The Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James (2024)



NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD & CO.1931

COLLECTED EDITION FIRST PUBLISHED, 1931
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
BUTLER & TANNER LTD., FROME AND LONDON

PREFACE

In accordance with a fashion which has recently become common, I amissuing my four volumes of ghost stories under one cover, and appendingto them some matter of the same kind.

I am told they have given pleasure of a certain sort to my readers: ifso, my whole object in writing them has been attained, and there doesnot seem to be much reason for prefacing them by a disquisition upon howI came to write them. Still, a preface is demanded by my publishers, andit may as well be devoted to answering questions which I have beenasked.

First, whether the stories are based on my own experience? To this theanswer is No: except in one case, specified in the text, where a dreamfurnished a suggestion. Or again, whether they are versions of otherpeople's experiences? No. Or suggested by books? This is more difficultto answer concisely. Other people have written of dreadful spiders—forinstance, Erckmann-Chatrian in an admirable story called L'AraignéeCrabe—and of pictures which came alive: the State Trials give thelanguage of Judge Jeffreys and the courts at the end of the seventeenthcentury: and so on. Places have been more prolific in suggestion: ifanyone is curious about my local settings, let it be recorded that S.Bertrand de Comminges and Viborg are real places: that in Oh, Whistle,and I'll come to you, I had Felixstowe in mind; in A School Story,Temple Grove, East Sheen; in The Tractate Middoth, CambridgeUniversity Library; in Martin's Close, Sampford Courtenay in Devon:that the cathedrals of Barchester and Southminster were blends ofCanterbury, Salisbury, and Hereford: that Herefordshire was the imaginedscene of A View from a Hill, and Seaburgh in A Warning to theCurious is Aldeburgh in Suffolk.

I am not conscious of other obligations to literature or local legend,written or oral, except in so far as I have tried to make my ghosts actin ways not inconsistent with the rules of folklore. As for thefragments of ostensible erudition which are scattered about my pages,hardly anything in them is not pure invention; there never was,naturally, any such book as that which I quote in the Treasure of AbbotThomas.

Other questioners ask if I have any theories as to the writing of ghoststories. None that are worthy of the name or need to be repeated here:some thoughts on the subject are in a preface to Ghosts and Marvels.[The World's Classics, Oxford, 1924.] There is no receipt for successin this form of fiction more than in any other. The public, as Dr.Johnson said, are the ultimate judges: if they are pleased, it is well;if not, it is no use to tell them why they ought to have been pleased.

Supplementary questions are: Do I believe in ghosts? To which I answerthat I am prepared to consider evidence and accept it if it satisfiesme. And lastly, Am I going to write any more ghost stories? To which Ifear I must answer, Probably not.

Since we are nothing if not bibliographical nowadays, I add a paragraphor two setting forth the facts about the several collections and theircontents.

"Ghost Stories of an Antiquary" was published (like the rest) by Messrs.Arnold in 1904. The first issue had four illustrations by the late JamesMcBryde. In this volume Canon Alberic's Scrap-book was written in 1894and printed soon after in the National Review: Lost Hearts appeared inthe Pall Mall Magazine. Of the next five stories, most of which wereread to friends at Christmas-time at King's College, Cambridge, I onlyrecollect that I wrote Number 13 in 1899, while The Treasure of AbbotThomas was composed in summer 1904.

The second volume, "More Ghost Stories," appeared in 1911. The first sixof the seven tales it contains were Christmas productions, the veryfirst (A School Story) having been made up for the benefit of theKing's College Choir School. The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral wasprinted in the Contemporary Review: Mr. Humphreys and his Inheritancewas written to fill up the volume.

"A Thin Ghost and Others" was the third collection, containing fivestories and published in 1919. In it, An Episode of Cathedral Historyand The Story of a Disappearance and an Appearance were contributed tothe Cambridge Review.

Of six stories in "A Warning to the Curious," published in 1925, thefirst, The Haunted Dolls' House, was written for the library of HerMajesty the Queen's Dolls' House, and subsequently appeared in theEmpire Review. The Uncommon Prayer-book saw the light in theAtlantic Monthly, the title-story in the London Mercury, andanother, I think A Neighbour's Landmark, in an ephemeral called TheEton Chronic. Similar ephemerals were responsible for all but one ofthe appended pieces (not all of them strictly stories), whereof one,Rats, composed for At Random, was included by Lady Cynthia Asquithin a collection entitled Shudders. The exception, Wailing Well, waswritten for the Eton College troop of Boy Scouts, and read at theircamp-fire at Worbarrow Bay in August, 1927. It was then printed byitself in a limited edition by Robert Gathorne Hardy and Kyrle Leng atthe Mill House Press, Stanford Dingley.

Four or five of the stories have appeared in collections of such thingsin recent years, and a Norse version of four from my first volume, byRagnhild Undset, was issued in 1919 under the title of Aander ogTrolddom.

M. R. JAMES.

CONTENTS

CANON ALBERIC'S SCRAP-BOOK

St. Bertrand de Comminges is a decayed town on the spurs of thePyrenees, not very far from Toulouse, and still nearer toBagnères-de-Luchon. It was the site of a bishopric until theRevolution, and has a cathedral which is visited by a certain numberof tourists. In the spring of 1883 an Englishman arrived at thisold-world place—I can hardly dignify it with the name of city, forthere are not a thousand inhabitants. He was a Cambridge man, who hadcome specially from Toulouse to see St. Bertrand's Church, and hadleft two friends, who were less keen archæologists than himself, intheir hotel at Toulouse, under promise to join him on the followingmorning. Half an hour at the church would satisfy them, and allthree could then pursue their journey in the direction of Auch. Butour Englishman had come early on the day in question, and proposed tohimself to fill a notebook and to use several dozens of plates in theprocess of describing and photographing every corner of the wonderfulchurch that dominates the little hill of Comminges. In order to carryout this design satisfactorily, it was necessary to monopolize theverger of the church for the day. The verger or sacristan (I preferthe latter appellation, inaccurate as it may be) was accordingly sentfor by the somewhat brusque lady who keeps the inn of the ChapeauRouge; and when he came, the Englishman found him an unexpectedlyinteresting object of study. It was not in the personal appearance ofthe little, dry, wizened old man that the interest lay, for he wasprecisely like dozens of other church-guardians in France, but in acurious furtive, or rather hunted and oppressed, air which he had. Hewas perpetually half glancing behind him; the muscles of his back andshoulders seemed to be hunched in a continual nervous contraction, asif he were expecting every moment to find himself in the clutch of anenemy. The Englishman hardly knew whether to put him down as a manhaunted by a fixed delusion, or as one oppressed by a guiltyconscience, or as an unbearably henpecked husband. The probabilities,when reckoned up, certainly pointed to the last idea; but, still, theimpression conveyed was that of a more formidable persecutor even thana termagant wife.

However, the Englishman (let us call him Dennistoun) was soon too deepin his notebook and too busy with his camera to give more than anoccasional glance to the sacristan. Whenever he did look at him, hefound him at no great distance, either huddling himself back againstthe wall or crouching in one of the gorgeous stalls. Dennistounbecame rather fidgety after a time. Mingled suspicions that he waskeeping the old man from his déjeuner, that he was regarded aslikely to make away with St. Bertrand's ivory crozier, or with thedusty stuffed crocodile that hangs over the font, began to tormenthim.

"Won't you go home?" he said at last; "I'm quite well able to finishmy notes alone; you can lock me in if you like. I shall want at leasttwo hours more here, and it must be cold for you, isn't it?"

"Good heavens!" said the little man, whom the suggestion seemed tothrow into a state of unaccountable terror, "such a thing cannot bethought of for a moment. Leave monsieur alone in the church? No, no;two hours, three hours, all will be the same to me. I havebreakfasted, I am not at all cold, with many thanks to monsieur."

"Very well, my little man," quoth Dennistoun to himself: "you havebeen warned, and you must take the consequences."

Before the expiration of the two hours, the stalls, the enormousdilapidated organ, the choir-screen of Bishop John de Mauléon, theremnants of glass and tapestry, and the objects in thetreasure-chamber, had been well and truly examined; the sacristanstill keeping at Dennistoun's heels, and every now and then whippinground as if he had been stung, when one or other of the strange noisesthat trouble a large empty building fell on his ear. Curious noisesthey were sometimes.

"Once," Dennistoun said to me, "I could have sworn I heard a thinmetallic voice laughing high up in the tower. I darted an inquiringglance at my sacristan. He was white to the lips. 'It is he—thatis—it is no one; the door is locked,' was all he said, and we lookedat each other for a full minute."

Another little incident puzzled Dennistoun a good deal. He wasexamining a large dark picture that hangs behind the altar, one of aseries illustrating the miracles of St. Bertrand. The composition ofthe picture is wellnigh indecipherable, but there is a Latin legendbelow, which runs thus:

"Qualiter S. Bertrandus liberavit hominem quem diabolusdiu volebat strangulare." (How St. Bertrand delivered aman whom the Devil long sought to strangle.)

Dennistoun was turning to the sacristan with a smile and a jocularremark of some sort on his lips, but he was confounded to see the oldman on his knees, gazing at the picture with the eye of a suppliant inagony, his hands tightly clasped, and a rain of tears on his cheeks.Dennistoun naturally pretended to have noticed nothing, but thequestion would not go away from him, "Why should a daub of this kindaffect anyone so strongly?" He seemed to himself to be getting somesort of clue to the reason of the strange look that had been puzzlinghim all the day: the man must be a monomaniac; but what was hismonomania?

It was nearly five o'clock; the short day was drawing in, and thechurch began to fill with shadows, while the curious noises—themuffled footfalls and distant talking voices that had been perceptibleall day—seemed, no doubt because of the fading light and theconsequently quickened sense of hearing, to become more frequent andinsistent.

The sacristan began for the first time to show signs of hurry andimpatience. He heaved a sigh of relief when camera and notebook werefinally packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly beckoned Dennistounto the western door of the church, under the tower. It was time toring the Angelus. A few pulls at the reluctant rope, and the greatbell Bertrande, high in the tower, began to speak, and swung her voiceup among the pines and down to the valleys, loud withmountain-streams, calling the dwellers on those lonely hills toremember and repeat the salutation of the angel to her whom he calledBlessed among women. With that a profound quiet seemed to fall for thefirst time that day upon the little town, and Dennistoun and thesacristan went out of the church.

On the doorstep they fell into conversation.

"Monsieur seemed to interest himself in the old choir-books in thesacristy."

"Undoubtedly. I was going to ask you if there were a library in thetown."

"No, monsieur; perhaps there used to be one belonging to the Chapter,but it is now such a small place——" Here came a strange pause ofirresolution, as it seemed; then, with a sort of plunge, he went on:"But if monsieur is amateur des vieux livres, I have at homesomething that might interest him. It is not a hundred yards."

