what?

For myself, as the hours wore on towards midnight, I was not anxious tofind the answer; but in the end it became impossible to avoid it, and Iknew as I listened, that he was pouring forth this steady stream ofvivid reminiscences of travel--South Seas, big game, Russianexploration, women, adventures of all sorts--_because he wished the pastto reassert itself to the complete exclusion of the present_. He wastaking his precautions. He was afraid. 

I felt a hundred things, once this was clear to me, but none of themmore than the wish to get up at once and leave the barn. If Shorthousewas afraid already, what in the world was to happen to me in the longhours that lay ahead? . . . I only know that, in my fierce efforts to denyto myself the evidence of his partial collapse, the strength came thatenabled me to play my part properly, and I even found myself helpinghim by means of animated remarks upon his stories, and by more or lessjudicious questions. I also helped him by dismissing from my mind anydesire to enquire into the truth of his former experience; and it wasgood I did so, for had he turned it loose on me, with those great powersof convincing description that he had at his command, I verily believethat I should never have crawled from that barn alive. So, at least, Ifelt at the moment. It was the instinct of self-preservation, and itbrought sound judgment. 

Here, then, at least, with different motives, reached, too, by oppositeways, we were both agreed upon one thing, namely, that temporarily wewould forget. Fools we were, for a dominant emotion is not so easilybanished, and we were for ever recurring to it in a hundred ways directand indirect. A real fear cannot be so easily trifled with, and while wetoyed on the surface with thousands and thousands of words--merewords--our sub-conscious activities were steadily gaining force, andwould before very long have to be properly acknowledged. We could notget away from it. At last, when he had finished the recital of anadventure which brought him near enough to a horrible death, I admittedthat in my uneventful life I had never yet been face to face with areal fear. It slipped out inadvertently, and, of course, withoutintention, but the tendency in him at the time was too strong to beresisted. He saw the loophole, and made for it full tilt. 

"It is the same with all the emotions, " he said. "The experiences ofothers never give a complete account. Until a man has deliberatelyturned and faced for himself the fiends that chase him down the years, he has no knowledge of what they really are, or of what they can do. Imaginative authors may write, moralists may preach, and scholars maycriticise, but they are dealing all the time in a coinage of which theyknow not the actual value. Their listener gets a sensation--but not thetrue one. Until you have faced these emotions, " he went on, with thesame race of words that had come from him the whole evening, "and madethem your own, your slaves, you have no idea of the power that is inthem--hunger, that shows lights beckoning beyond the grave; thirst, thatfills with mingled ice and fire; passion, love, loneliness, revenge, and--" He paused for a minute, and though I knew we were on the brink Iwas powerless to hold him. " . . . _and fear_, " he went on--"fear . . . I think that death from fear, or madness from fear, must sum up in asecond of time the total of all the most awful sensations it is possiblefor a man to know. "

"Then you have yourself felt something of this fear, " I interrupted;"for you said just now--"

"I do not mean physical fear, " he replied; "for that is more or less aquestion of nerves and will, and it is imagination that makes mencowards. I mean an _absolute_ fear, a physical fear one might call it, that reaches the soul and withers every power one possesses. "

He said a lot more, for he, too, was wholly unable to stem the torrentonce it broke loose; but I have forgotten it; or, rather, mercifully Idid not hear it, for I stopped my ears and only heard the occasionalwords when I took my fingers out to find if he had come to an end. Indue course he did come to an end, and there we left it, for I then knewpositively what he already knew: that somewhere here in the night, andwithin the walls of this very barn where we were sitting, there waswaiting Something of dreadful malignancy and of great power. Somethingthat we might both have to face ere morning, and Something that he hadalready tried to face once and failed in the attempt. 

The night wore slowly on; and it gradually became more and more clear tome that I could not dare to rely as at first upon my companion, and thatour positions were undergoing a slow process of reversal. I thank Heaventhis was not borne in upon me too suddenly; and that I had at least thetime to readjust myself somewhat to the new conditions. Preparation waspossible, even if it was not much, and I sought by every means in mypower to gather up all the shreds of my courage, so that they mighttogether make a decent rope that would stand the strain when it came. The strain would come, that was certain, and I was thoroughly wellaware--though for my life I cannot put into words the reasons for myknowledge--that the massing of the material against us was proceedingsomewhere in the darkness with determination and a horrible skillbesides. 

Shorthouse meanwhile talked without ceasing. The great quantity of hayopposite--or straw, I believe it actually was--seemed to deaden thesound of his voice, but the silence, too, had become so oppressive thatI welcomed his torrent and even dreaded the moment when it would stop. Iheard, too, the gentle ticking of my watch. Each second uttered itsvoice and dropped away into a gulf, as if starting on a journey whencethere was no return. Once a dog barked somewhere in the distance, probably on the Lower Farm; and once an owl hooted close outside and Icould hear the swishing of its wings as it passed overhead. Above me, inthe darkness, I could just make out the outline of the barn, sinisterand black, the rows of rafters stretching across from wall to wall likewicked arms that pressed upon the hay. Shorthouse, deep in some involvedyarn of the South Seas that was meant to be full of cheer and sunshine, and yet only succeeded in making a ghastly mixture of unnaturalcolouring, seemed to care little whether I listened or not. He made noappeal to me, and I made one or two quite irrelevant remarks whichpassed him by and proved that he was merely uttering sounds. He, too, was afraid of the silence. 

I fell to wondering how long a man could talk without stopping. . . . Thenit seemed to me that these words of his went falling into the same gulfwhere the seconds dropped, only they were heavier and fell faster. Ibegan to chase them. Presently one of them fell much faster than therest, and I pursued it and found myself almost immediately in a land ofclouds and shadows. They rose up and enveloped me, pressing on theeyelids. . . . It must have been just here that I actually fell asleep, somewhere between twelve and one o'clock, because, as I chased this wordat tremendous speed through space, I knew that I had left the otherwords far, very far behind me, till, at last, I could no longer hearthem at all. The voice of the story-teller was beyond the reach ofhearing; and I was falling with ever increasing rapidity through animmense void. 

A sound of whispering roused me. Two persons were talking under theirbreath close beside me. The words in the main escaped me, but I caughtevery now and then bitten-off phrases and half sentences, to which, however, I could attach no intelligible meaning. The words were quiteclose--at my very side in fact--and one of the voices sounded sofamiliar, that curiosity overcame dread, and I turned to look. I was notmistaken; _it was Shorthouse whispering_. But the other person, who musthave been just a little beyond him, was lost in the darkness andinvisible to me. It seemed then that Shorthouse at once turned up hisface and looked at me and, by some means or other that caused me nosurprise at the time, I easily made out the features in the darkness. They wore an expression I had never seen there before; he seemeddistressed, exhausted, worn out, and as though he were about to give inafter a long mental struggle. He looked at me, almost beseechingly, andthe whispering of the other person died away. 

"They're at me, " he said. 

I found it quite impossible to answer; the words stuck in my throat. Hisvoice was thin, plaintive, almost like a child's. 

"I shall have to go. I'm not as strong as I thought. They'll call itsuicide, but, of course, it's really murder. " There was real anguish inhis voice, and it terrified me. 

A deep silence followed these extraordinary words, and I somehowunderstood that the Other Person was just going to carry on theconversation--I even fancied I saw lips shaping themselves just over myfriend's shoulder--when I felt a sharp blow in the ribs and a voice, this time a deep voice, sounded in my ear. I opened my eyes, and thewretched dream vanished. Yet it left behind it an impression of a strongand quite unusual reality. 

"_Do_ try not to go to sleep again, " he said sternly. "You seemexhausted. Do you feel so?" There was a note in his voice I did notwelcome, --less than alarm, but certainly more than mere solicitude. 

"I do feel terribly sleepy all of a sudden, " I admitted, ashamed. 

"So you may, " he added very earnestly; "but I rely on you to keep awake, if only to watch. You have been asleep for half an hour at least--andyou were so still--I thought I'd wake you--"

"Why?" I asked, for my curiosity and nervousness were altogether toostrong to be resisted. "Do you think we are in danger?"

"I think _they_ are about here now. I feel my vitality goingrapidly--that's always the first sign. You'll last longer than I, remember. Watch carefully. "

The conversation dropped. I was afraid to say all I wanted to say. Itwould have been too unmistakably a confession; and intuitively Irealised the danger of admitting the existence of certain emotions untilpositively forced to. But presently Shorthouse began again. His voicesounded odd, and as if it had lost power. It was more like a woman's ora boy's voice than a man's, and recalled the voice in my dream. 

"I suppose you've got a knife?" he asked. 

"Yes--a big clasp knife; but why?" He made no answer. "You don't think apractical joke likely? No one suspects we're here, " I went on. Nothingwas more significant of our real feelings this night than the way wetoyed with words, and never dared more than to skirt the things in ourmind. 

"It's just as well to be prepared, " he answered evasively. "Better bequite sure. See which pocket it's in--so as to be ready. "

I obeyed mechanically, and told him. But even this scrap of talk provedto me that he was getting further from me all the time in his mind. Hewas following a line that was strange to me, and, as he distanced me, Ifelt that the sympathy between us grew more and more strained. _He knewmore_; it was not that I minded so much--but that he was willing to_communicate less_. And in proportion as I lost his support, I dreadedhis increasing silence. Not of words--for he talked more volubly thanever, and with a fiercer purpose--but his silence in giving no hint ofwhat he must have known to be really going on the whole time. 

The night was perfectly still. Shorthouse continued steadily talking, and I jogged him now and again with remarks or questions in order tokeep awake. He paid no attention, however, to either. 

About two in the morning a short shower fell, and the drops rattledsharply on the roof like shot. I was glad when it stopped, for itcompletely drowned all other sounds and made it impossible to hearanything else that might be going on. Something _was_ going on, too, allthe time, though for the life of me I could not say what. The outerworld had grown quite dim--the house-party, the shooters, thebilliard-room, and the ordinary daily incidents of my visit. All myenergies were concentrated on the present, and the constant strain ofwatching, waiting, listening, was excessively telling. 

Shorthouse still talked of his adventures, in some Eastern country now, and less connectedly. These adventures, real or imaginary, had quite asavour of the Arabian Nights, and did not by any means make it easierfor me to keep my hold on reality. The lightest weight will affect thebalance under such circumstances, and in this case the weight of histalk was on the wrong scale. His words were very rapid, and I found itoverwhelmingly difficult not to follow them into that great gulf ofdarkness where they all rushed and vanished. But that, I knew, meantsleep again. Yet, it was strange I should feel sleepy when at the sametime all my nerves were fairly tingling. Every time I heard what seemedlike a step outside, or a movement in the hay opposite, the blood stoodstill for a moment in my veins. Doubtless, the unremitting strain toldupon me more than I realised, and this was doubly great now that I knewShorthouse was a source of weakness instead of strength, as I hadcounted. Certainly, a curious sense of languor grew upon me more andmore, and I was sure that the man beside me was engaged in the samestruggle. The feverishness of his talk proved this, if nothing else. Itwas dreadfully hard to keep awake. 

But this time, instead of dropping into the gulf, I saw something comeup out of it! It reached our world by a door in the side of the barnfurthest from me, and it came in cautiously and silently and moved intothe mass of hay opposite. There, for a moment, I lost it, but presentlyI caught it again higher up. It was clinging, like a great bat, to theside of the barn. Something trailed behind it, I could not make outwhat. . . . It crawled up the wooden wall and began to move out along oneof the rafters. A numb terror settled down all over me as I watched it. The thing trailing behind it was apparently a rope. 

The whispering began again just then, but the only words I could catchseemed without meaning; it was almost like another language. The voiceswere above me, under the roof. Suddenly I saw signs of active movementgoing on just beyond the place where the thing lay upon the rafter. There was something else up there with it! Then followed panting, likethe quick breathing that accompanies effort, and the next minute a blackmass dropped through the air and dangled at the end of the rope. 

Instantly, it all flashed upon me. I sprang to my feet and rushedheadlong across the floor of the barn. How I moved so quickly in thedarkness I do not know; but, even as I ran, it flashed into my mind thatI should never get at my knife in time to cut the thing down, or elsethat I should find it had been taken from me. Somehow or other--theGoddess of Dreams knows how--I climbed up by the hay bales and swung outalong the rafter. I was hanging, of course, by my arms, and the knifewas already between my teeth, though I had no recollection of how it gotthere. It was open. The mass, hanging like a side of bacon, was only afew feet in front of me, and I could plainly see the dark line of ropethat fastened it to the beam. I then noticed for the first time that itwas swinging and turning in the air, and that as I approached it seemedto move along the beam, so that the same distance was always maintainedbetween us. The only thing I could do--for there was no time tohesitate--was to jump at it through the air and slash at the rope as Idropped. 

I seized the knife with my right hand, gave a great swing of my bodywith my legs and leaped forward at it through the air. Horrors! It wascloser to me than I knew, and I plunged full into it, and the arm withthe knife missed the rope and cut deeply into some substance that wassoft and yielding. But, as I dropped past it, the thing had time to turnhalf its width so that it swung round and faced me--and I could havesworn as I rushed past it through the air, that it had the features ofShorthouse. 

The shock of this brought the vile nightmare to an abrupt end, and Iwoke up a second time on the soft hay-bed to find that the grey dawn wasstealing in, and that I was exceedingly cold. After all I had failed tokeep awake, and my sleep, since it was growing light, must have lastedat least an hour. A whole hour off my guard!

There was no sound from Shorthouse, to whom, of course, my firstthoughts turned; probably his flow of words had ceased long ago, and hetoo had yielded to the persuasions of the seductive god. I turned towake him and get the comfort of companionship for the horror of mydream, when to my utter dismay I saw that the place where he had beenwas vacant. He was no longer beside me. 

It had been no little shock before to discover that the ally in whom layall my faith and dependence was really frightened, but it is quiteimpossible to describe the sensations I experienced when I realised hehad gone altogether and that I was alone in the barn. For a minute ortwo my head swam and I felt a prey to a helpless terror. The dream, too, still seemed half real, so vivid had it been! I was thoroughlyfrightened--hot and cold by turns--and I clutched the hay at my side inhandfuls, and for some moments had no idea in the world what I shoulddo. 

This time, at least, I was unmistakably awake, and I made a great effortto collect myself and face the meaning of the disappearance of mycompanion. In this I succeeded so far that I decided upon a thoroughsearch of the barn, inside and outside. It was a dreadful undertaking, and I did not feel at all sure of being able to bring it to aconclusion, but I knew pretty well that unless something was done atonce, I should simply collapse. 

But, when I tried to move, I found that the cold, and fear, and I knownot what else unholy besides, combined to make it almost impossible. Isuddenly realised that a tour of inspection, during the whole of whichmy back would be open to attack, was not to be thought of. My will wasnot equal to it. Anything might spring upon me any moment from the darkcorners, and the growing light was just enough to reveal every movementI made to any who might be watching. For, even then, and while I wasstill half dazed and stupid, I knew perfectly well that someone waswatching me all the time with the utmost intentness. I had not merelyawakened; I had _been_ awakened. 

I decided to try another plan; I called to him. My voice had a thin weaksound, far away and quite unreal, and there was no answer to it. Hark, though! There was something that might have been a very faint voice nearme!

I called again, this time with greater distinctness, "Shorthouse, whereare you? can you hear me?"

There certainly was a sound, but it was not a voice. Something wasmoving. It was someone shuffling along, and it seemed to be outside thebarn. I was afraid to call again, and the sound continued. It was anordinary sound enough, no doubt, but it came to me just then assomething unusual and unpleasant. Ordinary sounds remain ordinary onlyso long as one is not listening to them; under the influence of intenselistening they become unusual, portentous, and therefore extraordinary. So, this common sound came to me as something uncommon, disagreeable. Itconveyed, too, an impression of stealth. And with it there was another, a slighter sound. 

Just at this minute the wind bore faintly over the field the sound ofthe stable clock, a mile away. It was three o'clock; the hour whenlife's pulses beat lowest; when poor souls lying between life and deathfind it hardest to resist. Vividly I remember this thought crashingthrough my brain with a sound of thunder, and I realised that the strainon my nerves was nearing the limit, and that something would have to bedone at once if I was to reclaim my self-control at all. 

When thinking over afterwards the events of this dreadful night, it hasalways seemed strange to me that my second nightmare, so vivid in itsterror and its nearness, should have furnished me with no inkling ofwhat was really going on all this while; and that I should not have beenable to put two and two together, or have discovered sooner than I did_what_ this sound was and _where_ it came from. I can well believe thatthe vile scheming which lay behind the whole experience found it an easytrifle to direct my hearing amiss; though, of course, it may equallywell have been due to the confused condition of my mind at the time andto the general nervous tension under which I was undoubtedly suffering. 

But, whatever the cause for my stupidity at first in failing to tracethe sound to its proper source, I can only say here that it was with ashock of unexampled horror that my eye suddenly glanced upwards andcaught sight of the figure moving in the shadows above my head among therafters. Up to this moment I had thought that it was somebody outsidethe barn, crawling round the walls till it came to a door; and the rushof horror that froze my heart when I looked up and saw that it wasShorthouse creeping stealthily along a beam, is something altogetherbeyond the power of words to describe. 

He was staring intently down upon me, and I knew at once that it was hewho had been watching me. 

This point was, I think, for me the climax of feeling in the wholeexperience; I was incapable of any further sensation--that is anyfurther sensation in the same direction. But here the abominablecharacter of the affair showed itself most plainly, for it suddenlypresented an entirely new aspect to me. The light fell on the picturefrom a new angle, and galvanised me into a fresh ability to feel when Ithought a merciful numbness had supervened. It may not sound a greatdeal in the printed letter, but it came to me almost as if it had beenan extension of consciousness, for the Hand that held the pencilsuddenly touched in with ghastly effect of contrast the element of theludicrous. Nothing could have been worse just then. Shorthouse, themasterful spirit, so intrepid in the affairs of ordinary life, whosepower increased rather than lessened in the face of danger--this man, creeping on hands and knees along a rafter in a barn at three o'clock inthe morning, watching me all the time as a cat watches a mouse! Yes, itwas distinctly ludicrous, and while it gave me a measure with which togauge the dread emotion that caused his aberration, it stirredsomewhere deep in my interior the strings of an empty laughter. 

One of those moments then came to me that are said to come sometimesunder the stress of great emotion, when in an instant the mind growsdazzlingly clear. An abnormal lucidity took the place of my confusion ofthought, and I suddenly understood that the two dreams which I had takenfor nightmares must really have been sent me, and that I had beenallowed for one moment to look over the edge of what was to come; theGood was helping, even when the Evil was most determined to destroy. 

I saw it all clearly now. Shorthouse had overrated his strength. Theterror inspired by his first visit to the barn (when he had failed) hadroused the man's whole nature to win, and he had brought me to divertthe deadly stream of evil. That he had again underrated the poweragainst him was apparent as soon as he entered the barn, and his wildtalk, and refusal to admit what he felt, were due to this desire not toacknowledge the insidious fear that was growing in his heart. But, atlength, it had become too strong. He had left my side in my sleep--hadbeen overcome himself, perhaps, first in _his_ sleep, by the dreadfulimpulse. He knew that I should interfere, and with every movement hemade, he watched me steadily, for the mania was upon him and he was_determined to hang himself_. He pretended not to hear me calling, and Iknew that anything coming between him and his purpose would meet thefull force of his fury--the fury of a maniac, of one, for the timebeing, truly possessed. 

For a minute or two I sat there and stared. I saw then for the firsttime that there was a bit of rope trailing after him, and that this waswhat made the rustling sound I had noticed. Shorthouse, too, had come toa stop. His body lay along the rafter like a crouching animal. He waslooking hard at me. That whitish patch was his face. 

I can lay claim to no courage in the matter, for I must confess that inone sense I was frightened almost beyond control. But at the same timethe necessity for decided action, if I was to save his life, came to mewith an intense relief. No matter what animated him for the moment, Shorthouse was only a _man_; it was flesh and blood I had to contendwith and not the intangible powers. Only a few hours before I had seenhim cleaning his gun, smoking his pipe, knocking the billiard ballsabout with very human clumsiness, and the picture flashed across mymind with the most wholesome effect. 

Then I dashed across the floor of the barn and leaped upon the hay balesas a preliminary to climbing up the sides to the first rafter. It wasfar more difficult than in my dream. Twice I slipped back into the hay, and as I scrambled up for the third time I saw that Shorthouse, who thusfar had made no sound or movement, was now busily doing something withhis hands upon the beam. He was at its further end, and there must havebeen fully fifteen feet between us. Yet I saw plainly what he was doing;he was fastening the rope to the rafter. _The other end, I saw, wasalready round his neck!_

This gave me at once the necessary strength, and in a second I had swungmyself on to a beam, crying aloud with all the authority I could putinto my voice--

"You fool, man! What in the world are you trying to do? Come down atonce!"

My energetic actions and words combined had an immediate effect upon himfor which I blessed Heaven; for he looked up from his horrid task, stared hard at me for a second or two, and then came wriggling alonglike a great cat to intercept me. He came by a series of leaps andbounds and at an astonishing pace, and the way he moved somehow inspiredme with a fresh horror, for it did not seem the natural movement of ahuman being at all, but more, as I have said, like that of some lithewild animal. 

He was close upon me. I had no clear idea of what exactly I meant to do. I could see his face plainly now; he was grinning cruelly; the eyes werepositively luminous, and the menacing expression of the mouth was mostdistressing to look upon. Otherwise it was the face of a chalk man, white and dead, with all the semblance of the living human drawn out ofit. Between his teeth he held my clasp knife, which he must have takenfrom me in my sleep, and with a flash I recalled his anxiety to knowexactly which pocket it was in. 