At once all Dennistoun's cherished dreams of finding pricelessmanuscripts in untrodden corners of France flashed up, to die downagain the next moment. It was probably a stupid missal of Plantin'sprinting, about 1580. Where was the likelihood that a place so nearToulouse would not have been ransacked long ago by collectors?However, it would be foolish not to go; he would reproach himself forever after if he refused. So they set off. On the way the curiousirresolution and sudden determination of the sacristan recurred toDennistoun, and he wondered in a shamefaced way whether he was beingdecoyed into some purlieu to be made away with as a supposed richEnglishman. He contrived, therefore, to begin talking with his guide,and to drag in, in a rather clumsy fashion, the fact that he expectedtwo friends to join him early the next morning. To his surprise, theannouncement seemed to relieve the sacristan at once of some of theanxiety that oppressed him.

"That is well," he said quite brightly—"that is very well. Monsieurwill travel in company with his friends; they will be always near him.It is a good thing to travel thus in company—sometimes."

The last word appeared to be added as an afterthought, and to bringwith it a relapse into gloom for the poor little man.

They were soon at the house, which was one rather larger than itsneighbours, stone-built, with a shield carved over the door, theshield of Alberic de Mauléon, a collateral descendant, Dennistountells me, of Bishop John de Mauléon. This Alberic was a Canon ofComminges from 1680 to 1701. The upper windows of the mansion wereboarded up, and the whole place bore, as does the rest of Comminges,the aspect of decaying age.

Arrived on his doorstep, the sacristan paused a moment.

"Perhaps," he said, "perhaps, after all, monsieur has not the time?"

"Not at all—lots of time—nothing to do till to-morrow. Let us seewhat it is you have got."

The door was opened at this point, and a face looked out, a face faryounger than the sacristan's, but bearing something of the samedistressing look: only here it seemed to be the mark, not so much offear for personal safety as of acute anxiety on behalf of another.Plainly, the owner of the face was the sacristan's daughter; and, butfor the expression I have described, she was a handsome girl enough.She brightened up considerably on seeing her father accompanied by anable-bodied stranger. A few remarks passed between father anddaughter, of which Dennistoun only caught these words, said by thesacristan, "He was laughing in the church," words which were answeredonly by a look of terror from the girl.

But in another minute they were in the sitting-room of the house, asmall, high chamber with a stone floor, full of moving shadows castby a wood-fire that flickered on a great hearth. Something of thecharacter of an oratory was imparted to it by a tall crucifix, whichreached almost to the ceiling on one side; the figure was painted ofthe natural colours, the cross was black. Under this stood a chest ofsome age and solidity, and when a lamp had been brought, and chairsset, the sacristan went to this chest, and produced therefrom, withgrowing excitement and nervousness, as Dennistoun thought, a largebook, wrapped in a white cloth, on which cloth a cross was rudelyembroidered in red thread. Even before the wrapping had been removed,Dennistoun began to be interested by the size and shape of the volume."Too large for a missal," he thought, "and not the shape of anantiphoner; perhaps it may be something good, after all." The nextmoment the book was open, and Dennistoun felt that he had at last litupon something better than good. Before him lay a large folio, bound,perhaps, late in the seventeenth century, with the arms of CanonAlberic de Mauléon stamped in gold on the sides. There may have been ahundred and fifty leaves of paper in the book, and on almost every oneof them was fastened a leaf from an illuminated manuscript. Such acollection Dennistoun had hardly dreamed of in his wildest moments.Here were ten leaves from a copy of Genesis, illustrated withpictures, which could not be later than A.D. 700. Further on was acomplete set of pictures from a Psalter, of English execution, of thevery finest kind that the thirteenth century could produce; and,perhaps best of all, there were twenty leaves of uncial writing inLatin, which, as a few words seen here and there told him at once,must belong to some very early unknown patristic treatise. Could itpossibly be a fragment of the copy of Papias "On the Words of OurLord," which was known to have existed as late as the twelfth centuryat Nîmes?[1] In any case, his mind was made up; that book must returnto Cambridge with him, even if he had to draw the whole of his balancefrom the bank and stay at St. Bertrand till the money came. He glancedup at the sacristan to see if his face yielded any hint that the bookwas for sale. The sacristan was pale, and his lips were working.

"If monsieur will turn on to the end," he said.

So monsieur turned on, meeting new treasures at every rise of a leaf;and at the end of the book he came upon two sheets of paper, of muchmore recent date than anything he had yet seen, which puzzled himconsiderably. They must be contemporary, he decided, with theunprincipled Canon Alberic, who had doubtless plundered the Chapterlibrary of St. Bertrand to form this priceless scrap-book. On thefirst of the paper sheets was a plan, carefully drawn and instantlyrecognizable by a person who knew the ground, of the south aisle andcloisters of St. Bertrand's. There were curious signs looking likeplanetary symbols, and a few Hebrew words, in the corners; and in thenorth-west angle of the cloister was a cross drawn in gold paint. Belowthe plan were some lines of writing in Latin, which ran thus:

"Responsa 12^mi Dec. 1694. Interrogatum est:Inveniamne? Responsum est: Invenies. Fiamne dives?Fies. Vivamne invidendus? Vives. Moriarne in lecto meo?Ita." (Answers of the 12th of December, 1694. It wasasked: Shall I find it? Answer: Thou shalt. Shall Ibecome rich? Thou wilt. Shall I live an object of envy?Thou wilt. Shall I die in my bed? Thou wilt.)]

"A good specimen of the treasure-hunter's record—quite reminds one ofMr. Minor-Canon Quatremain in 'Old St. Paul's,'" was Dennistoun'scomment, and he turned the leaf.

What he then saw impressed him, as he has often told me, more than hecould have conceived any drawing or picture capable of impressing him.And, though the drawing he saw is no longer in existence, there is aphotograph of it (which I possess) which fully bears out thatstatement. The picture in question was a sepia drawing at the end ofthe seventeenth century, representing, one would say at first sight, aBiblical scene; for the architecture (the picture represented aninterior) and the figures had that semi-classical flavour about themwhich the artists of two hundred years ago thought appropriate toillustrations of the Bible. On the right was a King on his throne, thethrone elevated on twelve steps, a canopy overhead, lions on eitherside—evidently King Solomon. He was bending forward withoutstretched sceptre, in attitude of command; his face expressedhorror and disgust, yet there was in it also the mark of imperiouswill and confident power. The left half of the picture was thestrangest, however. The interest plainly centred there. On thepavement before the throne were grouped four soldiers, surrounding acrouching figure which must be described in a moment. A fifth soldierlay dead on the pavement, his neck distorted, and his eyeballsstarting from his head. The four surrounding guards were looking atthe King. In their faces the sentiment of horror was intensified; theyseemed, in fact, only restrained from flight by their implicit trustin their master. All this terror was plainly excited by the being thatcrouched in their midst. I entirely despair of conveying by any wordsthe impression which this figure makes upon anyone who looks at it. Irecollect once showing the photograph of the drawing to a lecturer onmorphology—a person of, I was going to say, abnormally sane andunimaginative habits of mind. He absolutely refused to be alone forthe rest of that evening, and he told me afterwards that for manynights he had not dared to put out his light before going to sleep.However, the main traits of the figure I can at least indicate. Atfirst you saw only a mass of coarse, matted black hair; presently itwas seen that this covered a body of fearful thinness, almost askeleton, but with the muscles standing out like wires. The hands wereof a dusky pallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs,and hideously taloned. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, hadintensely black pupils, and were fixed upon the throned King with alook of beast-like hate. Imagine one of the awful bird-catchingspiders of South America translated into human form, and endowed withintelligence just less than human, and you will have some faintconception of the terror inspired by this appalling effigy. One remarkis universally made by those to whom I have shown the picture: "It wasdrawn from the life."

As soon as the first shock of his irresistible fright had subsided,Dennistoun stole a look at his hosts. The sacristan's hands werepressed upon his eyes; his daughter, looking up at the cross on thewall, was telling her beads feverishly.

At last the question was asked, "Is this book for sale?"

There was the same hesitation, the same plunge of determination thathe had noticed before, and then came the welcome answer, "If monsieurpleases."

"How much do you ask for it?"

"I will take two hundred and fifty francs."

This was confounding. Even a collector's conscience is sometimesstirred, and Dennistoun's conscience was tenderer than a collector's.

"My good man!" he said again and again, "your book is worth far morethan two hundred and fifty francs, I assure you—far more."

But the answer did not vary: "I will take two hundred and fiftyfrancs, not more."

There was really no possibility of refusing such a chance. The moneywas paid, the receipt signed, a glass of wine drunk over thetransaction, and then the sacristan seemed to become a new man. Hestood upright, he ceased to throw those suspicious glances behind him,he actually laughed or tried to laugh. Dennistoun rose to go.

"I shall have the honour of accompanying monsieur to his hotel?" saidthe sacristan.

"Oh no, thanks! it isn't a hundred yards. I know the way perfectly,and there is a moon."

The offer was pressed three or four times, and refused as often.

"Then, monsieur will summon me if—if he finds occasion; he will keepthe middle of the road, the sides are so rough."

"Certainly, certainly," said Dennistoun, who was impatient to examinehis prize by himself; and he stepped out into the passage with hisbook under his arm.

Here he was met by the daughter; she, it appeared, was anxious to do alittle business on her own account; perhaps, like Gehazi, to "takesomewhat" from the foreigner whom her father had spared.

"A silver crucifix and chain for the neck; monsieur would perhaps begood enough to accept it?"

Well, really, Dennistoun hadn't much use for these things. What didmademoiselle want for it?

"Nothing—nothing in the world. Monsieur is more than welcome to it."

The tone in which this and much more was said was unmistakablygenuine, so that Dennistoun was reduced to profuse thanks, andsubmitted to have the chain put round his neck. It really seemed as ifhe had rendered the father and daughter some service which they hardlyknew how to repay. As he set off with his book they stood at the doorlooking after him, and they were still looking when he waved them alast good night from the steps of the Chapeau Rouge.

Dinner was over, and Dennistoun was in his bedroom, shut up alone withhis acquisition. The landlady had manifested a particular interest inhim since he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristanand bought an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had heard ahurried dialogue between her and the said sacristan in the passageoutside the salle à manger; some words to the effect that "Pierreand Bertrand would be sleeping in the house" had closed theconversation.

All this time a growing feeling of discomfort had been creeping overhim—nervous reaction, perhaps, after the delight of his discovery.Whatever it was, it resulted in a conviction that there was someonebehind him, and that he was far more comfortable with his back to thewall. All this, of course, weighed light in the balance as against theobvious value of the collection he had acquired. And now, as I said,he was alone in his bedroom, taking stock of Canon Alberic'streasures, in which every moment revealed something more charming.

"Bless Canon Alberic!" said Dennistoun, who had an inveterate habit oftalking to himself. "I wonder where he is now? Dear me! I wish thatlandlady would learn to laugh in a more cheering manner; it makes onefeel as if there was someone dead in the house. Half a pipe more, didyou say? I think perhaps you are right. I wonder what that crucifix isthat the young woman insisted on giving me? Last century, I suppose.Yes, probably. It is rather a nuisance of a thing to have round one'sneck—just too heavy. Most likely her father has been wearing it foryears. I think I might give it a clean up before I put it away."

He had taken the crucifix off, and laid it on the table, when hisattention was caught by an object lying on the red cloth just by hisleft elbow. Two or three ideas of what it might be flitted through hisbrain with their own incalculable quickness.

"A penwiper? No, no such thing in the house. A rat? No, too black. Alarge spider? I trust to goodness not—no. Good God! a hand like thehand in that picture!"

In another infinitesimal flash he had taken it in. Pale, dusky skin,covering nothing but bones and tendons of appalling strength; coarseblack hairs, longer than ever grew on a human hand; nails rising fromthe ends of the fingers and curving sharply down and forward, grey,horny and wrinkled.

He flew out of his chair with deadly, inconceivable terror clutchingat his heart. The shape, whose left hand rested on the table, wasrising to a standing posture behind his seat, its right hand crookedabove his scalp. There was black and tattered drapery about it; thecoarse hair covered it as in the drawing. The lower jaw was thin—whatcan I call it?—shallow, like a beast's; teeth showed behind the blacklips; there was no nose; the eyes, of a fiery yellow, against whichthe pupils showed black and intense, and the exulting hate and thirstto destroy life which shone there, were the most horrifying featuresin the whole vision. There was intelligence of a kind inthem—intelligence beyond that of a beast, below that of a man.

The feelings which this horror stirred in Dennistoun were theintensest physical fear and the most profound mental loathing. Whatdid he do? What could he do? He has never been quite certain whatwords he said, but he knows that he spoke, that he grasped blindly atthe silver crucifix, that he was conscious of a movement towards himon the part of the demon, and that he screamed with the voice of ananimal in hideous pain.

Pierre and Bertrand, the two sturdy little serving-men, who rushed in,saw nothing, but felt themselves thrust aside by something that passedout between them, and found Dennistoun in a swoon. They sat up withhim that night, and his two friends were at St. Bertrand by nineo'clock next morning. He himself, though still shaken and nervous, wasalmost himself by that time, and his story found credence with them,though not until they had seen the drawing and talked with thesacristan.

Almost at dawn the little man had come to the inn on some pretence,and had listened with the deepest interest to the story retailed bythe landlady. He showed no surprise.

"It is he—it is he! I have seen him myself," was his only comment;and to all questionings but one reply was vouchsafed: "Deux fois jel'ai vu; mille fois je l'ai senti." He would tell them nothing of theprovenance of the book, nor any details of his experiences. "I shallsoon sleep, and my rest will be sweet. Why should you trouble me?" hesaid.[2]

We shall never know what he or Canon Alberic de Mauléon suffered. Atthe back of that fateful drawing were some lines of writing which maybe supposed to throw light on the situation:

"Contradictio Salomonis cum demonio nocturno
Albericus de Mauleone delineavit.
V. Deus in adiutorium. Ps. Qui habitat.
Sancte Bertrande, demoniorum effugator, intercede pro me
miserrimo.
Primum uidi nocte 12^mi Dec. 1694: uidebo mox
ultimum. Peccaui et passus sum, plura adhuc
passurus. Dec. 29, 1701."[3]

I have never quite understood what was Dennistoun's view of the eventsI have narrated. He quoted to me once a text from Ecclesiasticus:"Some spirits there be that are created for vengeance, and in theirfury lay on sore strokes." On another occasion he said: "Isaiah was avery sensible man; doesn't he say something about night monstersliving in the ruins of Babylon? These things are rather beyond us atpresent."

Another confidence of his impressed me rather, and I sympathized withit. We had been, last year, to Comminges, to see Canon Alberic's tomb.It is a great marble erection with an effigy of the Canon in a largewig and soutane, and an elaborate eulogy of his learning below. I sawDennistoun talking for some time with the Vicar of St. Bertrand's, andas we drove away he said to me: "I hope it isn't wrong: you know I ama Presbyterian—but I—I believe there will be 'saying of Mass andsinging of dirges' for Alberic de Mauléon's rest." Then he added, witha touch of the Northern British in his tone, "I had no notion theycame so dear."

The book is in the Wentworth Collection at Cambridge. The drawing wasphotographed and then burnt by Dennistoun on the day when he leftComminges on the occasion of his first visit.

Footnotes

[1] We now know that these leaves did contain a considerablefragment of that work, if not of that actual copy of it.

[2] He died that summer; his daughter married, and settled atSt. Papoul. She never understood the circumstances of her father's"obsession."

LOST HEARTS

It was, as far as I can ascertain, in September of the year 1811 thata post-chaise drew up before the door of Aswarby Hall, in the heart ofLincolnshire. The little boy who was the only passenger in the chaise,and who jumped out as soon as it had stopped, looked about him withthe keenest curiosity during the short interval that elapsed betweenthe ringing of the bell and the opening of the hall door. He saw atall, square, red-brick house, built in the reign of Anne; astone-pillared porch had been added in the purer classical style of1790; the windows of the house were many, tall and narrow, with smallpanes and thick white woodwork. A pediment, pierced with a roundwindow, crowned the front. There were wings to right and left,connected by curious glazed galleries, supported by colonnades, withthe central block. These wings plainly contained the stables andoffices of the house. Each was surmounted by an ornamental cupola witha gilded vane.

An evening light shone on the building, making the window-panes glowlike so many fires. Away from the Hall in front stretched a flat parkstudded with oaks and fringed with firs, which stood out against thesky. The clock in the church-tower, buried in trees on the edge ofthe park, only its golden weather-cock catching the light, wasstriking six, and the sound came gently beating down the wind. It wasaltogether a pleasant impression, though tinged with the sort ofmelancholy appropriate to an evening in early autumn, that wasconveyed to the mind of the boy who was standing in the porch waitingfor the door to open to him.

The post-chaise had brought him from Warwickshire, where, some sixmonths before, he had been left an orphan. Now, owing to the generousoffer of his elderly cousin, Mr. Abney, he had come to live atAswarby. The offer was unexpected, because all who knew anything ofMr. Abney looked upon him as a somewhat austere recluse, into whosesteady-going household the advent of a small boy would import a newand, it seemed, incongruous element. The truth is that very little wasknown of Mr. Abney's pursuits or temper. The Professor of Greek atCambridge had been heard to say that no one knew more of the religiousbeliefs of the later pagans than did the owner of Aswarby. Certainlyhis library contained all the then available books bearing on theMysteries, the Orphic poems, the worship of Mithras, and theNeo-Platonists. In the marble-paved hall stood a fine group of Mithrasslaying a bull, which had been imported from the Levant at greatexpense by the owner. He had contributed a description of it to theGentleman's Magazine, and he had written a remarkable series ofarticles in the Critical Museum on the superstitions of the Romansof the Lower Empire. He was looked upon, in fine, as a man wrapped upin his books, and it was a matter of great surprise among hisneighbours that he should even have heard of his orphan cousin,Stephen Elliott, much more that he should have volunteered to make himan inmate of Aswarby Hall.

Whatever may have been expected by his neighbours, it is certain thatMr. Abney—the tall, the thin, the austere—seemed inclined to givehis young cousin a kindly reception. The moment the front door wasopened he darted out of his study, rubbing his hands with delight.

"How are you, my boy?—how are you? How old are you?" said he—"thatis, you are not too much tired, I hope, by your journey to eat yoursupper?"

"No, thank you, sir," said Master Elliott; "I am pretty well."

"That's a good lad," said Mr. Abney. "And how old are you, my boy?"

It seemed a little odd that he should have asked the question twice inthe first two minutes of their acquaintance.

"I'm twelve years old next birthday, sir," said Stephen.

"And when is your birthday, my dear boy? Eleventh of September, eh?That's well—that's very well. Nearly a year hence, isn't it? Ilike—ha, ha!—I like to get these things down in my book. Sure it'stwelve? Certain?"

"Yes, quite sure, sir."

"Well, well! Take him to Mrs. Bunch's room, Parkes, and let him havehis tea—supper—whatever it is."

"Yes, sir," answered the staid Mr. Parkes; and conducted Stephen tothe lower regions.

Mrs. Bunch was the most comfortable and human person whom Stephen hadas yet met in Aswarby. She made him completely at home; they weregreat friends in a quarter of an hour: and great friends theyremained. Mrs. Bunch had been born in the neighbourhood somefifty-five years before the date of Stephen's arrival, and herresidence at the Hall was of twenty years' standing. Consequently, ifanyone knew the ins and outs of the house and the district, Mrs. Bunchknew them; and she was by no means disinclined to communicate herinformation.

Certainly there were plenty of things about the Hall and the Hallgardens which Stephen, who was of an adventurous and inquiring turn,was anxious to have explained to him. "Who built the temple at the endof the laurel walk? Who was the old man whose picture hung on thestaircase, sitting at a table, with a skull under his hand?" These andmany similar points were cleared up by the resources of Mrs. Bunch'spowerful intellect. There were others, however, of which theexplanations furnished were less satisfactory.

One November evening Stephen was sitting by the fire in thehousekeeper's room reflecting on his surroundings.

"Is Mr. Abney a good man, and will he go to heaven?" he suddenlyasked, with the peculiar confidence which children possess in theability of their elders to settle these questions, the decision ofwhich is believed to be reserved for other tribunals.

"Good?—bless the child!" said Mrs. Bunch. "Master's as kind a soul asever I see! Didn't I never tell you of the little boy as he took inout of the street, as you may say, this seven years back? and thelittle girl, two years after I first come here?"

"No. Do tell me all about them, Mrs. Bunch—now this minute!"

"Well," said Mrs. Bunch, "the little girl I don't seem to recollect somuch about. I know master brought her back with him from his walk oneday, and give orders to Mrs. Ellis, as was housekeeper then, as sheshould be took every care with. And the pore child hadn't no onebelonging to her—she telled me so her own self—and here she livedwith us a matter of three weeks it might be; and then, whether shewere somethink of a gipsy in her blood or what not, but one morningshe out of her bed afore any of us had opened a eye, and neither tracknor yet trace of her have I set eyes on since. Master was wonderfulput about, and had all the ponds dragged; but it's my belief she washad away by them gipsies, for there was singing round the house for asmuch as an hour the night she went, and Parkes, he declare as heheard them a-calling in the woods all that afternoon. Dear, dear! ahodd child she was, so silent in her ways and all, but I was wonderfultaken up with her, so domesticated she was—surprising."

"And what about the little boy?" said Stephen.

"Ah, that pore boy!" sighed Mrs. Bunch. "He were a foreigner—Jevannyhe called hisself—and he come a-tweaking his 'urdy-gurdy round andabout the drive one winter day, and master 'ad him in that minute, andast all about where he came from, and how old he was, and how he madehis way, and where was his relatives, and all as kind as heart couldwish. But it went the same way with him. They're a hunruly lot, themforeign nations, I do suppose, and he was off one fine morning justthe same as the girl. Why he went and what he done was our questionfor as much as a year after; for he never took his 'urdy-gurdy, andthere it lays on the shelf."

The remainder of the evening was spent by Stephen in miscellaneouscross-examination of Mrs. Bunch and in efforts to extract a tune fromthe hurdy-gurdy.