"Drop that knife!" I shouted at him, "and drop after it yourself--"

"Don't you dare to stop me!" he hissed, the breath coming between hislips across the knife that he held in his teeth. "Nothing in the worldcan stop me now--I have promised--and I must do it. I can't hold out anylonger. "

"Then drop the knife and I'll help you, " I shouted back in his face. "Ipromise--"

"No use, " he cried, laughing a little, "I must do it and you can't stopme. "

I heard a sound of laughter, too, somewhere in the air behind me. Thenext second Shorthouse came at me with a single bound. 

To this day I cannot quite tell how it happened. It is still a wildconfusion and a fever of horror in my mind, but from somewhere I drewmore than my usual allowance of strength, and before he could well haverealised what I meant to do, I had his throat between my fingers. Heopened his teeth and the knife dropped at once, for I gave him a squeezehe need never forget. Before, my muscles had felt like so much soakedpaper; now they recovered their natural strength, and more besides. Imanaged to work ourselves along the rafter until the hay was beneath us, and then, completely exhausted, I let go my hold and we swung roundtogether and dropped on to the hay, he clawing at me in the air even aswe fell. 

The struggle that began by my fighting for his life ended in a wildeffort to save my own, for Shorthouse was quite beside himself, and hadno idea what he was doing. Indeed, he has always averred that heremembers nothing of the entire night's experiences after the time whenhe first woke me from sleep. A sort of deadly mist settled over him, hedeclares, and he lost all sense of his own identity. The rest was ablank until he came to his senses under a mass of hay with me on the topof him. 

It was the hay that saved us, first by breaking the fall and then byimpeding his movements so that I was able to prevent his choking me todeath. 

THE WOOD OF THE DEAD

One summer, in my wanderings with a knapsack, I was at luncheon in theroom of a wayside inn in the western country, when the door opened andthere entered an old rustic, who crossed close to my end of the tableand sat himself down very quietly in the seat by the bow window. Weexchanged glances, or, properly speaking, nods, for at the moment I didnot actually raise my eyes to his face, so concerned was I with theimportant business of satisfying an appetite gained by tramping twelvemiles over a difficult country. 

The fine warm rain of seven o'clock, which had since risen in a kind ofluminous mist about the tree tops, now floated far overhead in a deepblue sky, and the day was settling down into a blaze of golden light. Itwas one of those days peculiar to Somerset and North Devon, when theorchards shine and the meadows seem to add a radiance of their own, sobrilliantly soft are the colourings of grass and foliage. 

The inn-keeper's daughter, a little maiden with a simple countryloveliness, presently entered with a foaming pewter mug, enquired aftermy welfare, and went out again. Apparently she had not noticed the oldman sitting in the settle by the bow window, nor had he, for his part, so much as once turned his head in our direction. 

Under ordinary circumstances I should probably have given no thought tothis other occupant of the room; but the fact that it was supposed to bereserved for my private use, and the singular thing that he sat lookingaimlessly out of the window, with no attempt to engage me inconversation, drew my eyes more than once somewhat curiously upon him, and I soon caught myself wondering why he sat there so silently, andalways with averted head. 

He was, I saw, a rather bent old man in rustic dress, and the skin ofhis face was wrinkled like that of an apple; corduroy trousers werecaught up with a string below the knee, and he wore a sort of brownfustian jacket that was very much faded. His thin hand rested upon astoutish stick. He wore no hat and carried none, and I noticed that hishead, covered with silvery hair, was finely shaped and gave theimpression of something noble. 

Though rather piqued by his studied disregard of my presence, I came tothe conclusion that he probably had something to do with the littlehostel and had a perfect right to use this room with freedom, and Ifinished my luncheon without breaking the silence and then took thesettle opposite to smoke a pipe before going on my way. 

Through the open window came the scents of the blossoming fruit trees;the orchard was drenched in sunshine and the branches danced lazily inthe breeze; the grass below fairly shone with white and yellow daisies, and the red roses climbing in profusion over the casement mingled theirperfume with the sweetly penetrating odour of the sea. 

It was a place to dawdle in, to lie and dream away a whole afternoon, watching the sleepy butterflies and listening to the chorus of birdswhich seemed to fill every corner of the sky. Indeed, I was alreadydebating in my mind whether to linger and enjoy it all instead of takingthe strenuous pathway over the hills, when the old rustic in the settleopposite suddenly turned his face towards me for the first time andbegan to speak. 

His voice had a quiet dreamy note in it that was quite in harmony withthe day and the scene, but it sounded far away, I thought, almost asthough it came to me from outside where the shadows were weaving theireternal tissue of dreams upon the garden floor. Moreover, there was notrace in it of the rough quality one might naturally have expected, and, now that I saw the full face of the speaker for the first time, I notedwith something like a start that the deep, gentle eyes seemed far morein keeping with the timbre of the voice than with the rough and verycountrified appearance of the clothes and manner. His voice set pleasantwaves of sound in motion towards me, and the actual words, if I rememberrightly, were--

"You are a stranger in these parts?" or "Is not this part of the countrystrange to you?"

There was no "sir, " nor any outward and visible sign of the deferenceusually paid by real country folk to the town-bred visitor, but in itsplace a gentleness, almost a sweetness, of polite sympathy that was farmore of a compliment than either. 

I answered that I was wandering on foot through a part of the countrythat was wholly new to me, and that I was surprised not to find a placeof such idyllic loveliness marked upon my map. 

"I have lived here all my life, " he said, with a sigh, "and am nevertired of coming back to it again. "

"Then you no longer live in the immediate neighbourhood?"

"I have moved, " he answered briefly, adding after a pause in which hiseyes seemed to wander wistfully to the wealth of blossoms beyond thewindow; "but I am almost sorry, for nowhere else have I found thesunshine lie so warmly, the flowers smell so sweetly, or the winds andstreams make such tender music. . . . "

His voice died away into a thin stream of sound that lost itself in therustle of the rose-leaves climbing in at the window, for he turned hishead away from me as he spoke and looked out into the garden. But it wasimpossible to conceal my surprise, and I raised my eyes in frankastonishment on hearing so poetic an utterance from such a figure of aman, though at the same time realising that it was not in the leastinappropriate, and that, in fact, no other sort of expression could haveproperly been expected from him. 

"I am sure you are right, " I answered at length, when it was clear hehad ceased speaking; "or there is something of enchantment here--of realfairy-like enchantment--that makes me think of the visions of childhooddays, before one knew anything of--of--"

I had been oddly drawn into his vein of speech, some inner forcecompelling me. But here the spell passed and I could not catch thethoughts that had a moment before opened a long vista before my innervision. 

"To tell you the truth, " I concluded lamely, "the place fascinates meand I am in two minds about going further--"

Even at this stage I remember thinking it odd that I should be talkinglike this with a stranger whom I met in a country inn, for it has alwaysbeen one of my failings that to strangers my manner is brief tosurliness. It was as though we were figures meeting in a dream, speakingwithout sound, obeying laws not operative in the everyday working world, and about to play with a new scale of space and time perhaps. But myastonishment passed quickly into an entirely different feeling when Ibecame aware that the old man opposite had turned his head from thewindow again, and was regarding me with eyes so bright they seemedalmost to shine with an inner flame. His gaze was fixed upon my facewith an intense ardour, and his whole manner had suddenly become alertand concentrated. There was something about him I now felt for the firsttime that made little thrills of excitement run up and down my back. Imet his look squarely, but with an inward tremor. 

"Stay, then, a little while longer, " he said in a much lower and deepervoice than before; "stay, and I will teach you something of the purposeof my coming. "

He stopped abruptly. I was conscious of a decided shiver. 

"You have a special purpose then--in coming back?" I asked, hardlyknowing what I was saying. 

"To call away someone, " he went on in the same thrilling voice, "someonewho is not quite ready to come, but who is needed elsewhere for aworthier purpose. " There was a sadness in his manner that mystified memore than ever. 

"You mean--?" I began, with an unaccountable access of trembling. 

"I have come for someone who must soon move, even as I have moved. "

He looked me through and through with a dreadfully piercing gaze, but Imet his eyes with a full straight stare, trembling though I was, and Iwas aware that something stirred within me that had never stirredbefore, though for the life of me I could not have put a name to it, orhave analysed its nature. Something lifted and rolled away. For onesingle second I understood clearly that the past and the future existactually side by side in one immense Present; that it was _I_ who movedto and fro among shifting, protean appearances. 

The old man dropped his eyes from my face, and the momentary glimpse ofa mightier universe passed utterly away. Reason regained its sway over adull, limited kingdom. 

"Come to-night, " I heard the old man say, "come to me to-night into theWood of the Dead. Come at midnight--"

Involuntarily I clutched the arm of the settle for support, for I thenfelt that I was speaking with someone who knew more of the real thingsthat are and will be, than I could ever know while in the body, workingthrough the ordinary channels of sense--and this curious half-promise ofa partial lifting of the veil had its undeniable effect upon me. 

The breeze from the sea had died away outside, and the blossoms werestill. A yellow butterfly floated lazily past the window. The song ofthe birds hushed--I smelt the sea--I smelt the perfume of heated summerair rising from fields and flowers, the ineffable scents of June and ofthe long days of the year--and with it, from countless green meadowsbeyond, came the hum of myriad summer life, children's voices, sweetpipings, and the sound of water falling. 

I knew myself to be on the threshold of a new order of experience--of anecstasy. Something drew me forth with a sense of inexpressible yearningtowards the being of this strange old man in the window seat, and for amoment I knew what it was to taste a mighty and wonderful sensation, andto touch the highest pinnacle of joy I have ever known. It lasted forless than a second, and was gone; but in that brief instant of time thesame terrible lucidity came to me that had already shown me how the pastand future exist in the present, and I realised and understood thatpleasure and pain are one and the same force, for the joy I had justexperienced included also all the pain I ever had felt, or ever couldfeel. . . . 

The sunshine grew to dazzling radiance, faded, passed away. The shadowspaused in their dance upon the grass, deepened a moment, and then meltedinto air. The flowers of the fruit trees laughed with their littlesilvery laughter as the wind sighed over their radiant eyes the old, old tale of its personal love. Once or twice a voice called my name. Awonderful sensation of lightness and power began to steal over me. 

Suddenly the door opened and the inn-keeper's daughter came in. By allordinary standards, her's was a charming country loveliness, born of thestars and wild-flowers, of moonlight shining through autumn mists uponthe river and the fields; yet, by contrast with the higher order ofbeauty I had just momentarily been in touch with, she seemed almostugly. How dull her eyes, how thin her voice, how vapid her smile, andinsipid her whole presentment. 

For a moment she stood between me and the occupant of the window seatwhile I counted out the small change for my meal and for her services;but when, an instant later, she moved aside, I saw that the settle wasempty and that there was no longer anyone in the room but our twoselves. 

This discovery was no shock to me; indeed, I had almost expected it, andthe man had gone just as a figure goes out of a dream, causing nosurprise and leaving me as part and parcel of the same dream withoutbreaking of continuity. But, as soon as I had paid my bill and thusresumed in very practical fashion the thread of my normal consciousness, I turned to the girl and asked her if she knew the old man who had beensitting in the window seat, and what he had meant by the Wood of theDead. 

The maiden started visibly, glancing quickly round the empty room, butanswering simply that she had seen no one. I described him in greatdetail, and then, as the description grew clearer, she turned a littlepale under her pretty sunborn and said very gravely that it must havebeen the ghost. 

"Ghost! What ghost?"

"Oh, the village ghost, " she said quietly, coming closer to my chairwith a little nervous movement of genuine alarm, and adding in a lowervoice, "He comes before a death, they say!"

It was not difficult to induce the girl to talk, and the story she toldme, shorn of the superstition that had obviously gathered with the yearsround the memory of a strangely picturesque figure, was an interestingand peculiar one. 

The inn, she said, was originally a farmhouse, occupied by a yeomanfarmer, evidently of a superior, if rather eccentric, character, who hadbeen very poor until he reached old age, when a son died suddenly inthe Colonies and left him an unexpected amount of money, almost afortune. 

The old man thereupon altered no whit his simple manner of living, butdevoted his income entirely to the improvement of the village and to theassistance of its inhabitants; he did this quite regardless of hispersonal likes and dislikes, as if one and all were absolutely alike tohim, objects of a genuine and impersonal benevolence. People had alwaysbeen a little afraid of the man, not understanding his eccentricities, but the simple force of this love for humanity changed all that in avery short space of time; and before he died he came to be known as theFather of the Village and was held in great love and veneration by all. 

A short time before his end, however, he began to act queerly. He spenthis money just as usefully and wisely, but the shock of sudden wealthafter a life of poverty, people said, had unsettled his mind. He claimedto see things that others did not see, to hear voices, and to havevisions. Evidently, he was not of the harmless, foolish, visionaryorder, but a man of character and of great personal force, for thepeople became divided in their opinions, and the vicar, good man, regarded and treated him as a "special case. " For many, his name andatmosphere became charged almost with a spiritual influence that wasnot of the best. People quoted texts about him; kept when possible outof his way, and avoided his house after dark. None understood him, butthough the majority loved him, an element of dread and mystery becameassociated with his name, chiefly owing to the ignorant gossip of thefew. 

A grove of pine trees behind the farm--the girl pointed them out to meon the slope of the hill--he said was the Wood of the Dead, because justbefore anyone died in the village he saw them walk into that wood, singing. None who went in ever came out again. He often mentioned thenames to his wife, who usually published them to all the inhabitantswithin an hour of her husband's confidence; and it was found that thepeople he had seen enter the wood--died. On warm summer nights he wouldsometimes take an old stick and wander out, hatless, under the pines, for he loved this wood, and used to say he met all his old friendsthere, and would one day walk in there never to return. His wife triedto break him gently off this habit, but he always had his own way; andonce, when she followed and found him standing under a great pine in thethickest portion of the grove, talking earnestly to someone she couldnot see, he turned and rebuked her very gently, but in such a way thatshe never repeated the experiment, saying--

"You should never interrupt me, Mary, when I am talking with the others;for they teach me, remember, wonderful things, and I must learn all Ican before I go to join them. "

This story went like wild-fire through the village, increasing withevery repetition, until at length everyone was able to give an accuratedescription of the great veiled figures the woman declared she had seenmoving among the trees where her husband stood. The innocent pine-grovenow became positively haunted, and the title of "Wood of the Dead" clungnaturally as if it had been applied to it in the ordinary course ofevents by the compilers of the Ordnance Survey. 

On the evening of his ninetieth birthday the old man went up to his wifeand kissed her. His manner was loving, and very gentle, and there wassomething about him besides, she declared afterwards, that made herslightly in awe of him and feel that he was almost more of a spirit thana man. 

He kissed her tenderly on both cheeks, but his eyes seemed to lookright through her as he spoke. 

"Dearest wife, " he said, "I am saying good-bye to you, for I am nowgoing into the Wood of the Dead, and I shall not return. Do not followme, or send to search, but be ready soon to come upon the same journeyyourself. "

The good woman burst into tears and tried to hold him, but he easilyslipped from her hands, and she was afraid to follow him. Slowly she sawhim cross the field in the sunshine, and then enter the cool shadows ofthe grove, where he disappeared from her sight. 

That same night, much later, she woke to find him lying peacefully byher side in bed, with one arm stretched out towards her, _dead_. Herstory was half believed, half doubted at the time, but in a very fewyears afterwards it evidently came to be accepted by all thecountryside. A funeral service was held to which the people flocked ingreat numbers, and everyone approved of the sentiment which led thewidow to add the words, "The Father of the Village, " after the usualtexts which appeared upon the stone over his grave. 

This, then, was the story I pieced together of the village ghost as thelittle inn-keeper's daughter told it to me that afternoon in theparlour of the inn. 

"But you're not the first to say you've seen him, " the girl concluded;"and your description is just what we've always heard, and that window, they say, was just where he used to sit and think, and think, when hewas alive, and sometimes, they say, to cry for hours together. "

"And would you feel afraid if you had seen him?" I asked, for the girlseemed strangely moved and interested in the whole story. 

"I think so, " she answered timidly. "Surely, if he spoke to me. He didspeak to _you_, didn't he, sir?" she asked after a slight pause. 

"He said he had come for someone. "

"Come for someone, " she repeated. "Did he say--" she went onfalteringly. 

"No, he did not say for whom, " I said quickly, noticing the suddenshadow on her face and the tremulous voice. 

"Are you really sure, sir?"

"Oh, quite sure, " I answered cheerfully. "I did not even ask him. " Thegirl looked at me steadily for nearly a whole minute as though therewere many things she wished to tell me or to ask. But she said nothing, and presently picked up her tray from the table and walked slowly outof the room. 

Instead of keeping to my original purpose and pushing on to the nextvillage over the hills, I ordered a room to be prepared for me at theinn, and that afternoon I spent wandering about the fields and lyingunder the fruit trees, watching the white clouds sailing out over thesea. The Wood of the Dead I surveyed from a distance, but in the villageI visited the stone erected to the memory of the "Father of theVillage"--who was thus, evidently, no mythical personage--and saw alsothe monuments of his fine unselfish spirit: the schoolhouse he built, the library, the home for the aged poor, and the tiny hospital. 

That night, as the clock in the church tower was striking half-pasteleven, I stealthily left the inn and crept through the dark orchard andover the hayfield in the direction of the hill whose southern slope wasclothed with the Wood of the Dead. A genuine interest impelled me to theadventure, but I also was obliged to confess to a certain sinking in myheart as I stumbled along over the field in the darkness, for I wasapproaching what might prove to be the birth-place of a real countrymyth, and a spot already lifted by the imaginative thoughts of aconsiderable number of people into the region of the haunted andill-omened. 

The inn lay below me, and all round it the village clustered in a softblack shadow unrelieved by a single light. The night was moonless, yetdistinctly luminous, for the stars crowded the sky. The silence of deepslumber was everywhere; so still, indeed, that every time my foot kickedagainst a stone I thought the sound must be heard below in the villageand waken the sleepers. 

I climbed the hill slowly, thinking chiefly of the strange story of thenoble old man who had seized the opportunity to do good to his fellowsthe moment it came his way, and wondering why the causes that operateceaselessly behind human life did not always select such admirableinstruments. Once or twice a night-bird circled swiftly over my head, but the bats had long since gone to rest, and there was no other sign oflife stirring. 

Then, suddenly, with a singular thrill of emotion, I saw the first treesof the Wood of the Dead rise in front of me in a high black wall. Theircrests stood up like giant spears against the starry sky; and thoughthere was no perceptible movement of the air on my cheek I heard afaint, rushing sound among their branches as the night breeze passed toand fro over their countless little needles. A remote, hushed murmurrose overhead and died away again almost immediately; for in these treesthe wind seems to be never absolutely at rest, and on the calmest daythere is always a sort of whispering music among their branches. 

For a moment I hesitated on the edge of this dark wood, and listenedintently. Delicate perfumes of earth and bark stole out to meet me. Impenetrable darkness faced me. Only the consciousness that I wasobeying an order, strangely given, and including a mighty privilege, enabled me to find the courage to go forward and step in boldly underthe trees. 

Instantly the shadows closed in upon me and "something" came forward tomeet me from the centre of the darkness. It would be easy enough to meetmy imagination half-way with fact, and say that a cold hand grasped myown and led me by invisible paths into the unknown depths of the grove;but at any rate, without stumbling, and always with the positiveknowledge that I was going straight towards the desired object, Ipressed on confidently and securely into the wood. So dark was it that, at first, not a single star-beam pierced the roof of branches overhead;and, as we moved forward side by side, the trees shifted silently pastus in long lines, row upon row, squadron upon squadron, like the unitsof a vast, soundless army. 

And, at length, we came to a comparatively open space where the treeshalted upon us for a while, and, looking up, I saw the white river ofthe sky beginning to yield to the influence of a new light that nowseemed spreading swiftly across the heavens. 

"It is the dawn coming, " said the voice at my side that I certainlyrecognised, but which seemed almost like a whispering from the trees, "and we are now in the heart of the Wood of the Dead. "

We seated ourselves on a moss-covered boulder and waited the coming ofthe sun. With marvellous swiftness, it seemed to me, the light in theeast passed into the radiance of early morning, and when the wind awokeand began to whisper in the tree tops, the first rays of the risen sunfell between the trunks and rested in a circle of gold at our feet. 

"Now, come with me, " whispered my companion in the same deep voice, "fortime has no existence here, and that which I would show you is already_there_!"

We trod gently and silently over the soft pine needles. Already the sunwas high over our heads, and the shadows of the trees coiled closelyabout their feet. The wood became denser again, but occasionally wepassed through little open bits where we could smell the hot sunshineand the dry, baked pine needles. Then, presently, we came to the edge ofthe grove, and I saw a hayfield lying in the blaze of day, and twohorses basking lazily with switching tails in the shafts of a ladenhay-waggon. 

So complete and vivid was the sense of reality, that I remember thegrateful realisation of the cool shade where we sat and looked out uponthe hot world beyond. 

The last pitchfork had tossed up its fragrant burden, and the greathorses were already straining in the shafts after the driver, as hewalked slowly in front with one hand upon their bridles. He was astalwart fellow, with sunburned neck and hands. Then, for the firsttime, I noticed, perched aloft upon the trembling throne of hay, thefigure of a slim young girl. I could not see her face, but her brownhair escaped in disorder from a white sun-bonnet, and her still brownerhands held a well-worn hay rake. She was laughing and talking with thedriver, and he, from time to time, cast up at her ardent glances ofadmiration--glances that won instant smiles and soft blushes inresponse. 

The cart presently turned into the roadway that skirted the edge of thewood where we were sitting. I watched the scene with intense interestand became so much absorbed in it that I quite forgot the manifold, strange steps by which I was permitted to become a spectator. 

"Come down and walk with me, " cried the young fellow, stopping a momentin front of the horses and opening wide his arms. "Jump! and I'll catchyou!"

"Oh, oh, " she laughed, and her voice sounded to me as the happiest, merriest laughter I had ever heard from a girl's throat. "Oh, oh! that'sall very well. But remember I'm Queen of the Hay, and I must ride!"

"Then I must come and ride beside you, " he cried, and began at once toclimb up by way of the driver's seat. But, with a peal of silverylaughter, she slipped down easily over the back of the hay to escapehim, and ran a little way along the road. I could see her quite clearly, and noticed the charming, natural grace of her movements, and theloving expression in her eyes as she looked over her shoulder to makesure he was following. Evidently, she did not wish to escape for long, certainly not for ever. 

In two strides the big, brown swain was after her, leaving the horses todo as they pleased. Another second and his arms would have caught theslender waist and pressed the little body to his heart. But, just atthat instant, the old man beside me uttered a peculiar cry. It was lowand thrilling, and it went through me like a sharp sword. 

HE had called her by her own name--and she had heard. 

For a second she halted, glancing back with frightened eyes. Then, witha brief cry of despair, the girl swerved aside and dived in swiftlyamong the shadows of the trees. 

But the young man saw the sudden movement and cried out to herpassionately--

"Not that way, my love! Not that way! It's the Wood of the Dead!"

She threw a laughing glance over her shoulder at him, and the windcaught her hair and drew it out in a brown cloud under the sun. But thenext minute she was close beside me, lying on the breast of mycompanion, and I was certain I heard the words repeatedly uttered withmany sighs: "Father, you called, and I have come. And I come willingly, for I am very, very tired. "

At any rate, so the words sounded to me, and mingled with them I seemedto catch the answer in that deep, thrilling whisper I already knew: "Andyou shall sleep, my child, sleep for a long, long time, until it is timefor you to begin the journey again. "

In that brief second of time I had recognised the face and voice of theinn-keeper's daughter, but the next minute a dreadful wail broke fromthe lips of the young man, and the sky grew suddenly as dark as night, the wind rose and began to toss the branches about us, and the wholescene was swallowed up in a wave of utter blackness. 

Again the chill fingers seemed to seize my hand, and I was guided by theway I had come to the edge of the wood, and crossing the hayfield stillslumbering in the starlight, I crept back to the inn and went to bed. 

A year later I happened to be in the same part of the country, and thememory of the strange summer vision returned to me with the addedsoftness of distance. I went to the old village and had tea under thesame orchard trees at the same inn. 

But the little maid of the inn did not show her face, and I tookoccasion to enquire of her father as to her welfare and her whereabouts. 

"Married, no doubt, " I laughed, but with a strange feeling that clutchedat my heart. 

"No, sir, " replied the inn-keeper sadly, "not married--though she wasjust going to be--but dead. She got a sunstroke in the hayfields, just afew days after you were here, if I remember rightly, and she was gonefrom us in less than a week. "

SMITH: AN EPISODE IN A LODGING-HOUSE

"When I was a medical student, " began the doctor, half turning towardshis circle of listeners in the firelight, "I came across one or two verycurious human beings; but there was one fellow I remember particularly, for he caused me the most vivid, and I think the most uncomfortable, emotions I have ever known. 

"For many months I knew Smith only by name as the occupant of the floorabove me. Obviously his name meant nothing to me. Moreover I was busywith lectures, reading, cliniques and the like, and had little leisureto devise plans for scraping acquaintance with any of the other lodgersin the house. Then chance brought us curiously together, and this fellowSmith left a deep impression upon me as the result of our first meeting. At the time the strength of this first impression seemed quiteinexplicable to me, but looking back at the episode now from astand-point of greater knowledge I judge the fact to have been that hestirred my curiosity to an unusual degree, and at the same time awakenedmy sense of horror--whatever that may be in a medical student--about asdeeply and permanently as these two emotions were capable of beingstirred at all in the particular system and set of nerves called ME. 

"How he knew that I was interested in the study of languages wassomething I could never explain, but one day, quite unannounced, he camequietly into my room in the evening and asked me point-blank if I knewenough Hebrew to help him in the pronunciation of certain words. 

"He caught me along the line of least resistance, and I was greatlyflattered to be able to give him the desired information; but it wasonly when he had thanked me and was gone that I realised I had been inthe presence of an unusual individuality. For the life of me I could notquite seize and label the peculiarities of what I felt to be a verystriking personality, but it was borne in upon me that he was a manapart from his fellows, a mind that followed a line leading away fromordinary human intercourse and human interests, and into regions thatleft in his atmosphere something remote, rarefied, chilling. 

"The moment he was gone I became conscious of two things--an intensecuriosity to know more about this man and what his real interests were, and secondly, the fact that my skin was crawling and that my hair had atendency to rise. "

The doctor paused a moment here to puff hard at his pipe, which, however, had gone out beyond recall without the assistance of a match;and in the deep silence, which testified to the genuine interest of hislisteners, someone poked the fire up into a little blaze, and one or twoothers glanced over their shoulders into the dark distances of the bighall. 

"On looking back, " he went on, watching the momentary flames in thegrate, "I see a short, thick-set man of perhaps forty-five, with immenseshoulders and small, slender hands. The contrast was noticeable, for Iremember thinking that such a giant frame and such slim finger boneshardly belonged together. His head, too, was large and very long, thehead of an idealist beyond all question, yet with an unusually strongdevelopment of the jaw and chin. Here again was a singularcontradiction, though I am better able now to appreciate its fullmeaning, with a greater experience in judging the values ofphysiognomy. For this meant, of course, an enthusiastic idealismbalanced and kept in check by will and judgment--elements usuallydeficient in dreamers and visionaries. 

"At any rate, here was a being with probably a very wide range ofpossibilities, a machine with a pendulum that most likely had an unusuallength of swing. 

"The man's hair was exceedingly fine, and the lines about his nose andmouth were cut as with a delicate steel instrument in wax. His eyes Ihave left to the last. They were large and quite changeable, not incolour only, but in character, size, and shape. Occasionally they seemedthe eyes of someone else, if you can understand what I mean, and at thesame time, in their shifting shades of blue, green, and a nameless sortof dark grey, there was a sinister light in them that lent to the wholeface an aspect almost alarming. Moreover, they were the most luminousoptics I think I have ever seen in any human being. 

"There, then, at the risk of a wearisome description, is Smith as I sawhim for the first time that winter's evening in my shabby student'srooms in Edinburgh. And yet the real part of him, of course, I haveleft untouched, for it is both indescribable and un-get-atable. I havespoken already of an atmosphere of warning and aloofness he carriedabout with him. It is impossible further to analyse the series of littleshocks his presence always communicated to my being; but there was thatabout him which made me instantly on the _qui vive_ in his presence, every nerve alert, every sense strained and on the watch. I do not meanthat he deliberately suggested danger, but rather that he brought forcesin his wake which automatically warned the nervous centres of my systemto be on their guard and alert. 

"Since the days of my first acquaintance with this man I have livedthrough other experiences and have seen much I cannot pretend to explainor understand; but, so far in my life, I have only once come across ahuman being who suggested a disagreeable familiarity with unholy things, and who made me feel uncanny and 'creepy' in his presence; and thatunenviable individual was Mr. Smith. 

"What his occupation was during the day I never knew. I think he sleptuntil the sun set. No one ever saw him on the stairs, or heard him movein his room during the day. He was a creature of the shadows, whoapparently preferred darkness to light. Our landlady either knewnothing, or would say nothing. At any rate she found no fault, and Ihave since wondered often by what magic this fellow was able to converta common landlady of a common lodging-house into a discreet anduncommunicative person. This alone was a sign of genius of some sort. 

"'He's been here with me for years--long before you come, an' I don'tinterfere or ask no questions of what doesn't concern me, as long aspeople pays their rent, ' was the only remark on the subject that I eversucceeded in winning from that quarter, and it certainly told me nothingnor gave me any encouragement to ask for further information. 

"Examinations, however, and the general excitement of a medicalstudent's life for a time put Mr. Smith completely out of my head. For along period he did not call upon me again, and for my part, I felt nocourage to return his unsolicited visit. 

"Just then, however, there came a change in the fortunes of those whocontrolled my very limited income, and I was obliged to give up myground-floor and move aloft to more modest chambers on the top of thehouse. Here I was directly over Smith, and had to pass his door toreach my own. 

"It so happened that about this time I was frequently called out at allhours of the night for the maternity cases which a fourth-year studenttakes at a certain period of his studies, and on returning from one ofthese visits at about two o'clock in the morning I was surprised to hearthe sound of voices as I passed his door. A peculiar sweet odour, too, not unlike the smell of incense, penetrated into the passage. 

"I went upstairs very quietly, wondering what was going on there at thishour of the morning. To my knowledge Smith never had visitors. For amoment I hesitated outside the door with one foot on the stairs. All myinterest in this strange man revived, and my curiosity rose to a pointnot far from action. At last I might learn something of the habits ofthis lover of the night and the darkness. 

"The sound of voices was plainly audible, Smith's predominating so muchthat I never could catch more than points of sound from the other, penetrating now and then the steady stream of his voice. Not a singleword reached me, at least, not a word that I could understand, thoughthe voice was loud and distinct, and it was only afterwards that Irealised he must have been speaking in a foreign language. 

"The sound of footsteps, too, was equally distinct. Two persons weremoving about the room, passing and repassing the door, one of them alight, agile person, and the other ponderous and somewhat awkward. Smith's voice went on incessantly with its odd, monotonous droning, nowloud, now soft, as he crossed and re-crossed the floor. The other personwas also on the move, but in a different and less regular fashion, for Iheard rapid steps that seemed to end sometimes in stumbling, and quicksudden movements that brought up with a violent lurching against thewall or furniture. 

"As I listened to Smith's voice, moreover, I began to feel afraid. Therewas something in the sound that made me feel intuitively he was in atight place, and an impulse stirred faintly in me--very faintly, Iadmit--to knock at the door and inquire if he needed help. 

"But long before the impulse could translate itself into an act, or evenbefore it had been properly weighed and considered by the mind, I hearda voice close beside me in the air, a sort of hushed whisper which I amcertain was Smith speaking, though the sound did not seem to have cometo me through the door. It was close in my very ear, as though he stoodbeside me, and it gave me such a start, that I clutched the banisters tosave myself from stepping backwards and making a clatter on the stairs. 

"'There is nothing you can do to help me, '" it said distinctly, 'and youwill be much safer in your own room. '

"I am ashamed to this day of the pace at which I covered the flight ofstairs in the darkness to the top floor, and of the shaking hand withwhich I lit my candles and bolted the door. But, there it is, just as ithappened. 

"This midnight episode, so odd and yet so trivial in itself, fired mewith more curiosity than ever about my fellow-lodger. It also made meconnect him in my mind with a sense of fear and distrust. I never sawhim, yet I was often, and uncomfortably, aware of his presence in theupper regions of that gloomy lodging-house. Smith and his secret mode oflife and mysterious pursuits, somehow contrived to awaken in my being aline of reflection that disturbed my comfortable condition of ignorance. I never saw him, as I have said, and exchanged no sort of communicationwith him, yet it seemed to me that his mind was in contact with mine, and some of the strange forces of his atmosphere filtered through intomy being and disturbed my equilibrium. Those upper floors became hauntedfor me after dark, and, though outwardly our lives never came intocontact, I became unwillingly involved in certain pursuits on which hismind was centred. I felt that he was somehow making use of me against mywill, and by methods which passed my comprehension. 

"I was at that time, moreover, in the heavy, unquestioning state ofmaterialism which is common to medical students when they begin tounderstand something of the human anatomy and nervous system, and jumpat once to the conclusion that they control the universe and hold intheir forceps the last word of life and death. I 'knew it all, ' andregarded a belief in anything beyond matter as the wanderings of weak, or at best, untrained minds. And this condition of mind, of course, added to the strength of this upsetting fear which emanated from thefloor below and began slowly to take possession of me. 

"Though I kept no notes of the subsequent events in this matter, theymade too deep an impression for me ever to forget the sequence in whichthey occurred. Without difficulty I can recall the next step in theadventure with Smith, for adventure it rapidly grew to be. "

The doctor stopped a moment and laid his pipe on the table behind himbefore continuing. The fire had burned low, and no one stirred to pokeit. The silence in the great hall was so deep that when the speaker'spipe touched the table the sound woke audible echoes at the far endamong the shadows. 

"One evening, while I was reading, the door of my room opened and Smithcame in. He made no attempt at ceremony. It was after ten o'clock and Iwas tired, but the presence of the man immediately galvanised me intoactivity. My attempts at ordinary politeness he thrust on one side atonce, and began asking me to vocalise, and then pronounce for him, certain Hebrew words; and when this was done he abruptly inquired if Iwas not the fortunate possessor of a very rare Rabbinical Treatise, which he named. 

"How he knew that I possessed this book puzzled me exceedingly; but Iwas still more surprised to see him cross the room and take it out ofmy book-shelf almost before I had had time to answer in the affirmative. Evidently he knew exactly where it was kept. This excited my curiositybeyond all bounds, and I immediately began asking him questions; andthough, out of sheer respect for the man, I put them very delicately tohim, and almost by way of mere conversation, he had only one reply forthe lot. He would look up at me from the pages of the book with anexpression of complete comprehension on his extraordinary features, would bow his head a little and say very gravely--

"'That, of course, is a perfectly proper question, '--which wasabsolutely all I could ever get out of him. 

"On this particular occasion he stayed with me perhaps ten or fifteenminutes. Then he went quickly downstairs to his room with my HebrewTreatise in his hand, and I heard him close and bolt his door. 

"But a few moments later, before I had time to settle down to my bookagain, or to recover from the surprise his visit had caused me, I heardthe door open, and there stood Smith once again beside my chair. He madeno excuse for his second interruption, but bent his head down to thelevel of my reading lamp and peered across the flame straight into myeyes. 

"'I hope, ' he whispered, 'I hope you are never disturbed at night?'

"'Eh?' I stammered, 'disturbed at night? Oh no, thanks, at least, notthat I know of--'

"'I'm glad, ' he replied gravely, appearing not to notice my confusionand surprise at his question. 'But, remember, should it ever be thecase, please let me know at once. '

"And he was gone down the stairs and into his room again. 

"For some minutes I sat reflecting upon his strange behaviour. He wasnot mad, I argued, but was the victim of some harmless delusion that hadgradually grown upon him as a result of his solitary mode of life; andfrom the books he used, I judged that it had something to do withmediæval magic, or some system of ancient Hebrew mysticism. The words heasked me to pronounce for him were probably 'Words of Power, ' which, when uttered with the vehemence of a strong will behind them, weresupposed to produce physical results, or set up vibrations in one's owninner being that had the effect of a partial lifting of the veil. 

"I sat thinking about the man, and his way of living, and the probableeffects in the long-run of his dangerous experiments, and I can recallperfectly well the sensation of disappointment that crept over me when Irealised that I had labelled his particular form of aberration, and thatmy curiosity would therefore no longer be excited. 

"For some time I had been sitting alone with these reflections--it mayhave been ten minutes or it may have been half an hour--when I wasaroused from my reverie by the knowledge that someone was again in theroom standing close beside my chair. My first thought was that Smith hadcome back again in his swift, unaccountable manner, but almost at thesame moment I realised that this could not be the case at all. For thedoor faced my position, and it certainly had not been opened again. 

"Yet, someone was in the room, moving cautiously to and fro, watchingme, almost touching me. I was as sure of it as I was of myself, andthough at the moment I do not think I was actually afraid, I am bound toadmit that a certain weakness came over me and that I felt that strangedisinclination for action which is probably the beginning of thehorrible paralysis of real terror. I should have been glad to hidemyself, if that had been possible, to cower into a corner, or behind adoor, or anywhere so that I could not be watched and observed. 

"But, overcoming my nervousness with an effort of the will, I got upquickly out of my chair and held the reading lamp aloft so that it shoneinto all the corners like a searchlight. 

"The room was utterly empty! It was utterly empty, at least, to the_eye_, but to the nerves, and especially to that combination of senseperception which is made up by all the senses acting together, and by noone in particular, there was a person standing there at my very elbow. 

"I say 'person, ' for I can think of no appropriate word. For, if it_was_ a human being, I can only affirm that I had the overwhelmingconviction that it was _not_, but that it was some form of life whollyunknown to me both as to its essence and its nature. A sensation ofgigantic force and power came with it, and I remember vividly to thisday my terror on realising that I was close to an invisible being whocould crush me as easily as I could crush a fly, and who could see myevery movement while itself remaining invisible. 

"To this terror was added the certain knowledge that the 'being' keptin my proximity for a definite purpose. And that this purpose had somedirect bearing upon my well-being, indeed upon my life, I was equallyconvinced; for I became aware of a sensation of growing lassitude asthough the vitality were being steadily drained out of my body. My heartbegan to beat irregularly at first, then faintly. I was conscious, evenwithin a few minutes, of a general drooping of the powers of life in thewhole system, an ebbing away of self-control, and a distinct approach ofdrowsiness and torpor. 

"The power to move, or to think out any mode of resistance, was fastleaving me, when there rose, in the distance as it were, a tremendouscommotion. A door opened with a clatter, and I heard the peremptory andcommanding tones of a human voice calling aloud in a language I couldnot comprehend. It was Smith, my fellow-lodger, calling up the stairs;and his voice had not sounded for more than a few seconds, when I feltsomething withdrawn from my presence, from my person, indeed from my_very skin_. It seemed as if there was a rushing of air and some largecreature swept by me at about the level of my shoulders. Instantly thepressure on my heart was relieved, and the atmosphere seemed to resumeits normal condition. 

"Smith's door closed quietly downstairs, as I put the lamp down withtrembling hands. What had happened I do not know; only, I was aloneagain and my strength was returning as rapidly as it had left me. 

"I went across the room and examined myself in the glass. The skin wasvery pale, and the eyes dull. My temperature, I found, was a littlebelow normal and my pulse faint and irregular. But these smaller signsof disturbance were as nothing compared with the feeling I had--thoughno outward signs bore testimony to the fact--that I had narrowly escapeda real and ghastly catastrophe. I felt shaken, somehow, shaken to thevery roots of my being. "

The doctor rose from his chair and crossed over to the dying fire, sothat no one could see the expression on his face as he stood with hisback to the grate, and continued his weird tale. 

"It would be wearisome, " he went on in a lower voice, looking over ourheads as though he still saw the dingy top floor of that hauntedEdinburgh lodging-house; "it would be tedious for me at this length oftime to analyse my feelings, or attempt to reproduce for you thethorough examination to which I endeavoured then to subject my wholebeing, intellectual, emotional, and physical. I need only mention thedominant emotion with which this curious episode left me--the indignantanger against myself that I could ever have lost my self-control enoughto come under the sway of so gross and absurd a delusion. This protest, however, I remember making with all the emphasis possible. And I alsoremember noting that it brought me very little satisfaction, for it wasthe protest of my reason only, when all the rest of my being was up inarms against its conclusions. 

"My dealings with the 'delusion, ' however, were not yet over for thenight; for very early next morning, somewhere about three o'clock, I wasawakened by a curiously stealthy noise in the room, and the next minutethere followed a crash as if all my books had been swept bodily fromtheir shelf on to the floor. 

"But this time I was not frightened. Cursing the disturbance with allthe resounding and harmless words I could accumulate, I jumped out ofbed and lit the candle in a second, and in the first dazzle of theflaring match--but before the wick had time to catch--I was certain I_saw_ a dark grey shadow, of ungainly shape, and with something more orless like a human head, drive rapidly past the side of the wall farthestfrom me and disappear into the gloom by the angle of the door. 

"I waited one single second to be sure the candle was alight, and thendashed after it, but before I had gone two steps, my foot stumbledagainst something hard piled up on the carpet and I only just savedmyself from falling headlong. I picked myself up and found that all thebooks from what I called my 'language shelf' were strewn across thefloor. The room, meanwhile, as a minute's search revealed, was quiteempty. I looked in every corner and behind every stick of furniture, anda student's bedroom on a top floor, costing twelve shillings a week, didnot hold many available hiding-places, as you may imagine. 

"The crash, however, was explained. Some very practical and physicalforce had thrown the books from their resting-place. That, at least, wasbeyond all doubt. And as I replaced them on the shelf and noted that notone was missing, I busied myself mentally with the sore problem of howthe agent of this little practical joke had gained access to my room, and then escaped again. _For my door was locked and bolted. _

"Smith's odd question as to whether I was disturbed in the night, andhis warning injunction to let him know at once if such were the case, now of course returned to affect me as I stood there in the earlymorning, cold and shivering on the carpet; but I realised at the samemoment how impossible it would be for me to admit that a more thanusually vivid nightmare could have any connection with himself. I wouldrather stand a hundred of these mysterious visitations than consult sucha man as to their possible cause. 

"A knock at the door interrupted my reflections, and I gave a start thatsent the candle grease flying. 

"'Let me in, ' came in Smith's voice. 

"I unlocked the door. He came in fully dressed. His face wore a curiouspallor. It seemed to me to be under the skin and to shine through andalmost make it luminous. His eyes were exceedingly bright. 

"I was wondering what in the world to say to him, or how he wouldexplain his visit at such an hour, when he closed the door behind himand came close up to me--uncomfortably close. 

"'You should have called me at once, ' he said in his whispering voice, fixing his great eyes on my face. 

"I stammered something about an awful dream, but he ignored my remarkutterly, and I caught his eye wandering next--if any movement of thoseoptics can be described as 'wandering'--to the book-shelf. I watchedhim, unable to move my gaze from his person. The man fascinated mehorribly for some reason. Why, in the devil's name, was he up anddressed at three in the morning? How did he know anything had happenedunusual in my room? Then his whisper began again. 

"'It's your amazing vitality that causes you this annoyance, ' he said, shifting his eyes back to mine. 