That night he had a curious dream. At the end of the passage at thetop of the house, in which his bedroom was situated, there was an olddisused bathroom. It was kept locked, but the upper half of the doorwas glazed, and, since the muslin curtains which used to hang therehad long been gone, you could look in and see the lead-lined bathaffixed to the wall on the right hand, with its head towards thewindow.

On the night of which I am speaking, Stephen Elliott found himself,as he thought, looking through the glazed door. The moon was shiningthrough the window, and he was gazing at a figure which lay in thebath.

His description of what he saw reminds me of what I once beheld myselfin the famous vaults of St. Michan's Church in Dublin, which possessthe horrid property of preserving corpses from decay for centuries. Afigure inexpressibly thin and pathetic, of a dusty leaden colour,enveloped in a shroud-like garment, the thin lips crooked into a faintand dreadful smile, the hands pressed tightly over the region of theheart.

As he looked upon it, a distant, almost inaudible moan seemed to issuefrom its lips, and the arms began to stir. The terror of the sightforced Stephen backwards, and he awoke to the fact that he was indeedstanding on the cold boarded floor of the passage in the full light ofthe moon. With a courage which I do not think can be common among boysof his age, he went to the door of the bathroom to ascertain if thefigure of his dream were really there. It was not, and he went back tobed.

Mrs. Bunch was much impressed next morning by his story, and went sofar as to replace the muslin curtain over the glazed door of thebathroom. Mr. Abney, moreover, to whom he confided his experiences atbreakfast, was greatly interested, and made notes of the matter inwhat he called "his book."

The spring equinox was approaching, as Mr. Abney frequently remindedhis cousin, adding that this had been always considered by theancients to be a critical time for the young: that Stephen would dowell to take care of himself, and to shut his bedroom window at night;and that Censorinus had some valuable remarks on the subject. Twoincidents that occurred about this time made an impression uponStephen's mind.

The first was after an unusually uneasy and oppressed night that hehad passed—though he could not recall any particular dream that hehad had.

The following evening Mrs. Bunch was occupying herself in mending hisnightgown.

"Gracious me, Master Stephen!" she broke forth rather irritably, "howdo you manage to tear your night-dress all to flinders this way? Lookhere, sir, what trouble you do give to poor servants that have to darnand mend after you!"

There was indeed a most destructive and apparently wanton series ofslits or scorings in the garment, which would undoubtedly require askilful needle to make good. They were confined to the left side ofthe chest—long, parallel slits, about six inches in length, some ofthem not quite piercing the texture of the linen. Stephen could onlyexpress his entire ignorance of their origin: he was sure they werenot there the night before.

"But," he said, "Mrs. Bunch, they are just the same as the scratcheson the outside of my bedroom door; and I'm sure I never had anythingto do with making them."

Mrs. Bunch gazed at him open-mouthed, then snatched up a candle,departed hastily from the room, and was heard making her way upstairs.In a few minutes she came down.

"Well," she said, "Master Stephen, it's a funny thing to me how themmarks and scratches can 'a' come there—too high up for any cat or dogto 'ave made 'em, much less a rat: for all the world like a Chinaman'sfinger-nails, as my uncle in the tea-trade used to tell us of when wewas girls together. I wouldn't say nothing to master, not if I wasyou, Master Stephen, my dear; and just turn the key of the door whenyou go to your bed."

"I always do, Mrs. Bunch, as soon as I've said my prayers."

"Ah, that's a good child: always say your prayers, and then no onecan't hurt you."

Herewith Mrs. Bunch addressed herself to mending the injurednightgown, with intervals of meditation, until bed-time. This was on aFriday night in March, 1812.

On the following evening the usual duet of Stephen and Mrs. Bunch wasaugmented by the sudden arrival of Mr. Parkes, the butler, who as arule kept himself rather to himself in his own pantry. He did notsee that Stephen was there: he was, moreover, flustered, and less slowof speech than was his wont.

"Master may get up his own wine, if he likes, of an evening," was hisfirst remark. "Either I do it in the daytime or not at all, Mrs.Bunch. I don't know what it may be: very like it's the rats, or thewind got into the cellars; but I'm not so young as I was, and I can'tgo through with it as I have done."

"Well, Mr. Parkes, you know it is a surprising place for the rats, isthe Hall."

"I'm not denying that, Mrs. Bunch; and, to be sure, many a time I'veheard the tale from the men in the shipyards about the rat that couldspeak. I never laid no confidence in that before; but to-night, if I'ddemeaned myself to lay my ear to the door of the further bin, I couldpretty much have heard what they was saying."

"Oh, there, Mr. Parkes, I've no patience with your fancies! Ratstalking in the wine-cellar indeed!"

"Well, Mrs. Bunch, I've no wish to argue with you: all I say is, ifyou choose to go to the far bin, and lay your ear to the door, you mayprove my words this minute."

"What nonsense you do talk, Mr. Parkes—not fit for children to listento! Why, you'll be frightening Master Stephen there out of his wits."

"What! Master Stephen?" said Parkes, awaking to the consciousness ofthe boy's presence. "Master Stephen knows well enough when I'ma-playing a joke with you, Mrs. Bunch."

In fact, Master Stephen knew much too well to suppose that Mr. Parkeshad in the first instance intended a joke. He was interested, notaltogether pleasantly, in the situation; but all his questions wereunsuccessful in inducing the butler to give any more detailed accountof his experiences in the wine-cellar.

We have now arrived at March 24, 1812. It was a day of curiousexperiences for Stephen: a windy, noisy day, which filled the houseand the gardens with a restless impression. As Stephen stood by thefence of the grounds, and looked out into the park, he felt as if anendless procession of unseen people were sweeping past him on thewind, borne on resistlessly and aimlessly, vainly striving to stopthemselves, to catch at something that might arrest their flight andbring them once again into contact with the living world of which theyhad formed a part. After luncheon that day Mr. Abney said:

"Stephen, my boy, do you think you could manage to come to me to-nightas late as eleven o'clock in my study? I shall be busy until thattime, and I wish to show you something connected with your future lifewhich it is most important that you should know. You are not tomention this matter to Mrs. Bunch nor to anyone else in the house; andyou had better go to your room at the usual time."

Here was a new excitement added to life: Stephen eagerly grasped atthe opportunity of sitting up till eleven o'clock. He looked in at thelibrary door on his way upstairs that evening, and saw a brazier,which he had often noticed in the corner of the room, moved outbefore the fire; an old silver-gilt cup stood on the table, filledwith red wine, and some written sheets of paper lay near it. Mr. Abneywas sprinkling some incense on the brazier from a round silver box asStephen passed, but did not seem to notice his step.

The wind had fallen, and there was a still night and a full moon. Atabout ten o'clock Stephen was standing at the open window of hisbedroom, looking out over the country. Still as the night was, themysterious population of the distant moonlit woods was not yet lulledto rest. From time to time strange cries as of lost and despairingwanderers sounded from across the mere. They might be the notes ofowls or water-birds, yet they did not quite resemble either sound.Were not they coming nearer? Now they sounded from the nearer side ofthe water, and in a few moments they seemed to be floating about amongthe shrubberies. Then they ceased; but just as Stephen was thinking ofshutting the window and resuming his reading of Robinson Crusoe, hecaught sight of two figures standing on the gravelled terrace that ranalong the garden side of the Hall—the figures of a boy and girl, asit seemed; they stood side by side, looking up at the windows.Something in the form of the girl recalled irresistibly his dream ofthe figure in the bath. The boy inspired him with more acute fear.

Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands clasped overher heart, the boy, a thin shape, with black hair and ragged clothing,raised his arms in the air with an appearance of menace and ofunappeasable hunger and longing. The moon shone upon his almosttransparent hands, and Stephen saw that the nails were fearfully longand that the light shone through them. As he stood with his arms thusraised, he disclosed a terrifying spectacle. On the left side of hischest there opened a black and gaping rent; and there fell uponStephen's brain, rather than upon his ear, the impression of one ofthose hungry and desolate cries that he had heard resounding over thewoods of Aswarby all that evening. In another moment this dreadfulpair had moved swiftly and noiselessly over the dry gravel, and he sawthem no more.

Inexpressibly frightened as he was, he determined to take his candleand go down to Mr. Abney's study, for the hour appointed for theirmeeting was near at hand. The study or library opened out of the fronthall on one side, and Stephen, urged on by his terrors, did not takelong in getting there. To effect an entrance was not so easy. The doorwas not locked, he felt sure, for the key was on the outside of it asusual. His repeated knocks produced no answer. Mr. Abney was engaged:he was speaking. What! why did he try to cry out? and why was the crychoked in his throat? Had he, too, seen the mysterious children? Butnow everything was quiet, and the door yielded to Stephen's terrifiedand frantic pushing.

On the table in Mr. Abney's study certain papers were found whichexplained the situation to Stephen Elliott when he was of an age tounderstand them. The most important sentences were as follows:

"It was a belief very strongly and generally held by the ancients—ofwhose wisdom in these matters I have had such experience as induces meto place confidence in their assertions—that by enacting certainprocesses, which to us moderns have something of a barbariccomplexion, a very remarkable enlightenment of the spiritual facultiesin man may be attained: that, for example, by absorbing thepersonalities of a certain number of his fellow-creatures, anindividual may gain a complete ascendancy over those orders ofspiritual beings which control the elemental forces of our universe.

"It is recorded of Simon Magus that he was able to fly in the air, tobecome invisible, or to assume any form he pleased, by the agency ofthe soul of a boy whom, to use the libellous phrase employed by theauthor of the Clementine Recognitions, he had 'murdered.' I find itset down, moreover, with considerable detail in the writings of HermesTrismegistus, that similar happy results may be produced by theabsorption of the hearts of not less than three human beings below theage of twenty-one years. To the testing of the truth of this receipt Ihave devoted the greater part of the last twenty years, selecting asthe corpora vilia of my experiment such persons as couldconveniently be removed without occasioning a sensible gap insociety. The first step I effected by the removal of one PhoebeStanley, a girl of gipsy extraction, on March 24, 1792. The second, bythe removal of a wandering Italian lad, named Giovanni Paoli, on thenight of March 23, 1805. The final 'victim'—to employ a wordrepugnant in the highest degree to my feelings—must be my cousin,Stephen Elliott. His day must be this March 24, 1812.

"The best means of effecting the required absorption is to remove theheart from the living subject, to reduce it to ashes, and to minglethem with about a pint of some red wine, preferably port. The remainsof the first two subjects, at least, it will be well to conceal: adisused bathroom or wine-cellar will be found convenient for such apurpose. Some annoyance may be experienced from the psychic portion ofthe subjects, which popular language dignifies with the name ofghosts. But the man of philosophic temperament—to whom alone theexperiment is appropriate—will be little prone to attach importanceto the feeble efforts of these beings to wreak their vengeance on him.I contemplate with the liveliest satisfaction the enlarged andemancipated existence which the experiment, if successful, will conferon me; not only placing me beyond the reach of human justice(so-called), but eliminating to a great extent the prospect of deathitself."