"I gasped. Something in his voice or manner turned my blood into ice. 

"'That's the real attraction, ' he went on. 'But if this continues one ofus will have to leave, you know. '

"I positively could not find a word to say in reply. The channels ofspeech dried up within me. I simply stared and wondered what he wouldsay next. I watched him in a sort of dream, and as far as I canremember, he asked me to promise to call him sooner another time, andthen began to walk round the room, uttering strange sounds, and makingsigns with his arms and hands until he reached the door. Then he wasgone in a second, and I had closed and locked the door behind him. 

"After this, the Smith adventure drew rapidly to a climax. It was a weekor two later, and I was coming home between two and three in the morningfrom a maternity case, certain features of which for the time being hadvery much taken possession of my mind, so much so, indeed, that I passedSmith's door without giving him a single thought. 

"The gas jet on the landing was still burning, but so low that it madelittle impression on the waves of deep shadow that lay across thestairs. Overhead, the faintest possible gleam of grey showed that themorning was not far away. A few stars shone down through the sky-light. The house was still as the grave, and the only sound to break thesilence was the rushing of the wind round the walls and over the roof. But this was a fitful sound, suddenly rising and as suddenly fallingaway again, and it only served to intensify the silence. 

"I had already reached my own landing when I gave a violent start. Itwas automatic, almost a reflex action in fact, for it was only when Icaught myself fumbling at the door handle and thinking where I couldconceal myself quickest that I realised a voice had sounded close besideme in the air. It was the same voice I had heard before, and it seemedto me to be calling for help. And yet the very same minute I pushed oninto the room, determined to disregard it, and seeking to persuademyself it was the creaking of the boards under my weight or the rushingnoise of the wind that had deceived me. 

"But hardly had I reached the table where the candles stood when thesound was unmistakably repeated: 'Help! help!' And this time it wasaccompanied by what I can only describe as a vivid tactilehallucination. I was touched: the _skin_ of my arm was clutched byfingers. 

"Some compelling force sent me headlong downstairs as if the hauntingforces of the whole world were at my heels. At Smith's door I paused. The force of his previous warning injunction to seek his aid withoutdelay acted suddenly and I leant my whole weight against the panels, little dreaming that I should be called upon to give help rather thanto receive it. 

"The door yielded at once, and I burst into a room that was so full of achoking vapour, moving in slow clouds, that at first I could distinguishnothing at all but a set of what seemed to be huge shadows passing inand out of the mist. Then, gradually, I perceived that a red lamp on themantelpiece gave all the light there was, and that the room which I nowentered for the first time was almost empty of furniture. 

"The carpet was rolled back and piled in a heap in the corner, and uponthe white boards of the floor I noticed a large circle drawn in black ofsome material that emitted a faint glowing light and was apparentlysmoking. Inside this circle, as well as at regular intervals outside it, were curious-looking designs, also traced in the same black, smokingsubstance. These, too, seemed to emit a feeble light of their own. 

"My first impression on entering the room had been that it was fullof--_people_, I was going to say; but that hardly expresses my meaning. _Beings_, they certainly were, but it was borne in upon me beyond thepossibility of doubt, that they were not human beings. That I had caughta momentary glimpse of living, intelligent entities I can never doubt, but I am equally convinced, though I cannot prove it, that theseentities were from some other scheme of evolution altogether, and hadnothing to do with the ordinary human life, either incarnate ordiscarnate. 

"But, whatever they were, the visible appearance of them was exceedinglyfleeting. I no longer saw anything, though I still felt convinced oftheir immediate presence. They were, moreover, of the same order of lifeas the visitant in my bedroom of a few nights before, and theirproximity to my atmosphere in numbers, instead of singly as before, conveyed to my mind something that was quite terrible and overwhelming. I fell into a violent trembling, and the perspiration poured from myface in streams. 

"They were in constant motion about me. They stood close to my side;moved behind me; brushed past my shoulder; stirred the hair on myforehead; and circled round me without ever actually touching me, yetalways pressing closer and closer. Especially in the air just over myhead there seemed ceaseless movement, and it was accompanied by aconfused noise of whispering and sighing that threatened every moment tobecome articulate in words. To my intense relief, however, I heard nodistinct words, and the noise continued more like the rising and fallingof the wind than anything else I can imagine. 

"But the characteristic of these 'Beings' that impressed me moststrongly at the time, and of which I have carried away the mostpermanent recollection, was that each one of them possessed what seemedto be a _vibrating centre_ which impelled it with tremendous force andcaused a rapid whirling motion of the atmosphere as it passed me. Theair was full of these little vortices of whirring, rotating force, andwhenever one of them pressed me too closely I felt as if the nerves inthat particular portion of my body had been literally drawn out, absolutely depleted of vitality, and then immediately replaced--butreplaced dead, flabby, useless. 

"Then, suddenly, for the first time my eyes fell upon Smith. He wascrouching against the wall on my right, in an attitude that wasobviously defensive, and it was plain he was in extremities. The terroron his face was pitiable, but at the same time there was anotherexpression about the tightly clenched teeth and mouth which showed thathe had not lost all control of himself. He wore the most resoluteexpression I have ever seen on a human countenance, and, though for themoment at a fearful disadvantage, he looked like a man who hadconfidence in himself, and, in spite of the working of fear, was waitinghis opportunity. 

"For my part, I was face to face with a situation so utterly beyond myknowledge and comprehension, that I felt as helpless as a child, and asuseless. 

"'Help me back--quick--into that circle, ' I heard him half cry, halfwhisper to me across the moving vapours. 

"My only value appears to have been that I was not afraid to act. Knowing nothing of the forces I was dealing with I had no idea of thedeadly perils risked, and I sprang forward and caught him by the arms. He threw all his weight in my direction, and by our combined efforts hisbody left the wall and lurched across the floor towards the circle. 

"Instantly there descended upon us, out of the empty air of thatsmoke-laden room, a force which I can only compare to the pushing, driving power of a great wind pent up within a narrow space. It wasalmost explosive in its effect, and it seemed to operate upon all partsof my body equally. It fell upon us with a rushing noise that filled myears and made me think for a moment the very walls and roof of thebuilding had been torn asunder. Under its first blow we staggered backagainst the wall, and I understood plainly that its purpose was toprevent us getting back into the circle in the middle of the floor. 

"Pouring with perspiration, and breathless, with every muscle strainedto the very utmost, we at length managed to get to the edge of thecircle, and at this moment, so great was the opposing force, that I feltmyself actually torn from Smith's arms, lifted from my feet, and twirledround in the direction of the windows as if the wheel of some greatmachine had caught my clothes and was tearing me to destruction in itsrevolution. 

"But, even as I fell, bruised and breathless, against the wall, I sawSmith firmly upon his feet in the circle and slowly rising again to anupright position. My eyes never left his figure once in the next fewminutes. 

"He drew himself up to his full height. His great shoulders squaredthemselves. His head was thrown back a little, and as I looked I saw theexpression on his face change swiftly from fear to one of absolutecommand. He looked steadily round the room and then his voice began to_vibrate_. At first in a low tone, it gradually rose till it assumed thesame volume and intensity I had heard that night when he called up thestairs into my room. 

"It was a curiously increasing sound, more like the swelling of aninstrument than a human voice; and as it grew in power and filled theroom, I became aware that a great change was being effected slowly andsurely. The confusion of noise and rushings of air fell into the roll oflong, steady vibrations not unlike those caused by the deeper pedals ofan organ. The movements in the air became less violent, then grewdecidedly weaker, and finally ceased altogether. The whisperings andsighings became fainter and fainter, till at last I could not hear themat all; and, strangest of all, the light emitted by the circle, as wellas by the designs round it, increased to a steady glow, casting theirradiance upwards with the weirdest possible effect upon his features. Slowly, by the power of his voice, behind which lay undoubtedly agenuine knowledge of the occult manipulation of sound, this mandominated the forces that had escaped from their proper sphere, untilat length the room was reduced to silence and perfect order again. 

"Judging by the immense relief which also communicated itself to mynerves I then felt that the crisis was over and Smith was wholly masterof the situation. 

"But hardly had I begun to congratulate myself upon this result, and togather my scattered senses about me, when, uttering a loud cry, I sawhim leap out of the circle and fling himself into the air--as it seemedto me, into the empty air. Then, even while holding my breath for dreadof the crash he was bound to come upon the floor, I saw him strike witha dull thud against a solid body in mid-air, and the next instant he waswrestling with some ponderous thing that was absolutely invisible to me, and the room shook with the struggle. 

"To and fro _they_ swayed, sometimes lurching in one direction, sometimes in another, and always in horrible proximity to myself, as Ileaned trembling against the wall and watched the encounter. 

"It lasted at most but a short minute or two, ending as suddenly as ithad begun. Smith, with an unexpected movement, threw up his arms with acry of relief. At the same instant there was a wild, tearing shriek inthe air beside me and something rushed past us with a noise like thepassage of a flock of big birds. Both windows rattled as if they wouldbreak away from their sashes. Then a sense of emptiness and peacesuddenly came over the room, and I knew that all was over. 

"Smith, his face exceedingly white, but otherwise strangely composed, turned to me at once. 

"'God!--if you hadn't come--You deflected the stream; broke it up--' hewhispered. 'You saved me. '"

The doctor made a long pause. Presently he felt for his pipe in thedarkness, groping over the table behind us with both hands. No one spokefor a bit, but all dreaded the sudden glare that would come when hestruck the match. The fire was nearly out and the great hall was pitchdark. 

But the story-teller did not strike that match. He was merely gainingtime for some hidden reason of his own. And presently he went on withhis tale in a more subdued voice. 

"I quite forget, " he said, "how I got back to my own room. I only knowthat I lay with two lighted candles for the rest of the night, and thefirst thing I did in the morning was to let the landlady know I wasleaving her house at the end of the week. 

"Smith still has my Rabbinical Treatise. At least he did not return itto me at the time, and I have never seen him since to ask for it. "

A SUSPICIOUS GIFT

Blake had been in very low water for months--almost under water part ofthe time--due to circumstances he was fond of saying were no fault ofhis own; and as he sat writing in his room on "third floor back" of aNew York boarding-house, part of his mind was busily occupied inwondering when his luck was going to turn again. 

It was his room only in the sense that he paid the rent. Two friends, one a little Frenchman and the other a big Dane, shared it with him, both hoping eventually to contribute something towards expenses, but sofar not having accomplished this result. They had two beds only, thethird being a mattress they slept upon in turns, a week at a time. Agood deal of their irregular "feeding" consisted of oatmeal, potatoes, and sometimes eggs, all of which they cooked on a strange utensil theyhad contrived to fix into the gas jet. Occasionally, when dinner failedthem altogether, they swallowed a little raw rice and drank hot waterfrom the bathroom on the top of it, and then made a wild race for bed soas to get to sleep while the sensation of false repletion was stillthere. For sleep and hunger are slight acquaintances as they well knew. Fortunately all New York houses are supplied with hot air, and they onlyhad to open a grating in the wall to get a plentiful, if not a wholesomeamount of heat. 

Though loneliness in a big city is a real punishment, as they hadseverally learnt to their cost, their experiences, three in a small roomfor several months, had revealed to them horrors of quite another kind, and their nerves had suffered according to the temperament of each. But, on this particular evening, as Blake sat scribbling by the only windowthat was not cracked, the Dane and the Frenchman, his companions inadversity, were in wonderful luck. They had both been asked out to arestaurant to dine with a friend who also held out to one of them achance of work and remuneration. They would not be back till late, andwhen they did come they were pretty sure to bring in supplies of onekind or another. For the Frenchman never could resist the offer of aglass of absinthe, and this meant that he would be able to help himselfplentifully from the free-lunch counters, with which all New York barsare furnished, and to which any purchaser of a drink is entitled to helphimself and devour on the spot or carry away casually in his hand forconsumption elsewhere. Thousands of unfortunate men get their solesubsistence in this way in New York, and experience soon teaches where, for the price of a single drink, a man can take away almost a meal ofchip potatoes, sausage, bits of bread, and even eggs. The Frenchman andthe Dane knew their way about, and Blake looked forward to a supper moreor less substantial before pulling his mattress out of the cupboard andturning in upon the floor for the night. 

Meanwhile he could enjoy a quiet and lonely evening with the room all tohimself. 

In the daytime he was a reporter on an evening newspaper of sensationaland lying habits. His work was chiefly in the police courts; and in hisspare hours at night, when not too tired or too empty, he wrote sketchesand stories for the magazines that very rarely saw the light of day ontheir printed and paid-for sentences. On this particular occasion he wasdeep in a most involved tale of a psychological character, and had justworked his way into a sentence, or set of sentences, that completelybaffled and muddled him. 

He was fairly out of his depth, and his brain was too poorly suppliedwith blood to invent a way out again. The story would have beeninteresting had he written it simply, keeping to facts and feelings, andnot diving into difficult analysis of motive and character which wasquite beyond him. For it was largely autobiographical, and was meant todescribe the adventures of a young Englishman who had come to grief inthe usual manner on a Canadian farm, had then subsequently becomebar-keeper, sub-editor on a Methodist magazine, a teacher of French andGerman to clerks at twenty-five cents per hour, a model for artists, asuper on the stage, and, finally, a wanderer to the goldfields. 

Blake scratched his head, and dipped the pen in the inkpot, stared outthrough the blindless windows, and sighed deeply. His thoughts keptwandering to food, beefsteak and steaming vegetables. The smell ofcooking that came from a lower floor through the broken windows was aconstant torment to him. He pulled himself together and again attackedthe problem. 

" . . . For with some people, " he wrote, "the imagination is so vivid asto be almost an extension of consciousness. . . . " But here he stuckabsolutely. He was not quite sure what he meant by the words, and how tofinish the sentence puzzled him into blank inaction. It was a difficultpoint to decide, for it seemed to come in appropriately at this point inhis story, and he did not know whether to leave it as it stood, changeit round a bit, or take it out altogether. It might just spoil itschances of being accepted: editors were such clever men. But, to rewritethe sentence was a grind, and he was so tired and sleepy. After all, what did it matter? People who were clever would force a meaning intoit; people who were not clever would pretend--he knew of no otherclasses of readers. He would let it stay, and go on with the action ofthe story. He put his head in his hands and began to think hard. 

His mind soon passed from thought to reverie. He fell to wondering whenhis friends would find work and relieve him of the burden--heacknowledged it as such--of keeping them, and of letting another manwear his best clothes on alternate Sundays. He wondered when his "luck"would turn. There were one or two influential people in New York whomhe could go and see if he had a dress suit and the other conventionaluniforms. His thoughts ran on far ahead, and at the same time, by a sortof double process, far behind as well. His home in the "old country"rose up before him; he saw the lawn and the cedars in sunshine; helooked through the familiar windows and saw the clean, swept rooms. Hisstory began to suffer; the psychological masterpiece would not make muchprogress unless he pulled up and dragged his thoughts back to thetreadmill. But he no longer cared; once he had got as far as that cedarwith the sunshine on it, he never could get back again. For all hecared, the troublesome sentence might run away and get into someoneelse's pages, or be snuffed out altogether. 

There came a gentle knock at the door, and Blake started. The knock wasrepeated louder. Who in the world could it be at this late hour of thenight? On the floor above, he remembered, there lived anotherEnglishman, a foolish, second-rate creature, who sometimes came in andmade himself objectionable with endless and silly chatter. But he was anEnglishman for all that, and Blake always tried to treat him withpoliteness, realising that he was lonely in a strange land. Butto-night, of all people in the world, he did not want to be bored withPerry's cackle, as he called it, and the "Come in" he gave in answer tothe second knock had no very cordial sound of welcome in it. 

However, the door opened in response, and the man came in. Blake did notturn round at once, and the other advanced to the centre of the room, but _without speaking_. Then Blake knew it was not his enemy, Perry, andturned round. 

He saw a man of about forty standing in the middle of the carpet, butstanding sideways so that he did not present a full face. He wore anovercoat buttoned up to the neck, and on the felt hat which he held infront of him fresh rain-drops glistened. In his other hand he carried asmall black bag. Blake gave him a good look, and came to the conclusionthat he might be a secretary, or a chief clerk, or a confidential man ofsorts. He was a shabby-respectable-looking person. This was thesum-total of the first impression, gained the moment his eyes took inthat it was _not_ Perry; the second impression was less pleasant, andreported at once that something was wrong. 

Though otherwise young and inexperienced, Blake--thanks, or curses, tothe police court training--knew more about common criminalblackguardism than most men of fifty, and he recognised that there wassomewhere a suggestion of this undesirable world about the man. Butthere was more than this. There was something singular about him, something far out of the common, though for the life of him Blake couldnot say wherein it lay. The fellow was out of the ordinary, and in somevery undesirable manner. 

All this, that takes so long to describe, Blake saw with the first andsecond glance. The man at once began to speak in a quiet and respectfulvoice. 

"Are you Mr. Blake?" he asked. 

"I am. "

"Mr. Arthur Blake?"

"Yes. "

"Mr. Arthur _Herbert_ Blake?" persisted the other, with emphasis on themiddle name. 

"That is my full name, " Blake answered simply, adding, as he rememberedhis manners; "but won't you sit down, first, please?"

The man advanced with a curious sideways motion like a crab and took aseat on the edge of the sofa. He put his hat on the floor at his feet, but still kept the bag in his hand. 

"I come to you from a well-wisher, " he went on in oily tones, withoutlifting his eyes. Blake, in his mind, ran quickly over all the people heknew in New York who might possibly have sent such a man, while waitingfor him to supply the name. But the man had come to a full stop and waswaiting too. 

"A well-wisher of _mine_?" repeated Blake, not knowing quite what elseto say. 

"Just so, " replied the other, still with his eyes on the floor. "Awell-wisher of yours. "

"A man or--" he felt himself blushing, "or a woman?"

"That, " said the man shortly, "I cannot tell you. "

"You can't tell me!" exclaimed the other, wondering what was comingnext, and who in the world this mysterious well-wisher could be who sentso discreet and mysterious a messenger. 

"I cannot tell you the name, " replied the man firmly. "Those are myinstructions. But I bring you something from this person, and I am togive it to you, to take a receipt for it, and then to go away withoutanswering any questions. "

Blake stared very hard. The man, however, never raised his eyes abovethe level of the second china knob on the chest of drawers opposite. Thegiving of a receipt sounded like money. Could it be that some of hisinfluential friends had heard of his plight? There were possibilitiesthat made his heart beat. At length, however, he found his tongue, forthis strange creature was determined apparently to say nothing moreuntil he had heard from him. 

"Then, what have you got for me, please?" he asked bluntly. 

By way of answer the man proceeded to open the bag. He took out a parcelwrapped loosely in brown paper, and about the size of a large book. Itwas tied with string, and the man seemed unnecessarily long untying theknot. When at last the string was off and the paper unfolded, thereappeared a series of smaller packages inside. The man took them out verycarefully, almost as if they had been alive, Blake thought, and set themin a row upon his knees. They were dollar bills. Blake, all in aflutter, craned his neck forward a little to try and make out theirdenomination. He read plainly the figures 100. 

"There are ten thousand dollars here, " said the man quietly. 

The other could not suppress a little cry. 

"And they are for you. "

Blake simply gasped. "Ten thousand dollars!" he repeated, a queerfeeling growing up in his throat. "_Ten thousand. _ Are you sure? Imean--you mean they are for _me_?" he stammered. He felt quite sillywith excitement, and grew more so with every minute, as the manmaintained a perfect silence. Was it not a dream? Wouldn't the man putthem back in the bag presently and say it was a mistake, and they weremeant for somebody else? He could not believe his eyes or his ears. Yet, in a sense, it was possible. He had read of such things in books, andeven come across them in his experience of the courts--the erratic andgenerous philanthropist who is determined to do his good deed and to getno thanks or acknowledgment for it. Still, it seemed almost incredible. His troubles began to melt away like bubbles in the sun; he thought ofthe other fellows when they came in, and what he would have to tellthem; he thought of the German landlady and the arrears of rent, ofregular food and clean linen, and books and music, of the chance ofgetting into some respectable business, of--well, of as many things asit is possible to think of when excitement and surprise fling wide openthe gates of the imagination. 

The man, meanwhile, began quietly to count over the packages aloud fromone to ten, and then to count the bills in each separate packet, alsofrom one to ten. Yes, there were ten little heaps, each containing tenbills of a hundred-dollar denomination. That made ten thousand dollars. Blake had never seen so much money in a single lump in his life before;and for many months of privation and discomfort he had not known the"feel" of a twenty-dollar note, much less of a hundred-dollar one. Heheard them crackle under the man's fingers, and it was like crisplaughter in his ears. The bills were evidently new and unused. 

But, side by side with the excitement caused by the shock of such anevent, Blake's caution, acquired by a year of vivid New York experience, was meanwhile beginning to assert itself. It all seemed just a littletoo much out of the likely order of things to be quite right. The policecourts had taught him the amazing ingenuity of the criminal mind, aswell as something of the plots and devices by which the unwary arebeguiled into the dark places where blackmail may be levied withimpunity. New York, as a matter of fact, just at that time was literallyundermined with the secret ways of the blackmailers, the green-goodsmen, and other police-protected abominations; and the only weak pointin the supposition that this was part of some such proceeding was theselection of himself--a poor newspaper reporter--as a victim. It didseem absurd, but then the whole thing was so out of the ordinary, andthe thought once having entered his mind, was not so easily got rid of. Blake resolved to be very cautious. 

The man meanwhile, though he never appeared to raise his eyes from thecarpet, had been watching him closely all the time. 

"If you will give me a receipt I'll leave the money at once, " he said, with just a vestige of impatience in his tone, as if he were anxious tobring the matter to a conclusion as soon as possible. 

"But you say it is quite impossible for you to tell me the name of mywell-wisher, or why _she_ sends me such a large sum of money in thisextraordinary way?"

"The money is sent to you because you are in need of it, " returned theother; "and it is a present without conditions of any sort attached. Youhave to give me a receipt only to satisfy the sender that it has reachedyour hands. The money will never be asked of you again. "

Blake noticed two things from this answer: first, that the man was notto be caught into betraying the sex of the well-wisher; and secondly, that he was in some hurry to complete the transaction. For he was nowgiving reasons, attractive reasons, why he should accept the money andmake out the receipt. 

Suddenly it flashed across his mind that if he took the money and gavethe receipt _before a witness_, nothing very disastrous could come ofthe affair. It would protect him against blackmail, if this was, afterall, a plot of some sort with blackmail in it; whereas, if the man werea madman, or a criminal who was getting rid of a portion of hisill-gotten gains to divert suspicion, or if any other improbableexplanation turned out to be the true one, there was no great harm done, and he could hold the money till it was claimed, or advertised for inthe newspapers. His mind rapidly ran over these possibilities, though, of course, under the stress of excitement, he was unable to weigh any ofthem properly; then he turned to his strange visitor again and saidquietly--

"I will take the money, although I must say it seems to me a veryunusual transaction, and I will give you for it such a receipt as Ithink proper under the circumstances. "

"A proper receipt is all I want, " was the answer. 

"I mean by that a receipt before a proper witness--"

"Perfectly satisfactory, " interrupted the man, his eyes still on thecarpet. "Only, it must be dated, and headed with your address here inthe correct way. "

Blake could see no possible objection to this, and he at once proceededto obtain his witness. The person he had in his mind was a Mr. Barclay, who occupied the room above his own; an old gentleman who had retiredfrom business and who, the landlady always said, was a miser, and keptlarge sums secreted in his room. He was, at any rate, a perfectlyrespectable man and would make an admirable witness to a transaction ofthis sort. Blake made an apology and rose to fetch him, crossing theroom in front of the sofa where the man sat, in order to reach the door. As he did so, he saw for the first time the _other side_ of hisvisitor's face, the side that had been always so carefully turned awayfrom him. 

There was a broad smear of blood down the skin from the ear to theneck. It glistened in the gaslight. 

Blake never knew how he managed to smother the cry that sprang to hislips, but smother it he did. In a second he was at the door, his kneestrembling, his mind in a sudden and dreadful turmoil. 

His main object, so far as he could recollect afterwards, was to escapefrom the room as if he had noticed nothing, so as not to arouse theother's suspicions. The man's eyes were always on the carpet, andprobably, Blake hoped, he had not noticed the consternation that musthave been written plainly on his face. At any rate he had uttered nocry. 

In another second he would have been in the passage, when suddenly hemet a pair of wicked, staring eyes fixed intently and with a cunningsmile upon his own. It was the other's face in the mirror calmlywatching his every movement. 

Instantly, all his powers of reflection flew to the winds, and hethought only upon the desirability of getting help at once. He toreupstairs, his heart in his mouth. Barclay must come to his aid. Thismatter was serious--perhaps horribly serious. Taking the money, orgiving a receipt, or having anything at all to do with it became animpossibility. Here was crime. He felt certain of it. 

In three bounds he reached the next landing and began to hammer at theold miser's door as if his very life depended on it. For a long time hecould get no answer. His fists seemed to make no noise. He might havebeen knocking on cotton wool, and the thought dashed through his brainthat it was all just like the terror of a nightmare. 

Barclay, evidently, was still out, or else sound asleep. But the othersimply could not wait a minute longer in suspense. He turned the handleand walked into the room. At first he saw nothing for the darkness, andmade sure the owner of the room was out; but the moment the light fromthe passage began a little to disperse the gloom, he saw the old man, tohis immense relief, lying asleep on the bed. 

Blake opened the door to its widest to get more light and then walkedquickly up to the bed. He now saw the figure more plainly, and notedthat it was dressed and lay only upon the outside of the bed. It struckhim, too, that he was sleeping in a very odd, almost an unnatural, position. 

Something clutched at his heart as he looked closer. He stumbled over achair and found the matches. Calling upon Barclay the whole time to wakeup and come downstairs with him, he blundered across the floor, adreadful thought in his mind, and lit the gas over the table. It seemedstrange that there was no movement or reply to his shouting. But it nolonger seemed strange when at length he turned, in the full glare of thegas, and saw the old man lying huddled up into a ghastly heap on thebed, his throat cut across from ear to ear. 

And all over the carpet lay new dollar bills, crisp and clean like thosehe had left downstairs, and strewn about in little heaps. 

For a moment Blake stood stock-still, bereft of all power of movement. The next, his courage returned, and he fled from the room and dasheddownstairs, taking five steps at a time. He reached the bottom and torealong the passage to his room, determined at any rate to seize the manand prevent his escape till help came. 

But when he got to the end of the little landing he found that his doorhad been closed. He seized the handle, fumbling with it in his violence. It felt slippery and kept turning under his fingers without opening thedoor, and fully half a minute passed before it yielded and let him inheadlong. 

At the first glance he saw the room was empty, and the man gone!

Scattered upon the carpet lay a number of the bills, and beside them, half hidden under the sofa where the man had sat, he saw a pair ofgloves--thick, leathern gloves--and a butcher's knife. Even from thedistance where he stood the blood-stains on both were easily visible. 

Dazed and confused by the terrible discoveries of the last few minutes, Blake stood in the middle of the room, overwhelmed and unable to thinkor move. Unconsciously he must have passed his hand over his forehead inthe natural gesture of perplexity, for he noticed that the skin felt wetand sticky. His hand was covered with blood! And when he rushed interror to the looking-glass, he saw that there was a broad red smearacross his face and forehead. Then he remembered the slippery handle ofthe door and knew that it had been carefully moistened!

In an instant the whole plot became clear as daylight, and he was sospellbound with horror that a sort of numbness came over him and he camevery near to fainting. He was in a condition of utter helplessness, andhad anyone come into the room at that minute and called him by name hewould simply have dropped to the floor in a heap. 

"If the police were to come in now!" The thought crashed through hisbrain like thunder, and at the same moment, almost before he had time toappreciate a quarter of its significance, there came a loud knocking atthe front door below. The bell rang with a dreadful clamour; men'svoices were heard talking excitedly, and presently heavy steps began tocome up the stairs in the direction of his room. 

It _was_ the police!

And all Blake could do was to laugh foolishly to himself--and wait tillthey were upon him. He could not move nor speak. He stood face to facewith the evidence of his horrid crime, his hands and face smeared withthe blood of his victim, and there he was standing when the police burstopen the door and came noisily into the room. 

"Here it is!" cried a voice he knew. "Third floor back! And the fellowcaught red-handed!"

It was the man with the bag leading in the two policemen. 

Hardly knowing what he was doing in the fearful stress of conflictingemotions, he made a step forward. But before he had time to make asecond one, he felt the heavy hand of the law descend upon bothshoulders at once as the two policemen moved up to seize him. At thesame moment a voice of thunder cried in his ear--

"Wake up, man! Wake up! Here's the supper, and good news too!"

Blake turned with a start in his chair and saw the Dane, very red in theface, standing beside him, a hand on each shoulder, and a little furtherback he saw the Frenchman leering happily at him over the end of thebed, a bottle of beer in one hand and a paper package in the other. 

He rubbed his eyes, glancing from one to the other, and then got upsleepily to fix the wire arrangement on the gas jet to boil water forcooking the eggs which the Frenchman was in momentary danger of lettingdrop upon the floor. 

THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PRIVATE SECRETARY IN NEW YORK

I

It was never quite clear to me how Jim Shorthouse managed to get hisprivate secretaryship; but, once he got it, he kept it, and for someyears he led a steady life and put money in the savings bank. 

One morning his employer sent for him into the study, and it was evidentto the secretary's trained senses that there was something unusual inthe air. 

"Mr. Shorthouse, " he began, somewhat nervously, "I have never yet hadthe opportunity of observing whether or not you are possessed ofpersonal courage. "

Shorthouse gasped, but he said nothing. He was growing accustomed to theeccentricities of his chief. Shorthouse was a Kentish man; Sidebothamwas "raised" in Chicago; New York was the present place of residence. 

"But, " the other continued, with a puff at his very black cigar, "I mustconsider myself a poor judge of human nature in future, if it is not oneof your strongest qualities. "

The private secretary made a foolish little bow in modest appreciationof so uncertain a compliment. Mr. Jonas B. Sidebotham watched himnarrowly, as the novelists say, before he continued his remarks. 

"I have no doubt that you are a plucky fellow and--" He hesitated, andpuffed at his cigar as if his life depended upon it keeping alight. 

"I don't think I'm afraid of anything in particular, sir--except women, "interposed the young man, feeling that it was time for him to make anobservation of some sort, but still quite in the dark as to his chief'spurpose. 

"Humph!" he grunted. "Well, there are no women in this case so far as Iknow. But there may be other things that--that hurt more. "

"Wants a special service of some kind, evidently, " was the secretary'sreflection. "Personal violence?" he asked aloud. 

"Possibly (puff), in fact (puff, puff) probably. "

Shorthouse smelt an increase of salary in the air. It had a stimulatingeffect. 

"I've had some experience of that article, sir, " he said shortly; "butI'm ready to undertake anything in reason. "

"I can't say how much reason or unreason there may prove to be in thisparticular case. It all depends. "

Mr. Sidebotham got up and locked the door of his study and drew down theblinds of both windows. Then he took a bunch of keys from his pocket andopened a black tin box. He ferreted about among blue and white papersfor a few seconds, enveloping himself as he did so in a cloud of bluetobacco smoke. 

"I feel like a detective already, " Shorthouse laughed. 

"Speak low, please, " returned the other, glancing round the room. "Wemust observe the utmost secrecy. Perhaps you would be kind enough toclose the registers, " he went on in a still lower voice. "Open registershave betrayed conversations before now. "

Shorthouse began to enter into the spirit of the thing. He tiptoedacross the floor and shut the two iron gratings in the wall that inAmerican houses supply hot air and are termed "registers. " Mr. Sidebotham had meanwhile found the paper he was looking for. He held itin front of him and tapped it once or twice with the back of his righthand as if it were a stage letter and himself the villain of themelodrama. 

"This is a letter from Joel Garvey, my old partner, " he said at length. "You have heard me speak of him. "

The other bowed. He knew that many years before Garvey & Sidebotham hadbeen well known in the Chicago financial world. He knew that the amazingrapidity with which they accumulated a fortune had only been surpassedby the amazing rapidity with which they had immediately afterwardsdisappeared into space. He was further aware--his position affordedfacilities--that each partner was still to some extent in the other'spower, and that each wished most devoutly that the other would die. 

The sins of his employer's early years did not concern him, however. Theman was kind and just, if eccentric; and Shorthouse, being in New York, did not probe to discover more particularly the sources whence hissalary was so regularly paid. Moreover, the two men had grown to likeeach other and there was a genuine feeling of trust and respect betweenthem. 

"I hope it's a pleasant communication, sir, " he said in a low voice. 

"Quite the reverse, " returned the other, fingering the paper nervouslyas he stood in front of the fire. 

"Blackmail, I suppose. "

"Precisely. " Mr. Sidebotham's cigar was not burning well; he struck amatch and applied it to the uneven edge, and presently his voice spokethrough clouds of wreathing smoke. 

"There are valuable papers in my possession bearing his signature. Icannot inform you of their nature; but they are extremely valuable _tome_. They belong, as a matter of fact, to Garvey as much as to me. OnlyI've got them--"

"I see. "

"Garvey writes that he wants to have his signature removed--wants to cutit out with his own hand. He gives reasons which incline me to considerhis request--"

"And you would like me to take him the papers and see that he does it?"

"And bring them back again with you, " he whispered, screwing up his eyesinto a shrewd grimace. 

"And bring them back again with me, " repeated the secretary. "Iunderstand perfectly. "

Shorthouse knew from unfortunate experience more than a little of thehorrors of blackmail. The pressure Garvey was bringing to bear upon hisold enemy must be exceedingly strong. That was quite clear. At the sametime, the commission that was being entrusted to him seemed somewhatquixotic in its nature. He had already "enjoyed" more than oneexperience of his employer's eccentricity, and he now caught himselfwondering whether this same eccentricity did not sometimes go--furtherthan eccentricity. 

"I cannot read the letter to you, " Mr. Sidebotham was explaining, "but Ishall give it into your hands. It will prove that you are my--er--myaccredited representative. I shall also ask you not to read the packageof papers. The signature in question you will find, of course, on thelast page, at the bottom. "

There was a pause of several minutes during which the end of the cigarglowed eloquently. 

"Circumstances compel me, " he went on at length almost in a whisper, "orI should never do this. But you understand, of course, the thing is aruse. Cutting out the signature is a mere pretence. It is nothing. _What Garvey wants are the papers themselves. _"

The confidence reposed in the private secretary was not misplaced. Shorthouse was as faithful to Mr. Sidebotham as a man ought to be to thewife that loves him. 

The commission itself seemed very simple. Garvey lived in solitude inthe remote part of Long Island. Shorthouse was to take the papers tohim, witness the cutting out of the signature, and to be specially onhis guard against any attempt, forcible or otherwise, to gain possessionof them. It seemed to him a somewhat ludicrous adventure, but he did notknow all the facts and perhaps was not the best judge. 

The two men talked in low voices for another hour, at the end of whichMr. Sidebotham drew up the blinds, opened the registers and unlocked thedoor. 

Shorthouse rose to go. His pockets were stuffed with papers and his headwith instructions; but when he reached the door he hesitated and turned. 

"Well?" said his chief. 

Shorthouse looked him straight in the eye and said nothing. 

"The personal violence, I suppose?" said the other. Shorthouse bowed. 

"I have not seen Garvey for twenty years, " he said; "all I can tell youis that I believe him to be occasionally of unsound mind. I have heardstrange rumours. He lives alone, and in his lucid intervals studieschemistry. It was always a hobby of his. But the chances are twenty toone against his attempting violence. I only wished to warn you--incase--I mean, so that you may be on the watch. "

He handed his secretary a Smith and Wesson revolver as he spoke. Shorthouse slipped it into his hip pocket and went out of the room. 

 * * * * *

A drizzling cold rain was falling on fields covered with half-meltedsnow when Shorthouse stood, late in the afternoon, on the platform ofthe lonely little Long Island station and watched the train he had justleft vanish into the distance. 

It was a bleak country that Joel Garvey, Esq. , formerly of Chicago, hadchosen for his residence and on this particular afternoon it presented amore than usually dismal appearance. An expanse of flat fields coveredwith dirty snow stretched away on all sides till the sky dropped down tomeet them. Only occasional farm buildings broke the monotony, and theroad wound along muddy lanes and beneath dripping trees swathed in thecold raw fog that swept in like a pall of the dead from the sea. 

It was six miles from the station to Garvey's house, and the driver ofthe rickety buggy Shorthouse had found at the station was notcommunicative. Between the dreary landscape and the drearier driver hefell back upon his own thoughts, which, but for the spice of adventurethat was promised, would themselves have been even drearier than either. He made up his mind that he would waste no time over the transaction. The moment the signature was cut out he would pack up and be off. Thelast train back to Brooklyn was 7. 15; and he would have to walk the sixmiles of mud and snow, for the driver of the buggy had refusedpoint-blank to wait for him. 

For purposes of safety, Shorthouse had done what he flattered himselfwas rather a clever thing. He had made up a second packet of papersidentical in outside appearance with the first. The inscription, theblue envelope, the red elastic band, and even a blot in the lowerleft-hand corner had been exactly reproduced. Inside, of course, wereonly sheets of blank paper. It was his intention to change the packetsand to let Garvey see him put the sham one into the bag. In case ofviolence the bag would be the point of attack, and he intended to lockit and throw away the key. Before it could be forced open and thedeception discovered there would be time to increase his chances ofescape with the real packet. 

It was five o'clock when the silent Jehu pulled up in front of ahalf-broken gate and pointed with his whip to a house that stood in itsown grounds among trees and was just visible in the gathering gloom. Shorthouse told him to drive up to the front door but the man refused. 

"I ain't runnin' no risks, " he said; "I've got a family. "

This cryptic remark was not encouraging, but Shorthouse did not pause todecipher it. He paid the man, and then pushed open the rickety old gateswinging on a single hinge, and proceeded to walk up the drive that laydark between close-standing trees. The house soon came into full view. It was tall and square and had once evidently been white, but now thewalls were covered with dirty patches and there were wide yellow streakswhere the plaster had fallen away. The windows stared black anduncompromising into the night. The garden was overgrown with weeds andlong grass, standing up in ugly patches beneath their burden of wetsnow. Complete silence reigned over all. There was not a sign of life. Not even a dog barked. Only, in the distance, the wheels of theretreating carriage could be heard growing fainter and fainter. 

As he stood in the porch, between pillars of rotting wood, listening tothe rain dripping from the roof into the puddles of slushy snow, he wasconscious of a sensation of utter desertion and loneliness such as hehad never before experienced. The forbidding aspect of the house had theimmediate effect of lowering his spirits. It might well have been theabode of monsters or demons in a child's wonder tale, creatures thatonly dared to come out under cover of darkness. He groped for thebell-handle, or knocker, and finding neither, he raised his stick andbeat a loud tattoo on the door. The sound echoed away in an empty spaceon the other side and the wind moaned past him between the pillars as ifstartled at his audacity. But there was no sound of approachingfootsteps and no one came to open the door. Again he beat a tattoo, louder and longer than the first one; and, having done so, waited withhis back to the house and stared across the unkempt garden into the fastgathering shadows. 

Then he turned suddenly, and saw that the door was standing ajar. It hadbeen quietly opened and a pair of eyes were peering at him round theedge. There was no light in the hall beyond and he could only just makeout the shape of a dim human face. 

"Does Mr. Garvey live here?" he asked in a firm voice. 

"Who are you?" came in a man's tones. 

"I'm Mr. Sidebotham's private secretary. I wish to see Mr. Garvey onimportant business. "

"Are you expected?"

"I suppose so, " he said impatiently, thrusting a card through theopening. "Please take my name to him at once, and say I come from Mr. Sidebotham on the matter Mr. Garvey wrote about. "

The man took the card, and the face vanished into the darkness, leavingShorthouse standing in the cold porch with mingled feelings ofimpatience and dismay. The door, he now noticed for the first time, wason a chain and could not open more than a few inches. But it was themanner of his reception that caused uneasy reflections to stir withinhim--reflections that continued for some minutes before they wereinterrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and the flicker of alight in the hall. 

The next instant the chain fell with a rattle, and gripping his bagtightly, he walked into a large ill-smelling hall of which he could onlyjust see the ceiling. There was no light but the nickering taper held bythe man, and by its uncertain glimmer Shorthouse turned to examine him. He saw an undersized man of middle age with brilliant, shifting eyes, acurling black beard, and a nose that at once proclaimed him a Jew. Hisshoulders were bent, and, as he watched him replacing the chain, he sawthat he wore a peculiar black gown like a priest's cassock reaching tothe feet. It was altogether a lugubrious figure of a man, sinister andfunereal, yet it seemed in perfect harmony with the general character ofits surroundings. The hall was devoid of furniture of any kind, andagainst the dingy walls stood rows of old picture frames, empty anddisordered, and odd-looking bits of wood-work that appeared doublyfantastic as their shadows danced queerly over the floor in the shiftinglight. 

"If you'll come this way, Mr. Garvey will see you presently, " said theJew gruffly, crossing the floor and shielding the taper with a bonyhand. He never once raised his eyes above the level of the visitor'swaistcoat, and, to Shorthouse, he somehow suggested a figure from thedead rather than a man of flesh and blood. The hall smelt decidedly ill. 

All the more surprising, then, was the scene that met his eyes when theJew opened the door at the further end and he entered a room brilliantlylit with swinging lamps and furnished with a degree of taste and comfortthat amounted to luxury. The walls were lined with handsomely boundbooks, and armchairs were arranged round a large mahogany desk in themiddle of the room. A bright fire burned in the grate and neatly framedphotographs of men and women stood on the mantelpiece on either side ofan elaborately carved clock. French windows that opened like doors werepartially concealed by warm red curtains, and on a sideboard against thewall stood decanters and glasses, with several boxes of cigars piled ontop of one another. There was a pleasant odour of tobacco about theroom. Indeed, it was in such glowing contrast to the chilly poverty ofthe hall that Shorthouse already was conscious of a distinct rise in thethermometer of his spirits. 

Then he turned and saw the Jew standing in the doorway with his eyesfixed upon him, somewhere about the middle button of his waistcoat. Hepresented a strangely repulsive appearance that somehow could not beattributed to any particular detail, and the secretary associated him inhis mind with a monstrous black bird of prey more than anything else. 

"My time is short, " he said abruptly; "I hope Mr. Garvey will not keepme waiting. "

A strange flicker of a smile appeared on the Jew's ugly face andvanished as quickly as it came. He made a sort of deprecating bow by wayof reply. Then he blew out the taper and went out, closing the doornoiselessly behind him. 

Shorthouse was alone. He felt relieved. There was an air of obsequiousinsolence about the old Jew that was very offensive. He began to takenote of his surroundings. He was evidently in the library of the house, for the walls were covered with books almost up to the ceiling. Therewas no room for pictures. Nothing but the shining backs of well-boundvolumes looked down upon him. Four brilliant lights hung from theceiling and a reading lamp with a polished reflector stood among thedisordered masses of papers on the desk. 

The lamp was not lit, but when Shorthouse put his hand upon it he foundit was _warm_. The room had evidently only just been vacated. 