Mr. Abney was found in his chair, his head thrown back, his facestamped with an expression of rage, fright, and mortal pain. In hisleft side was a terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. Therewas no blood on his hands, and a long knife that lay on the table wasperfectly clean. A savage wild-cat might have inflicted the injuries.The window of the study was open, and it was the opinion of thecoroner that Mr. Abney had met his death by the agency of some wildcreature. But Stephen Elliott's study of the papers I have quoted ledhim to a very different conclusion.

THE MEZZOTINT

Some time ago I believe I had the pleasure of telling you the story ofan adventure which happened to a friend of mine by the name ofDennistoun, during his pursuit of objects of art for the museum atCambridge.

He did not publish his experiences very widely upon his return toEngland; but they could not fail to become known to a good many of hisfriends, and among others to the gentleman who at that time presidedover an art museum at another University. It was to be expected that thestory should make a considerable impression on the mind of a man whosevocation lay in lines similar to Dennistoun's, and that he should beeager to catch at any explanation of the matter which tended to make itseem improbable that he should ever be called upon to deal with soagitating an emergency. It was, indeed, somewhat consoling to him toreflect that he was not expected to acquire ancient MSS. for hisinstitution; that was the business of the Shelburnian Library. Theauthorities of that might, if they pleased, ransack obscure corners ofthe Continent for such matters. He was glad to be obliged at the momentto confine his attention to enlarging the already unsurpassed collectionof English topographical drawings and engravings possessed by hismuseum. Yet, as it turned out, even a department so homely and familiaras this may have its dark corners, and to one of these Mr. Williams wasunexpectedly introduced.

Those who have taken even the most limited interest in the acquisitionof topographical pictures are aware that there is one London dealerwhose aid is indispensable to their researches. Mr. J. W. Britnellpublishes at short intervals very admirable catalogues of a large andconstantly changing stock of engravings, plans, and old sketches ofmansions, churches, and towns in England and Wales. These catalogueswere, of course, the ABC of his subject to Mr. Williams: but as hismuseum already contained an enormous accumulation of topographicalpictures, he was a regular, rather than a copious, buyer; and he ratherlooked to Mr. Britnell to fill up gaps in the rank and file of hiscollection than to supply him with rarities.

Now, in February of last year there appeared upon Mr. Williams's desk atthe museum a catalogue from Mr. Britnell's emporium, and accompanying itwas a typewritten communication from the dealer himself. This latter ranas follows:

DEAR SIR,—

We beg to call your attention to No. 978 in our accompanyingcatalogue, which we shall be glad to send on approval.

Yours faithfully,

J. W. BRITNELL.

To turn to No. 978 in the accompanying catalogue was with Mr. Williams(as he observed to himself) the work of a moment, and in the placeindicated he found the following entry:

"978.—Unknown. Interesting mezzotint: View of a manor-house, earlypart of the century. 15 by 10 inches; black frame. £2 2s."

It was not specially exciting, and the price seemed high. However, asMr. Britnell, who knew his business and his customer, seemed to setstore by it, Mr. Williams wrote a postcard asking for the article to besent on approval, along with some other engravings and sketches whichappeared in the same catalogue. And so he passed without much excitementof anticipation to the ordinary labours of the day.

A parcel of any kind always arrives a day later than you expect it, andthat of Mr. Britnell proved, as I believe the right phrase goes, noexception to the rule. It was delivered at the museum by the afternoonpost of Saturday, after Mr. Williams had left his work, and it wasaccordingly brought round to his rooms in college by the attendant, inorder that he might not have to wait over Sunday before looking throughit and returning such of the contents as he did not propose to keep. Andhere he found it when he came in to tea, with a friend.

The only item with which I am concerned was the rather large,black-framed mezzotint of which I have already quoted the shortdescription given in Mr. Britnell's catalogue. Some more details of itwill have to be given, though I cannot hope to put before you the lookof the picture as clearly as it is present to my own eye. Very nearlythe exact duplicate of it may be seen in a good many old inn parlours,or in the passages of undisturbed country mansions at the presentmoment. It was a rather indifferent mezzotint, and an indifferentmezzotint is, perhaps, the worst form of engraving known. It presented afull-face view of a not very large manor-house of the last century, withthree rows of plain sashed windows with rusticated masonry about them, aparapet with balls or vases at the angles, and a small portico in thecentre. On either side were trees, and in front a considerable expanseof lawn. The legend "A. W. F. sculpsit" was engraved on the narrowmargin; and there was no further inscription. The whole thing gave theimpression that it was the work of an amateur. What in the world Mr.Britnell could mean by affixing the price of £2 2s. to such an objectwas more than Mr. Williams could imagine. He turned it over with a gooddeal of contempt; upon the back was a paper label, the left-hand half ofwhich had been torn off. All that remained were the ends of two lines ofwriting: the first had the letters—ngley Hall; the second,—ssex.

It would, perhaps, be just worth while to identify the placerepresented, which he could easily do with the help of a gazetteer, andthen he would send it back to Mr. Britnell, with some remarks reflectingupon the judgment of that gentleman.

He lighted the candles, for it was now dark, made the tea, and suppliedthe friend with whom he had been playing golf (for I believe theauthorities of the University I write of indulge in that pursuit by wayof relaxation); and tea was taken to the accompaniment of a discussionwhich golfing persons can imagine for themselves, but which theconscientious writer has no right to inflict upon any non-golfingpersons.

The conclusion arrived at was that certain strokes might have beenbetter, and that in certain emergencies neither player had experiencedthat amount of luck which a human being has a right to expect. It wasnow that the friend—let us call him Professor Binks—took up the framedengraving, and said;

"What's this place, Williams?"

"Just what I am going to try to find out," said Williams, going to theshelf for a gazetteer. "Look at the back. Somethingley Hall, either inSussex or Essex. Half the name's gone, you see. You don't happen to knowit, I suppose?"

"It's from that man Britnell, I suppose, isn't it?" said Binks. "Is itfor the museum?"

"Well, I think I should buy it if the price was five shillings," saidWilliams; "but for some unearthly reason he wants two guineas for it. Ican't conceive why. It's a wretched engraving, and there aren't even anyfigures to give it life."

"It's not worth two guineas, I should think," said Binks; "but I don'tthink it's so badly done. The moonlight seems rather good to me; and Ishould have thought there were figures, or at least a figure, just onthe edge in front."

"Let's look," said Williams. "Well, it's true the light is rathercleverly given. Where's your figure? Oh yes! Just the head, in the veryfront of the picture."

And indeed there was—hardly more than a black blot on the extreme edgeof the engraving—the head of a man or woman, a good deal muffled up,the back turned to the spectator, and looking towards the house.

Williams had not noticed it before.

"Still," he said, "though it's a cleverer thing than I thought, I can'tspend two guineas of museum money on a picture of a place I don't know."

Professor Binks had his work to do, and soon went; and very nearly up toHall time Williams was engaged in a vain attempt to identify the subjectof his picture. "If the vowel before the ng had only been left, itwould have been easy enough," he thought; "but as it is, the name may beanything from Guestingley to Langley, and there are many more namesending like this than I thought; and this rotten book has no index ofterminations."

Hall in Mr. Williams's college was at seven. It need not be dwelt upon;the less so as he met there colleagues who had been playing golf duringthe afternoon, and words with which we have no concern were freelybandied across the table—merely golfing words, I would hasten toexplain.

I suppose an hour or more to have been spent in what is calledcommon-room after dinner. Later in the evening some few retired toWilliams's rooms, and I have little doubt that whist was played andtobacco smoked. During a lull in these operations Williams picked up themezzotint from the table without looking at it, and handed it to aperson mildly interested in art, telling him where it had come from, andthe other particulars which we already know.

The gentleman took it carelessly, looked at it, then said, in a tone ofsome interest:

"It's really a very good piece of work, Williams; it has quite a feelingof the romantic period. The light is admirably managed, it seems to me,and the figure, though it's rather too grotesque, is somehow veryimpressive."

"Yes, isn't it?" said Williams, who was just then busy givingwhisky-and-soda to others of the company, and was unable to come acrossthe room to look at the view again.

It was by this time rather late in the evening, and the visitors were onthe move. After they went Williams was obliged to write a letter or twoand clear up some odd bits of work. At last, some time past midnight, hewas disposed to turn in, and he put out his lamp after lighting hisbedroom candle. The picture lay face upwards on the table where the lastman who looked at it had put it, and it caught his eye as he turned thelamp down. What he saw made him very neatly drop the candle on thefloor, and he declares now that if he had been left in the dark at thatmoment he would have had a fit. But, as that did not happen, he was ableto put down the light on the table and take a good look at the picture.It was indubitable—rankly impossible, no doubt, but absolutely certain.In the middle of the lawn in front of the unknown house there was afigure where no figure had been at five o'clock that afternoon. It wascrawling on all-fours towards the house, and it was muffled in a strangeblack garment with a white cross on the back.

I do not know what is the ideal course to pursue in a situation of thiskind. I can only tell you what Mr. Williams did. He took the picture byone corner and carried it across the passage to a second set of roomswhich he possessed. There he locked it up in a drawer, sported the doorsof both sets of rooms, and retired to bed; but first he wrote out andsigned an account of the extraordinary change which the picture hadundergone since it had come into his possession.

Sleep visited him rather late; but it was consoling to reflect that thebehaviour of the picture did not depend upon his own unsupportedtestimony. Evidently the man who had looked at it the night before hadseen something of the same kind as he had, otherwise he might have beentempted to think that something gravely wrong was happening either tohis eyes or his mind. This possibility being fortunately precluded, twomatters awaited him on the morrow. He must take stock of the picturevery carefully, and call in a witness for the purpose, and he must makea determined effort to ascertain what house it was that was represented.He would therefore ask his neighbour Nisbet to breakfast with him, andhe would subsequently spend a morning over the gazetteer.

Nisbet was disengaged, and arrived about 9.30. His host was not quitedressed, I am sorry to say, even at this late hour. During breakfastnothing was said about the mezzotint by Williams, save that he had apicture on which he wished for Nisbet's opinion. But those who arefamiliar with University life can picture for themselves the wide anddelightful range of subjects over which the conversation of two Fellowsof Canterbury College is likely to extend during a Sunday morningbreakfast. Hardly a topic was left unchallenged, from golf tolawn-tennis. Yet I am bound to say that Williams was rather distraught;for his interest naturally centred in that very strange picture whichwas now reposing, face downwards, in the drawer in the room opposite.

The morning pipe was at last lighted, and the moment had arrived forwhich he looked. With very considerable—almost tremulous—excitement,he ran across, unlocked the drawer, and, extracting the picture—stillface downwards—ran back, and put it into Nisbet's hands.

"Now," he said, "Nisbet, I want you to tell me exactly what you see inthat picture. Describe it, if you don't mind, rather minutely. I'll tellyou why afterwards."

"Well," said Nisbet, "I have here a view of a country-house—English, Ipresume—by moonlight."

"Moonlight? You're sure of that?"