Apart from the testimony of the lamp, however, he had already felt, without being able to give a reason for it, that the room had beenoccupied a few moments before he entered. The atmosphere over the deskseemed to retain the disturbing influence of a human being; aninfluence, moreover, so recent that he felt as if the cause of it werestill in his immediate neighbourhood. It was difficult to realise thathe was quite alone in the room and that somebody was not in hiding. Thefiner counterparts of his senses warned him to act as if he were beingobserved; he was dimly conscious of a desire to fidget and look round, to keep his eyes in every part of the room at once, and to conducthimself generally as if he were the object of careful human observation. 

How far he recognised the cause of these sensations it is impossible tosay; but they were sufficiently marked to prevent his carrying out astrong inclination to get up and make a search of the room. He sat quitestill, staring alternately at the backs of the books, and at the redcurtains; wondering all the time if he was really being watched, or ifit was only the imagination playing tricks with him. 

A full quarter of an hour passed, and then twenty rows of volumessuddenly shifted out towards him, and he saw that a door had opened inthe wall opposite. The books were only sham backs after all, and whenthey moved back again with the sliding door, Shorthouse saw the figureof Joel Garvey standing before him. 

Surprise almost took his breath away. He had expected to see anunpleasant, even a vicious apparition with the mark of the beastunmistakably upon its face; but he was wholly unprepared for theelderly, tall, fine-looking man who stood in front of him--well-groomed, refined, vigorous, with a lofty forehead, clear grey eyes, and a hookednose dominating a clean shaven mouth and chin of considerablecharacter--a distinguished looking man altogether. 

"I'm afraid I've kept you waiting, Mr. Shorthouse, " he said in apleasant voice, but with no trace of a smile in the mouth or eyes. "Butthe fact is, you know, I've a mania for chemistry, and just when youwere announced I was at the most critical moment of a problem and wasreally compelled to bring it to a conclusion. "

Shorthouse had risen to meet him, but the other motioned him to resumehis seat. It was borne in upon him irresistibly that Mr. Joel Garvey, for reasons best known to himself, was deliberately lying, and he couldnot help wondering at the necessity for such an elaboratemisrepresentation. He took off his overcoat and sat down. 

"I've no doubt, too, that the door startled you, " Garvey went on, evidently reading something of his guest's feelings in his face. "Youprobably had not suspected it. It leads into my little laboratory. Chemistry is an absorbing study to me, and I spend most of my timethere. " Mr. Garvey moved up to the armchair on the opposite side of thefireplace and sat down. 

Shorthouse made appropriate answers to these remarks, but his mind wasreally engaged in taking stock of Mr. Sidebotham's old-time partner. Sofar there was no sign of mental irregularity and there was certainlynothing about him to suggest violent wrong-doing or coarseness ofliving. On the whole, Mr. Sidebotham's secretary was most pleasantlysurprised, and, wishing to conclude his business as speedily aspossible, he made a motion towards the bag for the purpose of openingit, when his companion interrupted him quickly--

"You are Mr. Sidebotham's _private_ secretary, are you not?" he asked. 

Shorthouse replied that he was. "Mr. Sidebotham, " he went on to explain, "has entrusted me with the papers in the case and I have the honour toreturn to you your letter of a week ago. " He handed the letter toGarvey, who took it without a word and deliberately placed it in thefire. He was not aware that the secretary was ignorant of its contents, yet his face betrayed no signs of feeling. Shorthouse noticed, however, that his eyes never left the fire until the last morsel had beenconsumed. Then he looked up and said, "You are familiar then with thefacts of this most peculiar case?"

Shorthouse saw no reason to confess his ignorance. 

"I have all the papers, Mr. Garvey, " he replied, taking them out of thebag, "and I should be very glad if we could transact our business asspeedily as possible. If you will cut out your signature I--"

"One moment, please, " interrupted the other. "I must, before we proceedfurther, consult some papers in my laboratory. If you will allow me toleave you alone a few minutes for this purpose we can conclude the wholematter in a very short time. "

Shorthouse did not approve of this further delay, but he had no optionthan to acquiesce, and when Garvey had left the room by the private doorhe sat and waited with the papers in his hand. The minutes went by andthe other did not return. To pass the time he thought of taking thefalse packet from his coat to see that the papers were in order, and themove was indeed almost completed, when something--he never knewwhat--warned him to desist. The feeling again came over him that he wasbeing watched, and he leaned back in his chair with the bag on his kneesand waited with considerable impatience for the other's return. For morethan twenty minutes he waited, and when at length the door opened andGarvey appeared, with profuse apologies for the delay, he saw by theclock that only a few minutes still remained of the time he had allowedhimself to catch the last train. 

"Now I am completely at your service, " he said pleasantly; "you must, ofcourse, know, Mr. Shorthouse, that one cannot be too careful in mattersof this kind--especially, " he went on, speaking very slowly andimpressively, "in dealing with a man like my former partner, whose mind, as you doubtless may have discovered, is at times very sadly affected. "

Shorthouse made no reply to this. He felt that the other was watchinghim as a cat watches a mouse. 

"It is almost a wonder to me, " Garvey added, "that he is still at large. Unless he has greatly improved it can hardly be safe for those who areclosely associated with him. "

The other began to feel uncomfortable. Either this was the other side ofthe story, or it was the first signs of mental irresponsibility. 

"All business matters of importance require the utmost care in myopinion, Mr. Garvey, " he said at length, cautiously. 

"Ah! then, as I thought, you have had a great deal to put up with fromhim, " Garvey said, with his eyes fixed on his companion's face. "And, nodoubt, he is still as bitter against me as he was years ago when thedisease first showed itself?"

Although this last remark was a deliberate question and the questionerwas waiting with fixed eyes for an answer, Shorthouse elected to takeno notice of it. Without a word he pulled the elastic band from the blueenvelope with a snap and plainly showed his desire to conclude thebusiness as soon as possible. The tendency on the other's part to delaydid not suit him at all. 

"But never personal violence, I trust, Mr. Shorthouse, " he added. 

"Never. "

"I'm glad to hear it, " Garvey said in a sympathetic voice, "very glad tohear it. And now, " he went on, "if you are ready we can transact thislittle matter of business before dinner. It will only take a moment. "

He drew a chair up to the desk and sat down, taking a pair of scissorsfrom a drawer. His companion approached with the papers in his hand, unfolding them as he came. Garvey at once took them from him, and afterturning over a few pages he stopped and cut out a piece of writing atthe bottom of the last sheet but one. 

Holding it up to him Shorthouse read the words "Joel Garvey" in fadedink. 

"There! That's my signature, " he said, "and I've cut it out. It must benearly twenty years since I wrote it, and now I'm going to burn it. "

He went to the fire and stooped over to burn the little slip of paper, and while he watched it being consumed Shorthouse put the real papers inhis pocket and slipped the imitation ones into the bag. Garvey turnedjust in time to see this latter movement. 

"I'm putting the papers back, " Shorthouse said quietly; "you've donewith them, I think. "

"Certainly, " he replied as, completely deceived, he saw the blueenvelope disappear into the black bag and watched Shorthouse turn thekey. "They no longer have the slightest interest for me. " As he spoke hemoved over to the sideboard, and pouring himself out a small glass ofwhisky asked his visitor if he might do the same for him. But thevisitor declined and was already putting on his overcoat when Garveyturned with genuine surprise on his face. 

"You surely are not going back to New York to-night, Mr. Shorthouse?" hesaid, in a voice of astonishment. 

"I've just time to catch the 7. 15 if I'm quick. "

"But I never heard of such a thing, " Garvey said. "Of course I took itfor granted that you would stay the night. "

"It's kind of you, " said Shorthouse, "but really I must return to-night. I never expected to stay. "

The two men stood facing each other. Garvey pulled out his watch. 

"I'm exceedingly sorry, " he said; "but, upon my word, I took it forgranted you would stay. I ought to have said so long ago. I'm such alonely fellow and so little accustomed to visitors that I fear I forgotmy manners altogether. But in any case, Mr. Shorthouse, you cannot catchthe 7. 15, for it's already after six o'clock, and that's the last trainto-night. " Garvey spoke very quickly, almost eagerly, but his voicesounded genuine. 

"There's time if I walk quickly, " said the young man with decision, moving towards the door. He glanced at his watch as he went. Hitherto hehad gone by the clock on the mantelpiece. To his dismay he saw that itwas, as his host had said, long after six. The clock was half an hourslow, and he realised at once that it was no longer possible to catchthe train. 

Had the hands of the clock been moved back intentionally? Had he beenpurposely detained? Unpleasant thoughts flashed into his brain and madehim hesitate before taking the next step. His employer's warning rang inhis ears. The alternative was six miles along a lonely road in thedark, or a night under Garvey's roof. The former seemed a directinvitation to catastrophe, if catastrophe there was planned to be. Thelatter--well, the choice was certainly small. One thing, however, herealised, was plain--he must show neither fear nor hesitancy. 

"My watch must have gained, " he observed quietly, turning the hands backwithout looking up. "It seems I have certainly missed that train andshall be obliged to throw myself upon your hospitality. But, believe me, I had no intention of putting you out to any such extent. "

"I'm delighted, " the other said. "Defer to the judgment of an older manand make yourself comfortable for the night. There's a bitter stormoutside, and you don't put me out at all. On the contrary it's a greatpleasure. I have so little contact with the outside world that it'sreally a god-send to have you. "

The man's face changed as he spoke. His manner was cordial and sincere. Shorthouse began to feel ashamed of his doubts and to read between thelines of his employer's warning. He took off his coat and the two menmoved to the armchairs beside the fire. 

"You see, " Garvey went on in a lowered voice, "I understand yourhesitancy perfectly. I didn't know Sidebotham all those years withoutknowing a good deal about him--perhaps more than you do. I've no doubt, now, he filled your mind with all sorts of nonsense about me--probablytold you that I was the greatest villain unhung, eh? and all that sortof thing? Poor fellow! He was a fine sort before his mind becameunhinged. One of his fancies used to be that everybody else was insane, or just about to become insane. Is he still as bad as that?"

"Few men, " replied Shorthouse, with the manner of making a greatconfidence, but entirely refusing to be drawn, "go through hisexperiences and reach his age without entertaining delusions of one kindor another. "

"Perfectly true, " said Garvey. "Your observation is evidently keen. "

"Very keen indeed, " Shorthouse replied, taking his cue neatly; "but, ofcourse, there are some things"--and here he looked cautiously over hisshoulder--"there are some things one cannot talk about toocircumspectly. "

"I understand perfectly and respect your reserve. "

There was a little more conversation and then Garvey got up and excusedhimself on the plea of superintending the preparation of the bedroom. 

"It's quite an event to have a visitor in the house, and I want to makeyou as comfortable as possible, " he said. "Marx will do better for alittle supervision. And, " he added with a laugh as he stood in thedoorway, "I want you to carry back a good account to Sidebotham. "

II

The tall form disappeared and the door was shut. The conversation of thepast few minutes had come somewhat as a revelation to the secretary. Garvey seemed in full possession of normal instincts. There was no doubtas to the sincerity of his manner and intentions. The suspicions of thefirst hour began to vanish like mist before the sun. Sidebotham'sportentous warnings and the mystery with which he surrounded the wholeepisode had been allowed to unduly influence his mind. The loneliness ofthe situation and the bleak nature of the surroundings had helped tocomplete the illusion. He began to be ashamed of his suspicions and achange commenced gradually to be wrought in his thoughts. Anyhow adinner and a bed were preferable to six miles in the dark, no dinner, and a cold train into the bargain. 

Garvey returned presently. "We'll do the best we can for you, " he said, dropping into the deep armchair on the other side of the fire. "Marx isa good servant if you watch him all the time. You must always stand overa Jew, though, if you want things done properly. They're tricky anduncertain unless they're working for their own interest. But Marx mightbe worse, I'll admit. He's been with me for nearly twenty years--cook, valet, housemaid, and butler all in one. In the old days, you know, hewas a clerk in our office in Chicago. "

Garvey rattled on and Shorthouse listened with occasional remarks thrownin. The former seemed pleased to have somebody to talk to and the soundof his own voice was evidently sweet music in his ears. After a fewminutes, he crossed over to the sideboard and again took up the decanterof whisky, holding it to the light. "You will join me this time, " hesaid pleasantly, pouring out two glasses, "it will give us an appetitefor dinner, " and this time Shorthouse did not refuse. The liquor wasmellow and soft and the men took two glasses apiece. 

"Excellent, " remarked the secretary. 

"Glad you appreciate it, " said the host, smacking his lips. "It's veryold whisky, and I rarely touch it when I'm alone. But this, " he added, "is a special occasion, isn't it?"

Shorthouse was in the act of putting his glass down when something drewhis eyes suddenly to the other's face. A strange note in the man's voicecaught his attention and communicated alarm to his nerves. A new lightshone in Garvey's eyes and there flitted momentarily across his strongfeatures the shadow of something that set the secretary's nervestingling. A mist spread before his eyes and the unaccountable beliefrose strong in him that he was staring into the visage of an untamedanimal. Close to his heart there was something that was wild, fierce, savage. An involuntary shiver ran over him and seemed to dispel thestrange fancy as suddenly as it had come. He met the other's eye with asmile, the counterpart of which in his heart was vivid horror. 

"It _is_ a special occasion, " he said, as naturally as possible, "and, allow me to add, very special whisky. "

Garvey appeared delighted. He was in the middle of a devious taledescribing how the whisky came originally into his possession when thedoor opened behind them and a grating voice announced that dinner wasready. They followed the cassocked form of Marx across the dirty hall, lit only by the shaft of light that followed them from the library door, and entered a small room where a single lamp stood upon a table laid fordinner. The walls were destitute of pictures, and the windows hadVenetian blinds without curtains. There was no fire in the grate, andwhen the men sat down facing each other Shorthouse noticed that, whilehis own cover was laid with its due proportion of glasses and cutlery, his companion had nothing before him but a soup plate, without fork, knife, or spoon beside it. 

"I don't know what there is to offer you, " he said; "but I'm sure Marxhas done the best he can at such short notice. I only eat one course fordinner, but pray take your time and enjoy your food. "

Marx presently set a plate of soup before the guest, yet so loathsomewas the immediate presence of this old Hebrew servitor, that thespoonfuls disappeared somewhat slowly. Garvey sat and watched him. 

Shorthouse said the soup was delicious and bravely swallowed anothermouthful. In reality his thoughts were centred upon his companion, whosemanners were giving evidence of a gradual and curious change. There wasa decided difference in his demeanour, a difference that the secretary_felt_ at first, rather than saw. Garvey's quiet self-possession wasgiving place to a degree of suppressed excitement that seemed so farinexplicable. His movements became quick and nervous, his eye shiftingand strangely brilliant, and his voice, when he spoke, betrayed anoccasional deep tremor. Something unwonted was stirring within him andevidently demanding every moment more vigorous manifestation as the mealproceeded. 

Intuitively Shorthouse was afraid of this growing excitement, and whilenegotiating some uncommonly tough pork chops he tried to lead theconversation on to the subject of chemistry, of which in his Oxford dayshe had been an enthusiastic student. His companion, however, would noneof it. It seemed to have lost interest for him, and he would barelycondescend to respond. When Marx presently returned with a plate ofsteaming eggs and bacon the subject dropped of its own accord. 

"An inadequate dinner dish, " Garvey said, as soon as the man was gone;"but better than nothing, I hope. "

Shorthouse remarked that he was exceedingly fond of bacon and eggs, and, looking up with the last word, saw that Garvey's face was twitchingconvulsively and that he was almost wriggling in his chair. He quieteddown, however, under the secretary's gaze and observed, though evidentlywith an effort--

"Very good of you to say so. Wish I could join you, only I never eatsuch stuff. I only take one course for dinner. "

Shorthouse began to feel some curiosity as to what the nature of thisone course might be, but he made no further remark and contented himselfwith noting mentally that his companion's excitement seemed to berapidly growing beyond his control. There was something uncanny aboutit, and he began to wish he had chosen the alternative of the walk tothe station. 

"I'm glad to see you never speak when Marx is in the room, " said Garveypresently. "I'm sure it's better not. Don't you think so?"

He appeared to wait eagerly for the answer. 

"Undoubtedly, " said the puzzled secretary. 

"Yes, " the other went on quickly. "He's an excellent man, but he hasone drawback--a really horrid one. You may--but, no, you could hardlyhave noticed it yet. "

"Not drink, I trust, " said Shorthouse, who would rather have discussedany other subject than the odious Jew. 

"Worse than that a great deal, " Garvey replied, evidently expecting theother to draw him out. But Shorthouse was in no mood to hear anythinghorrible, and he declined to step into the trap. 

"The best of servants have their faults, " he said coldly. 

"I'll tell you what it is if you like, " Garvey went on, still speakingvery low and leaning forward over the table so that his face came closeto the flame of the lamp, "only we must speak quietly in case he'slistening. I'll tell you what it is--if you think you won't befrightened. "

"Nothing frightens me, " he laughed. (Garvey must understand that at allevents. ) "Nothing can frighten me, " he repeated. 

"I'm glad of that; for it frightens _me_ a good deal sometimes. "

Shorthouse feigned indifference. Yet he was aware that his heart wasbeating a little quicker and that there was a sensation of chilliness inhis back. He waited in silence for what was to come. 

"He has a horrible predilection for vacuums, " Garvey went on presentlyin a still lower voice and thrusting his face farther forward under thelamp. 

"Vacuums!" exclaimed the secretary in spite of himself. "What in theworld do you mean?"

"What I say of course. He's always tumbling into them, so that I can'tfind him or get at him. He hides there for hours at a time, and for thelife of me I can't make out what he does there. "

Shorthouse stared his companion straight in the eyes. What in the nameof Heaven was he talking about?

"Do you suppose he goes there for a change of air, or--or to escape?" hewent on in a louder voice. 

Shorthouse could have laughed outright but for the expression of theother's face. 

"I should not think there was much air of any sort in a vacuum, " he saidquietly. 

"That's exactly what _I_ feel, " continued Garvey with ever growingexcitement. "That's the horrid part of it. How the devil does he livethere? You see--"

"Have you ever followed him there?" interrupted the secretary. Theother leaned back in his chair and drew a deep sigh. 

"Never! It's impossible. You see I can't follow him. There's not roomfor two. A vacuum only holds one comfortably. Marx knows that. He's outof my reach altogether once he's fairly inside. He knows the best sideof a bargain. He's a regular Jew. "

"That is a drawback to a servant, of course--" Shorthouse spoke slowly, with his eyes on his plate. 

"A drawback, " interrupted the other with an ugly chuckle, "I call it adraw-in, that's what I call it. "

"A draw-in does seem a more accurate term, " assented Shorthouse. "But, "he went on, "I thought that nature abhorred a vacuum. She used to, whenI was at school--though perhaps--it's so long ago--"

He hesitated and looked up. Something in Garvey's face--something he had_felt_ before he looked up--stopped his tongue and froze the words inhis throat. His lips refused to move and became suddenly dry. Again themist rose before his eyes and the appalling shadow dropped its veil overthe face before him. Garvey's features began to burn and glow. Then theyseemed to coarsen and somehow slip confusedly together. He stared for asecond--it seemed only for a second--into the visage of a ferocious andabominable animal; and then, as suddenly as it had come, the filthyshadow of the beast passed off, the mist melted out, and with a mightyeffort over his nerves he forced himself to finish his sentence. 

"You see it's so long since I've given attention to such things, " hestammered. His heart was beating rapidly, and a feeling of oppressionwas gathering over it. 

"It's my peculiar and special study on the other hand, " Garvey resumed. "I've not spent all these years in my laboratory to no purpose, I canassure you. Nature, I know for a fact, " he added with unnatural warmth, "does _not_ abhor a vacuum. On the contrary, she's uncommonly fond of'em, much too fond, it seems, for the comfort of my little household. Ifthere were fewer vacuums and more abhorrence we should get on better--adamned sight better in my opinion. "

"Your special knowledge, no doubt, enables you to speak with authority, "Shorthouse said, curiosity and alarm warring with other mixed feelingsin his mind; "but how _can_ a man tumble into a vacuum?"

"You may well ask. That's just it. How can he? It's preposterous and Ican't make it out at all. Marx knows, but he won't tell me. Jews knowmore than we do. For my part I have reason to believe--" He stopped andlistened. "Hush! here he comes, " he added, rubbing his hands together asif in glee and fidgeting in his chair. 

Steps were heard coming down the passage, and as they approached thedoor Garvey seemed to give himself completely over to an excitement hecould not control. His eyes were fixed on the door and he beganclutching the tablecloth with both hands. Again his face was screened bythe loathsome shadow. It grew wild, wolfish. As through a mask, thatconcealed, and yet was thin enough to let through a suggestion of, thebeast crouching behind, there leaped into his countenance the strangelook of the animal in the human--the expression of the were-wolf, themonster. The change in all its loathsomeness came rapidly over hisfeatures, which began to lose their outline. The nose flattened, dropping with broad nostrils over thick lips. The face rounded, filled, and became squat. The eyes, which, luckily for Shorthouse, no longersought his own, glowed with the light of untamed appetite and bestialgreed. The hands left the cloth and grasped the edges of the plate, andthen clutched the cloth again. 

"This is _my_ course coming now, " said Garvey, in a deep guttural voice. He was shivering. His upper lip was partly lifted and showed the teeth, white and gleaming. 

A moment later the door opened and Marx hurried into the room and set adish in front of his master. Garvey half rose to meet him, stretchingout his hands and grinning horribly. With his mouth he made a sound likethe snarl of an animal. The dish before him was steaming, but the slightvapour rising from it betrayed by its odour that it was not born of afire of coals. It was the natural heat of flesh warmed by the fires oflife only just expelled. The moment the dish rested on the table Garveypushed away his own plate and drew the other up close under his mouth. Then he seized the food in both hands and commenced to tear it with histeeth, grunting as he did so. Shorthouse closed his eyes, with a feelingof nausea. When he looked up again the lips and jaw of the man oppositewere stained with crimson. The whole man was transformed. A feastingtiger, starved and ravenous, but without a tiger's grace--this was whathe watched for several minutes, transfixed with horror and disgust. 