"Certainly. The moon appears to be on the wane, if you wish for details,and there are clouds in the sky."

"All right. Go on. I'll swear," added Williams in an aside, "there wasno moon when I saw it first."

"Well, there's not much more to be said," Nisbet continued. "The househas one—two—three rows of windows, five in each row, except at thebottom; where there's a porch instead of the middle one, and——"

"But what about figures?" said Williams, with marked interest.

"There aren't any," said Nisbet; "but——"

"What! No figure on the grass in front?"

"Not a thing."

"You'll swear to that?"

"Certainly I will. But there's just one other thing."

"What?"

"Why, one of the windows on the ground-floor—left of the door—isopen."

"Is it really? My goodness! he must have got in," said Williams, withgreat excitement; and he hurried to the back of the sofa on whichNisbet was sitting, and, catching the picture from him, verified thematter for himself.

It was quite true. There was no figure, and there was the open window.Williams, after a moment of speechless surprise, went to thewriting-table and scribbled for a short time. Then he brought two papersto Nisbet, and asked him first to sign one—it was his own descriptionof the picture, which you have just heard—and then to read the otherwhich was Williams's statement written the night before.

"What can it all mean?" said Nisbet.

"Exactly," said Williams. "Well, one thing I must do—or three things,now I think of it. I must find out from Garwood"—this was his lastnight's visitor—"what he saw, and then I must get the thingphotographed before it goes further, and then I must find out what theplace is."

"I can do the photographing myself," said Nisbet, "and I will. But, youknow, it looks very much as if we were assisting at the working out of atragedy somewhere. The question is, Has it happened already, or is itgoing to come off? You must find out what the place is. Yes," he said,looking at the picture again, "I expect you're right: he has got in. Andif I don't mistake there'll be the devil to pay in one of the roomsupstairs."

"I'll tell you what," said Williams: "I'll take the picture across toold Green" (this was the senior Fellow of the College, who had beenBursar for many years). "It's quite likely he'll know it. We haveproperty in Essex and Sussex, and he must have been over the twocounties a lot in his time."

"Quite likely he will," said Nisbet; "but just let me take my photographfirst. But look here, I rather think Green isn't up to-day. He wasn't inHall last night, and I think I heard him say he was going down for theSunday."

"That's true, too," said Williams; "I know he's gone to Brighton. Well,if you'll photograph it now, I'll go across to Garwood and get hisstatement, and you keep an eye on it while I'm gone. I'm beginning tothink two guineas is not a very exorbitant price for it now."

In a short time he had returned, and brought Mr. Garwood with him.Garwood's statement was to the effect that the figure, when he had seenit, was clear of the edge of the picture, but had not got far across thelawn. He remembered a white mark on the back of its drapery, but couldnot have been sure it was a cross. A document to this effect was thendrawn up and signed, and Nisbet proceeded to photograph the picture.

"Now what do you mean to do?" he said. "Are you going to sit and watchit all day?"

"Well, no, I think not," said Williams. "I rather imagine we're meant tosee the whole thing. You see, between the time I saw it last night andthis morning there was time for lots of things to happen, but thecreature only got into the house. It could easily have got through itsbusiness in the time and gone to its own place again; but the fact ofthe window being open, I think, must mean that it's in there now. So Ifeel quite easy about leaving it. And, besides, I have a kind of ideathat it wouldn't change much, if at all, in the daytime. We might go outfor a walk this afternoon, and come in to tea, or whenever it gets dark.I shall leave it out on the table here, and sport the door. My skip canget in, but no one else."

The three agreed that this would be a good plan; and, further, that ifthey spent the afternoon together they would be less likely to talkabout the business to other people; for any rumour of such a transactionas was going on would bring the whole of the Phasmatological Societyabout their ears.

We may give them a respite until five o'clock.

At or near that hour the three were entering Williams's staircase. Theywere at first slightly annoyed to see that the door of his rooms wasunspotted; but in a moment it was remembered that on Sunday the skipscame for orders an hour or so earlier than on week-days. However, asurprise was awaiting them. The first thing they saw was the pictureleaning up against a pile of books on the table, as it had been left,and the next thing was Williams's skip, seated on a chair opposite,gazing at it with undisguised horror. How was this? Mr. Filcher (thename is not my own invention) was a servant of considerable standing,and set the standard of etiquette to all his own college and to severalneighbouring ones, and nothing could be more alien to his practice thanto be found sitting on his master's chair, or appearing to take anyparticular notice of his master's furniture or pictures. Indeed, heseemed to feel this himself. He started violently when the three mencame into the room, and got up with a marked effort. Then he said:

"I ask your pardon, sir, for taking such a freedom as to set down."

"Not at all, Robert," interposed Mr. Williams. "I was meaning to ask yousome time what you thought of that picture."

"Well, sir, of course I don't set up my opinion again yours, but itain't the pictur I should 'ang where my little girl could see it, sir."

"Wouldn't you, Robert? Why not?"

"No, sir. Why, the pore child, I recollect once she see a Door Bible,with pictures not 'alf what that is, and we 'ad to set up with her threeor four nights afterwards, if you'll believe me; and if she was to ketcha sight of this skelinton here, or whatever it is, carrying off the porebaby, she would be in a taking. You know 'ow it is with children; 'ownervish they git with a little thing and all. But what I should say, itdon't seem a right pictur to be laying about, sir, not where anyonethat's liable to be startled could come on it. Should you be wantinganything this evening, sir? Thank you, sir."

With these words the excellent man went to continue the round of hismasters, and you may be sure the gentlemen whom he left lost no time ingathering round the engraving. There was the house, as before, under thewaning moon and the drifting clouds. The window that had been open wasshut, and the figure was once more on the lawn: but not this timecrawling cautiously on hands and knees. Now it was erect and steppingswiftly, with long strides, towards the front of the picture. The moonwas behind it, and the black drapery hung down over its face so thatonly hints of that could be seen, and what was visible made thespectators profoundly thankful that they could see no more than a whitedome-like forehead and a few straggling hairs. The head was bent down,and the arms were tightly clasped over an object which could be dimlyseen and identified as a child, whether dead or living it was notpossible to say. The legs of the appearance alone could be plainlydiscerned, and they were horribly thin.

From five to seven the three companions sat and watched the picture byturns. But it never changed. They agreed at last that it would be safeto leave it, and that they would return after Hall and await furtherdevelopments.

When they assembled again, at the earliest possible moment, theengraving was there, but the figure was gone, and the house was quietunder the moonbeams. There was nothing for it but to spend the eveningover gazetteers and guide-books. Williams was the lucky one at last, andperhaps he deserved it. At 11.30 p.m. he read from Murray's Guide toEssex the following lines:

"16½ miles, Anningley. The church has been an interesting building ofNorman date, but was extensively classicized in the last century. Itcontains the tombs of the family of Francis, whose mansion, AnningleyHall, a solid Queen Anne house, stands immediately beyond the churchyardin a park of about 80 acres. The family is now extinct, the last heirhaving disappeared mysteriously in infancy in the year 1802. The father,Mr. Arthur Francis, was locally known as a talented amateur engraver inmezzotint. After his son's disappearance he lived in complete retirementat the Hall, and was found dead in his studio on the third anniversaryof the disaster, having just completed an engraving of the house,impressions of which are of considerable rarity."

This looked like business, and, indeed, Mr. Green on his return at onceidentified the house as Anningley Hall.

"Is there any kind of explanation of the figure, Green?" was thequestion which Williams naturally asked.

"I don't know, I'm sure, Williams. What used to be said in the placewhen I first knew it, which was before I came up here, was just this:old Francis was always very much down on these poaching fellows, andwhenever he got a chance he used to get a man whom he suspected of itturned off the estate, and by degrees he got rid of them all but one.Squires could do a lot of things then that they daren't think of now.Well, this man that was left was what you find pretty often in thatcountry—the last remains of a very old family. I believe they wereLords of the Manor at one time. I recollect just the same thing in myown parish."

"What, like the man in Tess of the D'Urbervilles?" Williams put in.

"Yes, I dare say; it's not a book I could ever read myself. But thisfellow could show a row of tombs in the church there that belonged tohis ancestors, and all that went to sour him a bit; but Francis, theysaid, could never get at him—he always kept just on the right side ofthe law—until one night the keepers found him at it in a wood right atthe end of the estate. I could show you the place now; it marches withsome land that used to belong to an uncle of mine. And you can imaginethere was a row; and this man Gawdy (that was the name, to besure—Gawdy; I thought I should get it—Gawdy), he was unlucky enough,poor chap! to shoot a keeper. Well, that was what Francis wanted, andgrand juries—you know what they would have been then—and poor Gawdywas strung up in double-quick time; and I've been shown the place he wasburied in, on the north side of the church—you know the way in thatpart of the world: anyone that's been hanged or made away withthemselves, they bury them that side. And the idea was that some friendof Gawdy's—not a relation, because he had none, poor devil! he was thelast of his line: land of spes ultima gentis—must have planned to gethold of Francis's boy and put an end to his line, too. I don'tknow—it's rather an out-of-the-way thing for an Essex poacher to thinkof—but, you know, I should say now it looks more as if old Gawdy hadmanaged the job himself. Booh! I hate to think of it! have some whisky,Williams!"

The facts were communicated by Williams to Dennistoun, and by him to amixed company, of which I was one, and the Sadducean Professor ofOphiology another. I am sorry to say that the latter, when asked what hethought of it, only remarked: "Oh, those Bridgeford people will sayanything"—a sentiment which met with the reception it deserved.

I have only to add that the picture is now in the Ashleian Museum; thatit has been treated with a view to discovering whether sympathetic inkhas been used in it, but without effect; that Mr. Britnell knew nothingof it save that he was sure it was uncommon; and that, though carefullywatched, it has never been known to change again.

THE ASH-TREE

Everyone who has travelled over Eastern England knows the smallercountry-houses with which it is studded—the rather dank littlebuildings, usually in the Italian style, surrounded with parks of someeighty to a hundred acres. For me they have always had a very strongattraction: with the grey paling of split oak, the noble trees, themeres with their reed-beds, and the line of distant woods. Then, I likethe pillared portico—perhaps stuck on to a red-brick Queen Anne housewhich has been faced with stucco to bring it into line with the"Grecian" taste of the end of the eighteenth century; the hall inside,going up to the roof, which hall ought always to be provided with agallery and a small organ. I like the library, too, where you may findanything from a Psalter of the thirteenth century to a Shakespearequarto. I like the pictures, of course; and perhaps most of all I likefancying what life in such a house was when it was first built, and inthe piping times of landlords' prosperity, and not least now, when, ifmoney is not so plentiful, taste is more varied and life quite asinteresting. I wish to have one of these houses, and enough money tokeep it together and entertain my friends in it modestly.

But this is a digression. I have to tell you of a curious series ofevents which happened in such a house as I have tried to describe. It isCastringham Hall in Suffolk. I think a good deal has been done to thebuilding since the period of my story, but the essential features I havesketched are still there—Italian portico, square block of white house,older inside than out, park with fringe of woods, and mere. The onefeature that marked out the house from a score of others is gone. As youlooked at it from the park, you saw on the right a great old ash-treegrowing within half a dozen yards of the wall, and almost or quitetouching the building with its branches. I suppose it had stood thereever since Castringham ceased to be a fortified place, and since themoat was filled in and the Elizabethan dwelling-house built. At anyrate, it had wellnigh attained its full dimensions in the year 1690.

In that year the district in which the Hall is situated was the scene ofa number of witch-trials. It will be long, I think, before we arrive ata just estimate of the amount of solid reason—if there was any—whichlay at the root of the universal fear of witches in old times. Whetherthe persons accused of this offence really did imagine that they werepossessed of unusual powers of any kind; or whether they had the will atleast, if not the power, of doing mischief to their neighbours; orwhether all the confessions, of which there are so many, were extortedby the mere cruelty of the witch-finders—these are questions which arenot, I fancy, yet solved. And the present narrative gives me pause. Icannot altogether sweep it away as mere invention. The reader must judgefor himself.

Castringham contributed a victim to the auto-da-fé. Mrs. Mothersolewas her name, and she differed from the ordinary run of village witchesonly in being rather better off and in a more influential position.Efforts were made to save her by several reputable farmers of theparish. They did their best to testify to her character, and showedconsiderable anxiety as to the verdict of the jury.

But what seems to have been fatal to the woman was the evidence of thethen proprietor of Castringham Hall—Sir Matthew Fell. He deposed tohaving watched her on three different occasions from his window, at thefull of the moon, gathering sprigs "from the ash-tree near my house."She had climbed into the branches, clad only in her shift, and wascutting off small twigs with a peculiarly curved knife, and as she didso she seemed to be talking to herself. On each occasion Sir Matthew haddone his best to capture the woman, but she had always taken alarm atsome accidental noise he had made, and all he could see when he got downto the garden was a hare running across the park in the direction of thevillage.

On the third night he had been at the pains to follow at his best speed,and had gone straight to Mrs. Mothersole's house; but he had had to waita quarter of an hour battering at her door, and then she had come outvery cross, and apparently very sleepy, as if just out of bed; and hehad no good explanation to offer of his visit.

Mainly on this evidence, though there was much more of a less strikingand unusual kind from other parishioners, Mrs. Mothersole was foundguilty and condemned to die. She was hanged a week after the trial, withfive or six more unhappy creatures, at Bury St. Edmunds.

Sir Matthew Fell, then Deputy-Sheriff, was present at the execution. Itwas a damp, drizzly March morning when the cart made its way up therough grass hill outside Northgate, where the gallows stood. The othervictims were apathetic or broken down with misery; but Mrs. Mothersolewas, as in life so in death, of a very different temper. Her "poysonousRage," as a reporter of the time puts it, "did so work upon theBystanders—yea, even upon the Hangman—that it was constantly affirmedof all that saw her that she presented the living Aspect of a madDivell. Yet she offer'd no Resistance to the Officers of the Law; onelyshe looked upon those that laid Hands upon her with so direfull andvenomous an Aspect that—as one of them afterwards assured me—the meerThought of it preyed inwardly upon his Mind for six Months after."

However, all that she is reported to have said was the seeminglymeaningless words: "There will be guests at the Hall." Which sherepeated more than once in an undertone.

Sir Matthew Fell was not unimpressed by the bearing of the woman. He hadsome talk upon the matter with the Vicar of his parish, with whom hetravelled home after the assize business was over. His evidence at thetrial had not been very willingly given; he was not specially infectedwith the witch-finding mania, but he declared, then and afterwards, thathe could not give any other account of the matter than that he hadgiven, and that he could not possibly have been mistaken as to what hesaw. The whole transaction had been repugnant to him, for he was a manwho liked to be on pleasant terms with those about him; but he saw aduty to be done in this business, and he had done it. That seems to havebeen the gist of his sentiments, and the Vicar applauded it, as anyreasonable man must have done.

A few weeks after, when the moon of May was at the full, Vicar andSquire met again in the park, and walked to the Hall together. Lady Fellwas with her mother, who was dangerously ill, and Sir Matthew was aloneat home; so the Vicar, Mr. Crome, was easily persuaded to take a latesupper at the Hall.

Sir Matthew was not very good company this evening. The talk ran chieflyon family and parish matters, and, as luck would have it, Sir Matthewmade a memorandum in writing of certain wishes or intentions of hisregarding his estates, which afterwards proved exceedingly useful.

When Mr. Crome thought of starting for home, about half-past nineo'clock, Sir Matthew and he took a preliminary turn on the gravelledwalk at the back of the house. The only incident that struck Mr. Cromewas this: they were in sight of the ash-tree which I described asgrowing near the windows of the building, when Sir Matthew stopped andsaid:

"What is that that runs up and down the stem of the ash? It is never asquirrel? They will all be in their nests by now."

The Vicar looked and saw the moving creature, but he could make nothingof its colour in the moonlight. The sharp outline, however, seen for aninstant, was imprinted on his brain, and he could have sworn, he said,though it sounded foolish, that, squirrel or not, it had more than fourlegs.

Still, not much was to be made of the momentary vision, and the two menparted. They may have met since then, but it was not for a score ofyears.

Next day Sir Matthew Fell was not downstairs at six in the morning, aswas his custom, nor at seven, nor yet at eight. Hereupon the servantswent and knocked at his chamber door. I need not prolong the descriptionof their anxious listenings and renewed batterings on the panels. Thedoor was opened at last from the outside, and they found their masterdead and black. So much you have guessed. That there were any marks ofviolence did not at the moment appear; but the window was open.

One of the men went to fetch the parson, and then by his directions rodeon to give notice to the coroner. Mr. Crome himself went as quick as hemight to the Hall, and was shown to the room where the dead man lay. Hehas left some notes among his papers which show how genuine a respectand sorrow was felt for Sir Matthew, and there is also this passage,which I transcribe for the sake of the light it throws upon the courseof events, and also upon the common beliefs of the time:

"There was not any the least Trace of an Entrance having been forc'd tothe Chamber: but the Casement stood open, as my poor Friend would alwayshave it in this Season. He had his Evening Drink of small Ale in asilver vessel of about a pint measure, and to-night had not drunk itout. This Drink was examined by the Physician from Bury, a Mr. Hodgkins,who could not, however, as he afterwards declar'd upon his Oath, beforethe Coroner's quest, discover that any matter of a venomous kind waspresent in it. For, as was natural, in the great Swelling and Blacknessof the Corpse, there was talk made among the Neighbours of Poyson. TheBody was very much Disorder'd as it laid in the Bed, being twisted afterso extream a sort as gave too probable Conjecture that my worthy Friendand Patron had expir'd in great Pain and Agony. And what is as yetunexplain'd, and to myself the Argument of some Horrid and ArtfullDesigne in the Perpetrators of this Barbarous Murther, was this, thatthe Women which were entrusted with the laying-out of the Corpse andwashing it, being both sad Persons and very well Respected in theirMournfull Profession, came to me in a great Pain and Distress both ofMind and Body, saying, what was indeed confirmed upon the first View,that they had no sooner touch'd the Breast of the Corpse with theirnaked Hands than they were sensible of a more than ordinary violentSmart and Acheing in their Palms, which, with their whole Forearms, inno long time swell'd so immoderately, the Pain still continuing, that,as afterwards proved, during many weeks they were forc'd to lay by theexercise of their Calling; and yet no mark seen on the Skin.

"Upon hearing-this, I sent for the Physician, who was still in theHouse, and we made as carefull a Proof as we were able by the Help of asmall Magnifying Lens of Crystal of the condition of the Skinn on thisPart of the Body: but could not detect with the Instrument we had anyMatter of Importance beyond a couple of small Punctures or Pricks, whichwe then concluded were the Spotts by which the Poyson might beintroduced, remembering that Ring of Pope Borgia, with other knownSpecimens of the Horrid Art of the Italian Poysoners of the last age.

"So much is to be said of the Symptoms seen on the Corpse. As to what Iam to add, it is meerly my own Experiment, and to be left to Posterityto judge whether there be anything of Value therein. There was on theTable by the Beddside a Bible of the small size, in which myFriend—punctuall as in Matters of less Moment, so in this more weightyone—used nightly, and upon his First Rising, to read a sett Portion.And I taking it up—not without a Tear duly paid to him which from theStudy of this poorer Adumbration was now pass'd to the contemplation ofits great Originall—it came into my Thoughts, as at such moments ofHelplessness we are prone to catch at any the least Glimmer that makespromise of Light, to make trial of that old and by many accountedSuperstitious Practice of drawing the Sortes: of which a PrincipallInstance, in the case of his late Sacred Majesty the Blessed Martyr KingCharles and my Lord Falkland, was now much talked of. I must needsadmit that by my Trial not much Assistance was afforded me: yet, as theCause and Origin of these Dreadful Events may hereafter be search'd out,I set down the Results, in the case it may be found that they pointedthe true Quarter of the Mischief to a quicker Intelligence than my own.

"I made, then, three trials, opening the Book and placing my Finger uponcertain Words: which gave in the first these words, from Luke xiii. 7,Cut it down; in the second, Isaiah xiii. 20, It shall never beinhabited; and upon the third Experiment, Job xxxix. 30, Her youngones also suck up blood."

This is all that need be quoted from Mr. Crome's papers. Sir MatthewFell was duly coffined and laid into the earth, and his funeral sermon,preached by Mr. Crome on the following Sunday, has been printed underthe title of "The Unsearchable Way; or, England's Danger and theMalicious Dealings of Antichrist," it being the Vicar's view, as wellas that most commonly held in the neighbourhood, that the Squire wasthe victim of a recrudescence of the Popish Plot.

His son, Sir Matthew the second, succeeded to the title and estates. Andso ends the first act of the Castringham tragedy. It is to be mentioned,though the fact is not surprising, that the new Baronet did not occupythe room in which his father had died. Nor, indeed, was it slept in byanyone but an occasional visitor during the whole of his occupation. Hedied in 1735, and I do not find that anything particular marked hisreign, save a curiously constant mortality among his cattle andlive-stock in general, which showed a tendency to increase slightly astime went on.

Those who are interested in the details will find a statistical accountin a letter to the Gentleman's Magazine of 1772, which draws the factsfrom the Baronet's own papers. He put an end to it at last by a verysimple expedient, that of shutting up all his beasts in sheds at night,and keeping no sheep in his park. For he had noticed that nothing wasever attacked that spent the night indoors. After that the disorderconfined itself to wild birds, and beasts of chase. But as we have nogood account of the symptoms, and as all-night watching was quiteunproductive of any clue, I do not dwell on what the Suffolk farmerscalled the "Castringham sickness."

The second Sir Matthew died in 1735, as I said, and was duly succeededby his son, Sir Richard. It was in his time that the great family pewwas built out on the north side of the parish church. So large were theSquire's ideas that several of the graves on that unhallowed side of thebuilding had to be disturbed to satisfy his requirements. Among them wasthat of Mrs. Mothersole, the position of which was accurately known,thanks to a note on a plan of the church and yard, both made by Mr.Crome.