Marx had already taken his departure, knowing evidently what was notgood for the eyes to look upon, and Shorthouse knew at last that he wassitting face to face with a madman. 

The ghastly meal was finished in an incredibly short time and nothingwas left but a tiny pool of red liquid rapidly hardening. Garvey leanedback heavily in his chair and sighed. His smeared face, withdrawn nowfrom the glare of the lamp, began to resume its normal appearance. Presently he looked up at his guest and said in his natural voice--

"I hope you've had enough to eat. You wouldn't care for this, you know, "with a downward glance. 

Shorthouse met his eyes with an inward loathing, and it was impossiblenot to show some of the repugnance he felt. In the other's face, however, he thought he saw a subdued, cowed expression. But he foundnothing to say. 

"Marx will be in presently, " Garvey went on. "He's either listening, orin a vacuum. "

"Does he choose any particular time for his visits?" the secretarymanaged to ask. 

"He generally goes after dinner; just about this time, in fact. But he'snot gone yet, " he added, shrugging his shoulders, "for I think I hearhim coming. "

Shorthouse wondered whether vacuum was possibly synonymous with winecellar, but gave no expression to his thoughts. With chills of horrorstill running up and down his back, he saw Marx come in with a basin andtowel, while Garvey thrust up his face just as an animal puts up itsmuzzle to be rubbed. 

"Now we'll have coffee in the library, if you're ready, " he said, in thetone of a gentleman addressing his guests after a dinner party. 

Shorthouse picked up the bag, which had lain all this time between hisfeet, and walked through the door his host held open for him. Side byside they crossed the dark hall together, and, to his disgust, Garveylinked an arm in his, and with his face so close to the secretary's earthat he felt the warm breath, said in a thick voice--

"You're uncommonly careful with that bag, Mr. Shorthouse. It surely mustcontain something more than the bundle of papers. "

"Nothing but the papers, " he answered, feeling the hand burning upon hisarm and wishing he were miles away from the house and its abominableoccupants. 

"Quite sure?" asked the other with an odious and suggestive chuckle. "Isthere any meat in it, fresh meat--raw meat?"

The secretary felt, somehow, that at the least sign of fear the beast onhis arm would leap upon him and tear him with his teeth. 

"Nothing of the sort, " he answered vigorously. "It wouldn't hold enoughto feed a cat. "

"True, " said Garvey with a vile sigh, while the other felt the hand uponhis arm twitch up and down as if feeling the flesh. "True, it's toosmall to be of any real use. As you say, it wouldn't hold enough to feeda cat. "

Shorthouse was unable to suppress a cry. The muscles of his fingers, too, relaxed in spite of himself and he let the black bag drop with abang to the floor. Garvey instantly withdrew his arm and turned with aquick movement. But the secretary had regained his control as suddenlyas he had lost it, and he met the maniac's eyes with a steady andaggressive glare. 

"There, you see, it's quite light. It makes no appreciable noise when Idrop it. " He picked it up and let it fall again, as if he had dropped itfor the first time purposely. The ruse was successful. 

"Yes. You're right, " Garvey said, still standing in the doorway andstaring at him. "At any rate it wouldn't hold enough for two, " helaughed. And as he closed the door the horrid laughter echoed in theempty hall. 

They sat down by a blazing fire and Shorthouse was glad to feel itswarmth. Marx presently brought in coffee. A glass of the old whisky anda good cigar helped to restore equilibrium. For some minutes the men satin silence staring into the fire. Then, without looking up, Garvey saidin a quiet voice--

"I suppose it was a shock to you to see me eat raw meat like that. Imust apologise if it was unpleasant to you. But it's all I can eat andit's the only meal I take in the twenty-four hours. "

"Best nourishment in the world, no doubt; though I should think it mightbe a trifle strong for some stomachs. "

He tried to lead the conversation away from so unpleasant a subject, andwent on to talk rapidly of the values of different foods, ofvegetarianism and vegetarians, and of men who had gone for long periodswithout any food at all. Garvey listened apparently without interest andhad nothing to say. At the first pause he jumped in eagerly. 

"When the hunger is really great on me, " he said, still gazing into thefire, "I simply cannot control myself. I must have raw meat--the first Ican get--" Here he raised his shining eyes and Shorthouse felt his hairbeginning to rise. 

"It comes upon me so suddenly too. I never can tell when to expect it. Ayear ago the passion rose in me like a whirlwind and Marx was out and Icouldn't get meat. I had to get something or I should have bittenmyself. Just when it was getting unbearable my dog ran out from beneaththe sofa. It was a spaniel. "

Shorthouse responded with an effort. He hardly knew what he was sayingand his skin crawled as if a million ants were moving over it. 

There was a pause of several minutes. 

"I've bitten Marx all over, " Garvey went on presently in his strangequiet voice, and as if he were speaking of apples; "but he's bitter. Idoubt if the hunger could ever make me do it again. Probably that's whatfirst drove him to take shelter in a vacuum. " He chuckled hideously ashe thought of this solution of his attendant's disappearances. 

Shorthouse seized the poker and poked the fire as if his life dependedon it. But when the banging and clattering was over Garvey continued hisremarks with the same calmness. The next sentence, however, was neverfinished. The secretary had got upon his feet suddenly. 

"I shall ask your permission to retire, " he said in a determined voice;"I'm tired to-night; will you be good enough to show me to my room?"

Garvey looked up at him with a curious cringing expression behind whichthere shone the gleam of cunning passion. 

"Certainly, " he said, rising from his chair. "You've had a tiringjourney. I ought to have thought of that before. "

He took the candle from the table and lit it, and the fingers that heldthe match trembled. 

"We needn't trouble Marx, " he explained. "That beast's in his vacuum bythis time. "

III

They crossed the hall and began to ascend the carpetless wooden stairs. They were in the well of the house and the air cut like ice. Garvey, the flickering candle in his hand throwing his face into strong outline, led the way across the first landing and opened a door near the mouth ofa dark passage. A pleasant room greeted the visitor's eyes, and herapidly took in its points while his host walked over and lit twocandles that stood on a table at the foot of the bed. A fire burnedbrightly in the grate. There were two windows, opening like doors, inthe wall opposite, and a high canopied bed occupied most of the space onthe right. Panelling ran all round the room reaching nearly to theceiling and gave a warm and cosy appearance to the whole; while theportraits that stood in alternate panels suggested somehow theatmosphere of an old country house in England. Shorthouse was agreeablysurprised. 

"I hope you'll find everything you need, " Garvey was saying in thedoorway. "If not, you have only to ring that bell by the fireplace. Marxwon't hear it of course, but it rings in my laboratory, where I spendmost of the night. "

Then, with a brief good-night, he went out and shut the door after him. The instant he was gone Mr. Sidebotham's private secretary did apeculiar thing. He planted himself in the middle of the room with hisback to the door, and drawing the pistol swiftly from his hip pocketlevelled it across his left arm at the window. Standing motionless inthis position for thirty seconds he then suddenly swerved right roundand faced in the other direction, pointing his pistol straight at thekeyhole of the door. There followed immediately a sound of shufflingoutside and of steps retreating across the landing. 

"On his knees at the keyhole, " was the secretary's reflection. "Just asI thought. But he didn't expect to look down the barrel of a pistol andit made him jump a little. "

As soon as the steps had gone downstairs and died away across the hall, Shorthouse went over and locked the door, stuffing a piece of crumpledpaper into the second keyhole which he saw immediately above the first. After that, he made a thorough search of the room. It hardly repaid thetrouble, for he found nothing unusual. Yet he was glad he had made it. It relieved him to find no one was in hiding under the bed or in thedeep oak cupboard; and he hoped sincerely it was not the cupboard inwhich the unfortunate spaniel had come to its vile death. The Frenchwindows, he discovered, opened on to a little balcony. It looked on tothe front, and there was a drop of less than twenty feet to the groundbelow. The bed was high and wide, soft as feathers and covered withsnowy sheets--very inviting to a tired man; and beside the blazing firewere a couple of deep armchairs. 

Altogether it was very pleasant and comfortable; but, tired though hewas, Shorthouse had no intention of going to bed. It was impossible todisregard the warning of his nerves. They had never failed him before, and when that sense of distressing horror lodged in his bones he knewthere was something in the wind and that a red flag was flying over theimmediate future. Some delicate instrument in his being, more subtlethan the senses, more accurate than mere presentiment, had seen the redflag and interpreted its meaning. 

Again it seemed to him, as he sat in an armchair over the fire, that hismovements were being carefully watched from somewhere; and, not knowingwhat weapons might be used against him, he felt that his real safety layin a rigid control of his mind and feelings and a stout refusal to admitthat he was in the least alarmed. 

The house was very still. As the night wore on the wind dropped. Onlyoccasional bursts of sleet against the windows reminded him that theelements were awake and uneasy. Once or twice the windows rattled andthe rain hissed in the fire, but the roar of the wind in the chimneygrew less and less and the lonely building was at last lapped in a greatstillness. The coals clicked, settling themselves deeper in the grate, and the noise of the cinders dropping with a tiny report into the softheap of accumulated ashes was the only sound that punctuated thesilence. 

In proportion as the power of sleep grew upon him the dread of thesituation lessened; but so imperceptibly, so gradually, and soinsinuatingly that he scarcely realised the change. He thought he was aswide awake to his danger as ever. The successful exclusion of horriblemental pictures of what he had seen he attributed to his rigorouscontrol, instead of to their true cause, the creeping over him of thesoft influences of sleep. The faces in the coals were so soothing; thearmchair was so comfortable; so sweet the breath that gently pressedupon his eyelids; so subtle the growth of the sensation of safety. Hesettled down deeper into the chair and in another moment would have beenasleep when the red flag began to shake violently to and fro and he satbolt upright as if he had been stabbed in the back. 

Someone was coming up the stairs. The boards creaked beneath a stealthyweight. 

Shorthouse sprang from the chair and crossed the room swiftly, taking uphis position beside the door, but out of range of the keyhole. The twocandles flared unevenly on the table at the foot of the bed. The stepswere slow and cautious--it seemed thirty seconds between each one--butthe person who was taking them was very close to the door. Already hehad topped the stairs and was shuffling almost silently across the bitof landing. 

The secretary slipped his hand into his pistol pocket and drew backfurther against the wall, and hardly had he completed the movement whenthe sounds abruptly ceased and he knew that somebody was standing justoutside the door and preparing for a careful observation through thekeyhole. 

He was in no sense a coward. In action he was never afraid. It was thewaiting and wondering and the uncertainty that might have loosened hisnerves a little. But, somehow, a wave of intense horror swept over himfor a second as he thought of the bestial maniac and his attendant Jew;and he would rather have faced a pack of wolves than have to do witheither of these men. 

Something brushing gently against the door set his nerves tinglingafresh and made him tighten his grasp on the pistol. The steel was coldand slippery in his moist fingers. What an awful noise it would makewhen he pulled the trigger! If the door were to open how close he wouldbe to the figure that came in! Yet he knew it was locked on the insideand could not possibly open. Again something brushed against the panelbeside him and a second later the piece of crumpled paper fell from thekeyhole to the floor, while the piece of thin wire that had accomplishedthis result showed its point for a moment in the room and was thenswiftly withdrawn. 

Somebody was evidently peering now through the keyhole, and realisingthis fact the spirit of attack entered into the heart of the beleagueredman. Raising aloft his right hand he brought it suddenly down with aresounding crash upon the panel of the door next the keyhole--a crashthat, to the crouching eavesdropper, must have seemed like a clap ofthunder out of a clear sky. There was a gasp and a slight lurchingagainst the door and the midnight listener rose startled and alarmed, for Shorthouse plainly heard the tread of feet across the landing anddown the stairs till they were lost in the silences of the hall. Only, this time, it seemed to him there were four feet instead of two. 

Quickly stuffing the paper back into the keyhole, he was in the act ofwalking back to the fireplace when, over his shoulder, he caught sightof a white face pressed in outline against the outside of the window. Itwas blurred in the streams of sleet, but the white of the moving eyeswas unmistakable. He turned instantly to meet it, but the face waswithdrawn like a flash, and darkness rushed in to fill the gap where ithad appeared. 

"Watched on both sides, " he reflected. 

But he was not to be surprised into any sudden action, and quietlywalking over to the fireplace as if he had seen nothing unusual hestirred the coals a moment and then strolled leisurely over to thewindow. Steeling his nerves, which quivered a moment in spite of hiswill, he opened the window and stepped out on to the balcony. The wind, which he thought had dropped, rushed past him into the room andextinguished one of the candles, while a volley of fine cold rain burstall over his face. At first he could see nothing, and the darkness cameclose up to his eyes like a wall. He went a little farther on to thebalcony and drew the window after him till it clashed. Then he stood andwaited. 

But nothing touched him. No one seemed to be there. His eyes gotaccustomed to the blackness and he was able to make out the ironrailing, the dark shapes of the trees beyond, and the faint light comingfrom the other window. Through this he peered into the room, walking thelength of the balcony to do so. Of course he was standing in a shaft oflight and whoever was crouching in the darkness below could plainly seehim. _Below?_--That there should be anyone _above_ did not occur to himuntil, just as he was preparing to go in again, he became aware thatsomething was moving in the darkness over his head. He looked up, instinctively raising a protecting arm, and saw a long black lineswinging against the dim wall of the house. The shutters of the windowon the next floor, whence it depended, were thrown open and movingbackwards and forwards in the wind. The line was evidently a thickishcord, for as he looked it was pulled in and the end disappeared in thedarkness. 

Shorthouse, trying to whistle to himself, peered over the edge of thebalcony as if calculating the distance he might have to drop, and thencalmly walked into the room again and closed the window behind him, leaving the latch so that the lightest touch would cause it to fly open. He relit the candle and drew a straight-backed chair up to the table. Then he put coal on the fire and stirred it up into a royal blaze. Hewould willingly have folded the shutters over those staring windows athis back. But that was out of the question. It would have been to cutoff his way of escape. 

Sleep, for the time, was at a disadvantage. His brain was full of bloodand every nerve was tingling. He felt as if countless eyes were upon himand scores of stained hands were stretching out from the corners andcrannies of the house to seize him. Crouching figures, figures ofhideous Jews, stood everywhere about him where shelter was, creepingforward out of the shadows when he was not looking and retreatingswiftly and silently when he turned his head. Wherever he looked, othereyes met his own, and though they melted away under his steady, confident gaze, he knew they would wax and draw in upon him the instanthis glances weakened and his will wavered. 

Though there were no sounds, he knew that in the well of the house therewas movement going on, _and preparation_. And this knowledge, inasmuchas it came to him irresistibly and through other and more subtlechannels than those of the senses kept the sense of horror fresh in hisblood and made him alert and awake. 

But, no matter how great the dread in the heart, the power of sleep willeventually overcome it. Exhausted nature is irresistible, and as theminutes wore on and midnight passed, he realised that nature wasvigorously asserting herself and sleep was creeping upon him from theextremities. 

To lessen the danger he took out his pencil and began to draw thearticles of furniture in the room. He worked into elaborate detail thecupboard, the mantelpiece, and the bed, and from these he passed on tothe portraits. Being possessed of genuine skill, he found the occupationsufficiently absorbing. It kept the blood in his brain, and that kepthim awake. The pictures, moreover, now that he considered them for thefirst time, were exceedingly well painted. Owing to the dim light, hecentred his attention upon the portraits beside the fireplace. On theright was a woman, with a sweet, gentle face and a figure of greatrefinement; on the left was a full-size figure of a big handsome manwith a full beard and wearing a hunting costume of ancient date. 

From time to time he turned to the windows behind him, but the vision ofthe face was not repeated. More than once, too, he went to the door andlistened, but the silence was so profound in the house that he graduallycame to believe the plan of attack had been abandoned. Once he went outon to the balcony, but the sleet stung his face and he only had time tosee that the shutters above were closed, when he was obliged to seek theshelter of the room again. 

In this way the hours passed. The fire died down and the room grewchilly. Shorthouse had made several sketches of the two heads and wasbeginning to feel overpoweringly weary. His feet and his hands were coldand his yawns were prodigious. It seemed ages and ages since the stepshad come to listen at his door and the face had watched him from thewindow. A feeling of safety had somehow come to him. In reality he wasexhausted. His one desire was to drop upon the soft white bed and yieldhimself up to sleep without any further struggle. 

He rose from his chair with a series of yawns that refused to be stifledand looked at his watch. It was close upon three in the morning. He madeup his mind that he would lie down with his clothes on and get somesleep. It was safe enough, the door was locked on the inside and thewindow was fastened. Putting the bag on the table near his pillow heblew out the candles and dropped with a sense of careless and deliciousexhaustion upon the soft mattress. In five minutes he was sound asleep. 

There had scarcely been time for the dreams to come when he foundhimself lying side-ways across the bed with wide open eyes staring intothe darkness. Someone had touched him, and he had writhed away in hissleep as from something unholy. The movement had awakened him. 

The room was simply black. No light came from the windows and the firehad gone out as completely as if water had been poured upon it. He gazedinto a sheet of impenetrable darkness that came close up to his facelike a wall. 

His first thought was for the papers in his coat and his hand flew tothe pocket. They were safe; and the relief caused by this discovery lefthis mind instantly free for other reflections. 

And the realisation that at once came to him with a touch of dismay was, that during his sleep some definite _change_ had been effected in theroom. He felt this with that intuitive certainty which amounts topositive knowledge. The room was utterly still, but the corroborationthat was speedily brought to him seemed at once to fill the darknesswith a whispering, secret life that chilled his blood and made thesheet feel like ice against his cheek. 

Hark! This was it; there reached his ears, in which the blood wasalready buzzing with warning clamour, a dull murmur of something thatrose indistinctly from the well of the house and became audible to himwithout passing through walls or doors. There seemed no solid surfacebetween him, lying on the bed, and the landing; between the landing andthe stairs, and between the stairs and the hall beyond. 

He knew that the door of the room _was standing open_! Therefore it hadbeen opened from the _inside_. Yet the window was fastened, also on theinside. 

Hardly was this realised when the conspiring silence of the hour wasbroken by another and a more definite sound. A step was coming along thepassage. A certain bruise on the hip told Shorthouse that the pistol inhis pocket was ready for use and he drew it out quickly and cocked it. Then he just had time to slip over the edge of the bed and crouch downon the floor when the step halted on the threshold of the room. The bedwas thus between him and the open door. The window was at his back. 

He waited in the darkness. What struck him as peculiar about the stepswas that there seemed no particular desire to move stealthily. There wasno extreme caution. They moved along in rather a slipshod way andsounded like soft slippers or feet in stockings. There was somethingclumsy, irresponsible, almost reckless about the movement. 

For a second the steps paused upon the threshold, but only for a second. Almost immediately they came on into the room, and as they passed fromthe wood to the carpet Shorthouse noticed that they became whollynoiseless. He waited in suspense, not knowing whether the unseen walkerwas on the other side of the room or was close upon him. Presently hestood up and stretched out his left arm in front of him, groping, searching, feeling in a circle; and behind it he held the pistol, cockedand pointed, in his right hand. As he rose a bone cracked in his knee, his clothes rustled as if they were newspapers, and his breath seemedloud enough to be heard all over the room. But not a sound came tobetray the position of the invisible intruder. 

Then, just when the tension was becoming unbearable, a noise relievedthe gripping silence. It was wood knocking against wood, and it camefrom the farther end of the room. The steps had moved over to thefireplace. A sliding sound almost immediately followed it and thensilence closed again over everything like a pall. 

For another five minutes Shorthouse waited, and then the suspense becametoo much. He could not stand that open door! The candles were closebeside him and he struck a match and lit them, expecting in the suddenglare to receive at least a terrific blow. But nothing happened, and hesaw at once that the room was entirely empty. Walking over with thepistol cocked he peered out into the darkness of the landing and thenclosed the door and turned the key. Then he searched the room--bed, cupboard, table, curtains, everything that could have concealed a man;but found no trace of the intruder. The owner of the footsteps haddisappeared like a ghost into the shadows of the night. But for one facthe might have imagined that he had been dreaming: _the bag hadvanished_!

There was no more sleep for Shorthouse that night. His watch pointed to4 a. M. And there were still three hours before daylight. He sat down atthe table and continued his sketches. With fixed determination he wenton with his drawing and began a new outline of the man's head. There wassomething in the expression that continually evaded him. He had nosuccess with it, and this time it seemed to him that it was the eyesthat brought about his discomfiture. He held up his pencil before hisface to measure the distance between the nose and the eyes, and to hisamazement he saw that a change had come over the features. The eyes wereno longer open. _The lids had closed!_

For a second he stood in a sort of stupefied astonishment. A push wouldhave toppled him over. Then he sprang to his feet and held a candleclose up to the picture. The eye-lids quivered, the eye-lashes trembled. Then, right before his gaze, the eyes opened and looked straight intohis own. Two holes were cut in the panel and this pair of eyes, humaneyes, just fitted them. 

As by a curious effect of magic, the strong fear that had governed himever since his entry into the house disappeared in a second. Angerrushed into his heart and his chilled blood rose suddenly to boilingpoint. Putting the candle down, he took two steps back into the room andthen flung himself forward with all his strength against the paintedpanel. Instantly, and before the crash came, the eyes were withdrawn, and two black spaces showed where they had been. The old huntsman waseyeless. But the panel cracked and split inwards like a sheet of thincardboard; and Shorthouse, pistol in hand, thrust an arm through thejagged aperture and, seizing a human leg, dragged out into the room--theJew!

Words rushed in such a torrent to his lips that they choked him. The oldHebrew, white as chalk, stood shaking before him, the bright pistolbarrel opposite his eyes, when a volume of cold air rushed into theroom, and with it a sound of hurried steps. Shorthouse felt his armknocked up before he had time to turn, and the same second Garvey, whohad somehow managed to burst open the window came between him and thetrembling Marx. His lips were parted and his eyes rolled strangely inhis distorted face. 

"Don't shoot him! Shoot in the air!" he shrieked. He seized the Jew bythe shoulders. 

"You damned hound, " he roared, hissing in his face. "So I've got you atlast. That's where your vacuum is, is it? I know your vile hiding-placeat last. " He shook him like a dog. "I've been after him all night, " hecried, turning to Shorthouse, "all night, I tell you, and I've got himat last. "

Garvey lifted his upper lip as he spoke and showed his teeth. They shonelike the fangs of a wolf. The Jew evidently saw them too, for he gave ahorrid yell and struggled furiously. 

Before the eyes of the secretary a mist seemed to rise. The hideousshadow again leaped into Garvey's face. He foresaw a dreadful battle, and covering the two men with his pistol he retreated slowly to thedoor. Whether they were both mad, or both criminal, he did not pause toinquire. The only thought present in his mind was that the sooner hemade his escape the better. 

Garvey was still shaking the Jew when he reached the door and turned thekey, but as he passed out on to the landing both men stopped theirstruggling and turned to face him. Garvey's face, bestial, loathsome, livid with anger; the Jew's white and grey with fear and horror;--bothturned towards him and joined in a wild, horrible yell that woke theechoes of the night. The next second they were after him at full speed. 

Shorthouse slammed the door in their faces and was at the foot of thestairs, crouching in the shadow, before they were out upon the landing. They tore shrieking down the stairs and past him, into the hall; and, wholly unnoticed, Shorthouse whipped up the stairs again, crossed thebedroom and dropped from the balcony into the soft snow. 

As he ran down the drive he heard behind him in the house the yells ofthe maniacs; and when he reached home several hours later Mr. Sidebothamnot only raised his salary but also told him to buy a new hat andovercoat, and send in the bill to him. 

SKELETON LAKE: AN EPISODE IN CAMP

The utter loneliness of our moose-camp on Skeleton Lake had impressed usfrom the beginning--in the Quebec backwoods, five days by trail andcanoe from civilisation--and perhaps the singular name contributed alittle to the sensation of eeriness that made itself felt in the campcircle when once the sun was down and the late October mists beganrising from the lake and winding their way in among the tree trunks. 

For, in these regions, all names of lakes and hills and islands havetheir origin in some actual event, taking either the name of a chiefparticipant, such as Smith's Ridge, or claiming a place in the map byperpetuating some special feature of the journey or the scenery, such asLong Island, Deep Rapids, or Rainy Lake. 

All names thus have their meaning and are usually pretty recentlyacquired, while the majority are self-explanatory and suggest human andpioneer relations. Skeleton Lake, therefore, was a name full ofsuggestion, and though none of us knew the origin or the story of itsbirth, we all were conscious of a certain lugubrious atmosphere thathaunted its shores and islands, and but for the evidences of recentmoose tracks in its neighbourhood we should probably have pitched ourtents elsewhere. 

For several hundred miles in any direction we knew of only one otherparty of whites. They had journeyed up on the train with us, getting inat North Bay, and hailing from Boston way. A common goal and object hadserved by way of introduction. But the acquaintance had made littleprogress. This noisy, aggressive Yankee did not suit our fancy much as apossible neighbour, and it was only a slight intimacy between his chiefguide, Jake the Swede, and one of our men that kept the thing going atall. They went into camp on Beaver Creek, fifty miles and more to thewest of us. 

But that was six weeks ago, and seemed as many months, for days andnights pass slowly in these solitudes and the scale of time changeswonderfully. Our men always seemed to know by instinct pretty well "wharthem other fellows was movin', " but in the interval no one had comeacross their trails, or once so much as heard their rifle shots. 

Our little camp consisted of the professor, his wife, a splendid shotand keen woods-woman, and myself. We had a guide apiece, and hunteddaily in pairs from before sunrise till dark. 

It was our last evening in the woods, and the professor was lying in mylittle wedge tent, discussing the dangers of hunting alone in couples inthis way. The flap of the tent hung back and let in fragrant odours ofcooking over an open wood fire; everywhere there were bustle andpreparation, and one canoe already lay packed with moose horns, her nosepointing southwards. 

"If an accident happened to one of them, " he was saying, "the survivor'sstory when he returned to camp would be entirely unsupported evidence, wouldn't it? Because, you see--"

And he went on laying down the law after the manner of professors, untilI became so bored that my attention began to wander to pictures andmemories of the scenes we were just about to leave: Garden Lake, withits hundred islands; the rapids out of Round Pond; the countless vistasof forest, crimson and gold in the autumn sunshine; and the starlitnights we had spent watching in cold, cramped positions for the warymoose on lonely lakes among the hills. The hum of the professor's voicein time grew more soothing. A nod or a grunt was all the reply he lookedfor. Fortunately, he loathed interruptions. I think I could almost havegone to sleep under his very nose; perhaps I did sleep for a briefinterval. 

Then it all came about so quickly, and the tragedy of it was sounexpected and painful, throwing our peaceful camp into momentaryconfusion, that now it all seems to have happened with the uncannyswiftness of a dream. 

First, there was the abrupt ceasing of the droning voice, and then therunning of quick little steps over the pine needles, and the confusionof men's voices; and the next instant the professor's wife was at thetent door, hatless, her face white, her hunting bloomers bagging at thewrong places, a rifle in her hand, and her words running into oneanother anyhow. 

"Quick, Harry! It's Rushton. I was asleep and it woke me. Something'shappened. You must deal with it!"

In a second we were outside the tent with our rifles. 

"My God!" I heard the professor exclaim, as if he had first made thediscovery. "It _is_ Rushton!"

I saw the guides helping--dragging--a man out of a canoe. A brief spaceof deep silence followed in which I heard only the waves from the canoewashing up on the sand; and then, immediately after, came the voice ofa man talking with amazing rapidity and with odd gaps between his words. It was Rushton telling his story, and the tones of his voice, nowwhispering, now almost shouting, mixed with sobs and solemn oaths andfrequent appeals to the Deity, somehow or other struck the false note atthe very start, and before any of us guessed or knew anything at all. Something moved secretly between his words, a shadow veiling the stars, destroying the peace of our little camp, and touching us all personallywith an undefinable sense of horror and distrust. 

I can see that group to this day, with all the detail of a goodphotograph: standing half-way between the firelight and the darkness, aslight mist rising from the lake, the frosty stars, and our men, insilence that was all sympathy, dragging Rushton across the rocks towardsthe camp fire. Their moccasins crunched on the sand and slipped severaltimes on the stones beneath the weight of the limp, exhausted body, andI can still see every inch of the pared cedar branch he had used for apaddle on that lonely and dreadful journey. 

But what struck me most, as it struck us all, was the limp exhaustion ofhis body compared to the strength of his utterance and the tearing rushof his words. A vigorous driving-power was there at work, forcing outthe tale, red-hot and throbbing, full of discrepancies and the strangestcontradictions; and the nature of this driving-power I first began toappreciate when they had lifted him into the circle of firelight and Isaw his face, grey under the tan, terror in the eyes, tears too, hairand beard awry, and listened to the wild stream of words pouring forthwithout ceasing. 

I think we all understood then, but it was only after many years thatanyone dared to confess what he thought. 

There was Matt Morris, my guide; Silver Fizz, whose real name wasunknown, and who bore the title of his favourite drink; and huge HankMilligan--all ears and kind intention; and there was Rushton, pouringout his ready-made tale, with ever-shifting eyes, turning from face toface, seeking confirmation of details none had witnessed buthimself--and _one other_. 

Silver Fizz was the first to recover from the shock of the thing, and torealise, with the natural sense of chivalry common to most genuineback-woodsmen, that the man was at a terrible disadvantage. At any rate, he was the first to start putting the matter to rights. 

"Never mind telling it just now, " he said in a gruff voice, but withreal gentleness; "get a bite t'eat first and then let her goafterwards. Better have a horn of whisky too. It ain't all packed yet, Iguess. "

"Couldn't eat or drink a thing, " cried the other. "Good Lord, don't yousee, man, I want to _talk_ to someone first? I want to get it out of meto someone who can answer--answer. I've had nothing but trees to talkwith for three days, and I can't carry it alone any longer. Thosecursed, silent trees--I've told it 'em a thousand times. Now, just seehere, it was this way. When we started out from camp--"

He looked fearfully about him, and we realised it was useless to stophim. The story was bound to come, and come it did. 

Now, the story itself was nothing out of the way; such tales are told bythe dozen round any camp fire where men who have knocked about in thewoods are in the circle. It was the way he told it that made our fleshcreep. He was near the truth all along, but he was skimming it, and theskimming took off the cream that might have saved his soul. 

Of course, he smothered it in words--odd words, too--melodramatic, poetic, out-of-the-way words that lie just on the edge of frenzy. Ofcourse, too, he kept asking us each in turn, scanning our faces withthose restless, frightened eyes of his, "What would _you_ have done?""What else could I do?" and "Was that _my_ fault?" But that was nothing, for he was no milk-and-water fellow who dealt in hints and suggestions;he told his story boldly, forcing his conclusions upon us as if we hadbeen so many wax cylinders of a phonograph that would repeat accuratelywhat had been told us, and these questions I have mentioned he used toemphasise any special point that he seemed to think required suchemphasis. 

The fact was, however, the picture of what had actually happened was sovivid still in his own mind that it reached ours by a process oftelepathy which he could not control or prevent. All through histrue-false words this picture stood forth in fearful detail against theshadows behind him. He could not veil, much less obliterate, it. Weknew; and, I always thought, _he knew that we knew_. 

The story itself, as I have said, was sufficiently ordinary. Jake andhimself, in a nine-foot canoe, had upset in the middle of a lake, andhad held hands across the upturned craft for several hours, eventuallycutting holes in her ribs to stick their arms through and grasp handslest the numbness of the cold water should overcome them. They weremiles from shore, and the wind was drifting them down upon a littleisland. But when they got within a few hundred yards of the island, they realised to their horror that they would after all drift past it. 

It was then the quarrel began. Jake was for leaving the canoe andswimming. Rushton believed in waiting till they actually had passed theisland and were sheltered from the wind. Then they could make the islandeasily by swimming, canoe and all. But Jake refused to give in, andafter a short struggle--Rushton admitted there was a struggle--got freefrom the canoe--and disappeared _without a single cry_. 

Rushton held on and proved the correctness of his theory, and finallymade the island, canoe and all, after being in the water over fivehours. He described to us how he crawled up on to the shore, and faintedat once, with his feet lying half in the water; how lost and terrifiedhe felt upon regaining consciousness in the dark; how the canoe haddrifted away and his extraordinary luck in finding it caught again atthe end of the island by a projecting cedar branch. He told us that thelittle axe--another bit of real luck--had caught in the thwart when thecanoe turned over, and how the little bottle in his pocket holding theemergency matches was whole and dry. He made a blazing fire and searchedthe island from end to end, calling upon Jake in the darkness, butgetting no answer; till, finally, so many half-drowned men seemed tocome crawling out of the water on to the rocks, and vanish among theshadows when he came up with them, that he lost his nerve completely andreturned to lie down by the fire till the daylight came. 

He then cut a bough to replace the lost paddles, and after one moreuseless search for his lost companion, he got into the canoe, fearingevery moment he would upset again, and crossed over to the mainland. Heknew roughly the position of our camping place, and after paddling dayand night, and making many weary portages, without food or covering, hereached us two days later. 

This, more or less, was the story, and we, knowing whereof he spoke, knew that every word was literally true, and at the same time went tothe building up of a hideous and prodigious lie. 

Once the recital was over, he collapsed, and Silver Fizz, after ageneral expression of sympathy from the rest of us, came again to therescue. 

"But now, Mister, you jest _got_ to eat and drink whether you've a mindto, or no. "

And Matt Morris, cook that night, soon had the fried trout and bacon, and the wheat cakes and hot coffee passing round a rather silent andoppressed circle. So we ate round the fire, ravenously, as we had eatenevery night for the past six weeks, but with this difference: thatthere was one among us who was more than ravenous--and he gorged. 

In spite of all our devices he somehow kept himself the centre ofobservation. When his tin mug was empty, Morris instantly passed thetea-pail; when he began to mop up the bacon grease with the dough on hisfork, Hank reached out for the frying pan; and the can of steamingboiled potatoes was always by his side. And there was another differenceas well: he was sick, terribly sick before the meal was over, and thissudden nausea after food was more eloquent than words of what the manhad passed through on his dreadful, foodless, ghost-haunted journey offorty miles to our camp. In the darkness he thought he would go crazy, he said. There were voices in the trees, and figures were always liftingthemselves out of the water, or from behind boulders, to look at him andmake awful signs. Jake constantly peered at him through the underbrush, and everywhere the shadows were moving, with eyes, footsteps, andfollowing shapes. 

We tried hard to talk of other things, but it was no use, for he wasbursting with the rehearsal of his story and refused to allow himselfthe chances we were so willing and anxious to grant him. After a goodnight's rest he might have had more self-control and better judgment, and would probably have acted differently. But, as it was, we found itimpossible to help him. 

Once the pipes were lit, and the dishes cleared away, it was useless topretend any longer. The sparks from the burning logs zigzagged upwardsinto a sky brilliant with stars. It was all wonderfully still andpeaceful, and the forest odours floated to us on the sharp autumn air. The cedar fire smelt sweet and we could just hear the gentle wash oftiny waves along the shore. All was calm, beautiful, and remote from theworld of men and passion. It was, indeed, a night to touch the soul, andyet, I think, none of us heeded these things. A bull-moose might almosthave thrust his great head over our shoulders and have escapedunnoticed. The death of Jake the Swede, with its sinister setting, wasthe real presence that held the centre of the stage and compelledattention. 

"You won't p'raps care to come along, Mister, " said Morris, by way of abeginning; "but I guess I'll go with one of the boys here and have ahunt for it. "

"Sure, " said Hank. "Jake an' I done some biggish trips together in theold days, and I'll do that much for'm. "

"It's deep water, they tell me, round them islands, " added Silver Fizz;"but we'll find it, sure pop, --if it's thar. "

They all spoke of the body as "it. "

There was a minute or two of heavy silence, and then Rushton again burstout with his story in almost the identical words he had used before. Itwas almost as if he had learned it by heart. He wholly failed toappreciate the efforts of the others to let him off. 

Silver Fizz rushed in, hoping to stop him, Morris and Hank closelyfollowing his lead. 

"I once knew another travellin' partner of his, " he began quickly; "usedto live down Moosejaw Rapids way--"

"Is that so?" said Hank. 

"Kind o' useful sort er feller, " chimed in Morris. 

All the idea the men had was to stop the tongue wagging before thediscrepancies became so glaring that we should be forced to take noticeof them, and ask questions. But, just as well try to stop an angrybull-moose on the run, or prevent Beaver Creek freezing in mid-winter bythrowing in pebbles near the shore. Out it came! And, though thediscrepancy this time was insignificant, it somehow brought us all in asecond face to face with the inevitable and dreaded climax. 

"And so I tramped all over that little bit of an island, hoping hemight somehow have gotten in without my knowing it, and always thinkingI _heard that awful last cry of his_ in the darkness--and then the nightdropped down impenetrably, like a damn thick blanket out of the sky, and--"

All eyes fell away from his face. Hank poked up the logs with his boot, and Morris seized an ember in his bare fingers to light his pipe, although it was already emitting clouds of smoke. But the professorcaught the ball flying. 

"I thought you said he sank without a cry, " he remarked quietly, lookingstraight up into the frightened face opposite, and then riddlingmercilessly the confused explanation that followed. 

The cumulative effect of all these forces, hitherto so rigorouslyrepressed, now made itself felt, and the circle spontaneously broke up, everybody moving at once by a common instinct. The professor's wife leftthe party abruptly, with excuses about an early start next morning. Shefirst shook hands with Rushton, mumbling something about his comfort inthe night. 

The question of his comfort, however, devolved by force of circumstancesupon myself, and he shared my tent. Just before wrapping up in my doubleblankets--for the night was bitterly cold--he turned and began toexplain that he had a habit of talking in his sleep and hoped I wouldwake him if he disturbed me by doing so. 

Well, he did talk in his sleep--and it disturbed me very much indeed. The anger and violence of his words remain with me to this day, and itwas clear in a minute that he was living over again some portion of thescene upon the lake. I listened, horror-struck, for a moment or two, andthen understood that I was face to face with one of two alternatives: Imust continue an unwilling eavesdropper, or I must waken him. The formerwas impossible for me, yet I shrank from the latter with the greatestrepugnance; and in my dilemma I saw the only way out of the difficultyand at once accepted it. 

Cold though it was, I crawled stealthily out of my warm sleeping-bag andleft the tent, intending to keep the old fire alight under the stars andspend the remaining hours till daylight in the open. 

As soon as I was out I noticed at once another figure moving silentlyalong the shore. It was Hank Milligan, and it was plain enough what hewas doing: he was examining the holes that had been cut in the upperribs of the canoe. He looked half ashamed when I came up with him, andmumbled something about not being able to sleep for the cold. But, there, standing together beside the over-turned canoe, we both saw thatthe holes were far too small for a man's hand and arm and could notpossibly have been cut by two men hanging on for their lives in deepwater. Those holes had been made afterwards. 

Hank said nothing to me and I said nothing to Hank, and presently hemoved off to collect logs for the fire, which needed replenishing, forit was a piercingly cold night and there were many degrees of frost. 

Three days later Hank and Silver Fizz followed with stumbling footstepsthe old Indian trail that leads from Beaver Creek to the southwards. Ahammock was slung between them, and it weighed heavily. Yet neither ofthe men complained; and, indeed, speech between them was almost nothing. Their thoughts, however, were exceedingly busy, and the terrible secretof the woods which formed their burden weighed far more heavily than theuncouth, shifting mass that lay in the swinging hammock and tugged soseverely at their shoulders. 

They had found "it" in four feet of water not more than a couple ofyards from the lee shore of the island. And in the back of the head wasa long, terrible wound which no man could possibly have inflicted uponhimself. 

_Printed by MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, Edinburgh. _

John Silence

by Algernon Blackwood

"Not since the days of Poe have we read anything in his peculiar genrefit to be compared with this remarkable book. . . . He brings to his workan extraordinary knowledge of strange and unusual forms ofspiritualistic phenomena, and steeps his pages in an atmosphere of realterror and expectancy. "--_Observer_. 

"When one says that Mr. Blackwood's work approaches genius, the phraseis used in no light connection. This very remarkable book is aconsiderable and lasting addition to the literature of ourtime. "--_Morning Post_. 

"These are the most haunting and original ghost stories since 'UncleSilas' appeared. "--_Morning Leader_. 

"In the field which he has chosen, Mr. Blackwood stands without rivalamong contemporary writers. "--_Manchester Guardian_. 

"As original, as powerful, and as artistically written as that littlemasterpiece of Lytton's, 'The Haunters and the Haunted. ' He bearsfavourable comparison with Le Fanu. . . . A volume which has anextraordinary power of fascination. "--_Birmingham Daily Post_. 

"The story is absolutely arresting in its imaginative power. "--_DailyTelegraph_. 

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The Lost Valley

by Algernon Blackwood

"In one of the stories, 'The Wendigs, ' the author gives us, perhaps, oneof the most successful excursions into the grimly weird; quietly butsurely he makes his reader come under the influence of the eerie, untilthe pages are half-reluctantly turned under the spell of a fearfulfascination. Mr. Blackwood writes like a real artist. "--_DailyTelegraph_. 

"The book of a remarkably gifted writer. "--_Daily News_. 

"The stories are unforgettable. Through them all, too, runs the charm ofan accomplished style. . . . Mr. Blackwood has indeed done well. "--_PallMall Gazette_. 

"Whether concerned with beauty or terror, fact or fancy, there is anindividuality in Mr. Blackwood's work which cannot be ignored, and thereis also power which proceeds, we think, not so much from the fertilityof a comprehensive imagination, but from the amazing conviction of theauthor's power of expression, and a literary quality rarely met with incontemporary stories of mystery and imagination. "--_Globe_. 

"In his method of touching the well-springs of fear, of pity, and ofhorror, Mr. Blackwood often exhibits powers which can only properly becalled masterly. In its way his work bids fair to become classical . . . An art superior to that of Bulwer-Lytton, at least as fine as Le Fanu's, and hardly, if at all, inferior to that exhibited by the supreme livingmasters of the short story, Mr. Kipling and Mr. James. "--_BirminghamDaily Post_. 

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The Listener

by Algernon Blackwood

"These stories are literature . . . Good stories, well imagined, carefullymodelled, properly proportioned. . . . 'The Insanity of Jones' is perhapsthe most remarkable _tour de force_ in this remarkable book. . . . If Mr. Blackwood keeps at his present level one or two very celebrated authorswill have to look to their laurels. "--_Daily Chronicle_. 

"Even Edgar Allan Poe never suggested more skilfully an atmosphere ofhorror than does Mr. Blackwood in his titular story, or again in hisdescription of 'The Willows. '"--F. G. BETTANY in the _Sunday Times_. 

"Saying that Mr. Blackwood's latest stories reveal strong dramaticinstinct is a dull way of expressing the series of thrills which theirperusal causes. Without doubt Mr. Blackwood is designed to fill a highplace as an author who is able to arouse the attention of his reader onthe first page, and to hold it until the last has been turned. . . . A distinctive genius. "--_Pall Mall Gazette_. 

"Full of imagination, and well told. "--_Daily News_. 

"Mr. Blackwood is clearly a master of the art of the genuine sensationstory. "--_Liverpool Courier_. 

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