A certain amount of interest was excited in the village when it wasknown that the famous witch, who was still remembered by a few, was tobe exhumed. And the feeling of surprise, and indeed disquiet, was verystrong when it was found that, though her coffin was fairly sound andunbroken, there was no trace whatever inside it of body, bones, or dust.Indeed, it is a curious phenomenon, for at the time of her burying nosuch things were dreamt of as resurrection-men, and it is difficult toconceive any rational motive for stealing a body otherwise than for theuses of the dissecting-room.

The incident revived for a time all the stories of witch-trials and ofthe exploits of the witches, dormant for forty years, and Sir Richard'sorders that the coffin should be burnt were thought by a good many to berather foolhardy, though they were duly carried out.

Sir Richard was a pestilent innovator, it is certain. Before his timethe Hall had been a fine block of the mellowest red brick; but SirRichard had travelled in Italy and become infected with the Italiantaste, and, having more money than his predecessors, he determined toleave an Italian palace where he had found an English house. So stuccoand ashlar masked the brick; some indifferent Roman marbles were plantedabout in the entrance-hall and gardens; a reproduction of the Sibyl'stemple at Tivoli was erected on the opposite bank of the mere; andCastringham took on an entirely new, and, I must say, a less engaging,aspect. But it was much admired, and served as a model to a good many ofthe neighbouring gentry in after-years.

One morning (it was in 1754) Sir Richard woke after a night ofdiscomfort. It had been windy, and his chimney had smoked persistently,and yet it was so cold that he must keep up a fire. Also something hadso rattled about the window that no man could get a moment's peace.Further, there was the prospect of several guests of position arrivingin the course of the day, who would expect sport of some kind, and theinroads of the distemper (which continued among his game) had beenlately so serious that he was afraid for his reputation as agame-preserver. But what really touched him most nearly was the othermatter of his sleepless night. He could certainly not sleep in that roomagain.

That was the chief subject of his meditations at breakfast, and after ithe began a systematic examination of the rooms to see which would suithis notions best. It was long before he found one. This had a windowwith an eastern aspect and that with a northern; this door the servantswould be always passing, and he did not like the bedstead in that. No,he must have a room with a western look-out, so that the sun could notwake him early, and it must be out of the way of the business of thehouse. The housekeeper was at the end of her resources.

"Well, Sir Richard," she said, "you know that there is but one room likethat in the house."

"Which may that be?" said Sir Richard.

"And that is Sir Matthew's—the West Chamber."

"Well, put me in there, for there I'll lie to-night," said her master."Which way is it? Here, to be sure;" and he hurried off.

"Oh, Sir Richard, but no one has slept there these forty years. The airhas hardly been changed since Sir Matthew died there."

Thus she spoke, and rustled after him.

"Come, open the door, Mrs. Chiddock. I'll see the chamber, at least."

So it was opened, and, indeed, the smell was very close and earthy. SirRichard crossed to the window, and, impatiently, as was his wont, threwthe shutters back, and flung open the casement. For this end of thehouse was one which the alterations had barely touched, grown up as itwas with the great ash-tree, and being otherwise concealed from view.

"Air it, Mrs. Chiddock, all to-day, and move my bed-furniture in in theafternoon. Put the Bishop of Kilmore in my old room."

"Pray, Sir Richard," said a new voice, breaking in on this speech,"might I have the favour of a moment's interview?"

Sir Richard turned round and saw a man in black in the doorway, whobowed.

"I must ask your indulgence for this intrusion, Sir Richard. You will,perhaps, hardly remember me. My name is William Crome, and mygrandfather was Vicar here in your grandfather's time."

"Well, sir," said Sir Richard, "the name of Crome is always a passportto Castringham. I am glad to renew a friendship of two generations'standing. In what can I serve you? for your hour of calling—and, if Ido not mistake you, your bearing—shows you to be in some haste."

"That is no more than the truth, sir. I am riding from Norwich to BurySt. Edmunds with what haste I can make, and I have called in on my wayto leave with you some papers which we have but just come upon inlooking over what my grandfather left at his death. It is thought youmay find some matters of family interest in them."

"You are mighty obliging, Mr. Crome, and, if you will be so good as tofollow me to the parlour, and drink a glass of wine, we will take afirst look at these same papers together. And you, Mrs. Chiddock, as Isaid, be about airing this chamber.... Yes, it is here my grandfatherdied.... Yes, the tree, perhaps, does make the place a littledampish.... No; I do not wish to listen to any more. Make nodifficulties, I beg. You have your orders—go. Will you follow me, sir?"

They went to the study. The packet which young Mr. Crome had brought—hewas then just become a Fellow of Clare Hall in Cambridge, I may say, andsubsequently brought out a respectable edition of Polyænus—containedamong other things the notes which the old Vicar had made upon theoccasion of Sir Matthew Fell's death. And for the first time Sir Richardwas confronted with the enigmatical Sortes Biblicæ which you haveheard. They amused him a good deal.

"Well," he said, "my grandfather's Bible gave one prudent piece ofadvice—Cut it down. If that stands for the ash-tree, he may restassured I shall not neglect it. Such a nest of catarrhs and agues wasnever seen."

The parlour contained the family books, which, pending the arrival of acollection which Sir Richard had made in Italy, and the building of aproper room to receive them, were not many in number.

Sir Richard looked up from the paper to the bookcase.

"I wonder," says he, "whether the old prophet is there yet? I fancy Isee him."

Crossing the room, he took out a dumpy Bible, which, sure enough, boreon the fly-leaf the inscription: "To Matthew Fell, from his LovingGod-mother, Anne Aldous, 2 September, 1659."

"It would be no bad plan to test him again, Mr. Crome. I will wager weget a couple of names in the Chronicles. H'm! what have we here? 'Thoushalt seek me in the morning, and I shall not be.' Well, well! Yourgrandfather would have made a fine omen of that, hey? No more prophetsfor me! They are all in a tale. And now, Mr. Crome, I am infinitelyobliged to you for your packet. You will, I fear, be impatient to geton. Pray allow me—another glass."

So with offers of hospitality, which were genuinely meant (for SirRichard thought well of the young man's address and manner), theyparted.

In the afternoon came the guests—the Bishop of Kilmore, Lady MaryHervey, Sir William Kentfield, etc. Dinner at five, wine, cards, supper,and dispersal to bed.

Next morning Sir Richard is disinclined to take his gun with the rest.He talks with the Bishop of Kilmore. This prelate, unlike a good many ofthe Irish Bishops of his day, had visited his see, and, indeed, residedthere for some considerable time. This morning, as the two were walkingalong the terrace and talking over the alterations and improvements inthe house, the Bishop said, pointing to the window of the West Room:

"You could never get one of my Irish flock to occupy that room, SirRichard."

"Why is that, my lord? It is, in fact, my own."

"Well, our Irish peasantry will always have it that it brings the worstof luck to sleep near an ash-tree, and you have a fine growth of ash nottwo yards from your chamber window. Perhaps," the Bishop went on, witha smile, "it has given you a touch of its quality already, for you donot seem, if I may say it, so much the fresher for your night's rest asyour friends would like to see you."

"That, or something else, it is true, cost me my sleep from twelve tofour, my lord. But the tree is to come down to-morrow, so I shall nothear much more from it."

"I applaud your determination. It can hardly be wholesome to have theair you breathe strained, as it were, through all that leafage."

"Your lordship is right there, I think. But I had not my window openlast night. It was rather the noise that went on—no doubt from thetwigs sweeping the glass—that kept me open-eyed."

"I think that can hardly be, Sir Richard. Here—you see it from thispoint. None of these nearest branches even can touch your casementunless there were a gale, and there was none of that last night. Theymiss the panes by a foot."

"No, sir, true. What, then, will it be, I wonder, that scratched andrustled so—ay, and covered the dust on my sill with lines and marks?"

At last they agreed that the rats must have come up through the ivy.That was the Bishop's idea, and Sir Richard jumped at it.

So the day passed quietly, and night came, and the party dispersed totheir rooms, and wished Sir Richard a better night.

And now we are in his bedroom, with the light out and the Squire in bed.The room is over the kitchen, and the night outside still and warm, sothe window stands open.

There is very little light about the bedstead, but there is a strangemovement there; it seems as if Sir Richard were moving his head rapidlyto and fro with only the slightest possible sound. And now you wouldguess, so deceptive is the half-darkness, that he had several heads,round and brownish, which move back and forward, even as low as hischest. It is a horrible illusion. Is it nothing more? There! somethingdrops off the bed with a soft plump, like a kitten, and is out of thewindow in a flash; another—four—and after that there is quiet again.

"Thou shalt seek me in the morning, and I shall not be."

As with Sir Matthew, so with Sir Richard—dead and black in his bed!

A pale and silent party of guests and servants gathered under the windowwhen the news was known. Italian poisoners, Popish emissaries, infectedair—all these and more guesses were hazarded, and the Bishop of Kilmorelooked at the tree, in the fork of whose lower boughs a white tom-catwas crouching, looking down the hollow which years had gnawed in thetrunk. It was watching something inside the tree with great interest.

Suddenly it got up and craned over the hole. Then a bit of the edge onwhich it stood gave way, and it went slithering in. Everyone looked upat the noise of the fall.

It is known to most of us that a cat can cry; but few of us have heard,I hope, such a yell as came out of the trunk of the great ash. Two orthree screams there were—the witnesses are not sure which—and then aslight and muffled noise of some commotion or struggling was all thatcame. But Lady Mary Hervey fainted outright, and the housekeeper stoppedher ears and fled till she fell on the terrace.

The Bishop of Kilmore and Sir William Kentfield stayed. Yet even theywere daunted, though it was only at the cry of a cat; and Sir Williamswallowed once or twice before he could say:

"There is something more than we know of in that tree, my lord. I am foran instant search."

And this was agreed upon. A ladder was brought, and one of the gardenerswent up, and, looking down the hollow, could detect nothing but a fewdim indications of something moving. They got a lantern, and let it downby a rope.

"We must get at the bottom of this. My life upon it, my lord, but thesecret of these terrible deaths is there."

Up went the gardener again with the lantern, and let it down the holecautiously. They saw the yellow light upon his face as he bent over, andsaw his face struck with an incredulous terror and loathing before hecried out in a dreadful voice and fell back from the ladder—where,happily, he was caught by two of the men—letting the lantern fallinside the tree.

He was in a dead faint, and it was some time before any word could begot from him.

By then they had something else to look at. The lantern must have brokenat the bottom, and the light in it caught upon dry leaves and rubbishthat lay there, for in a few minutes a dense smoke began to come up, andthen flame; and, to be short, the tree was in a blaze.

The bystanders made a ring at some yards' distance, and Sir William andthe Bishop sent men to get what weapons and tools they could; for,clearly, whatever might be using the tree as its lair would be forcedout by the fire.

So it was. First, at the fork, they saw a round body covered withfire—the size of a man's head—appear very suddenly, then seem tocollapse and fall back. This, five or six times; then a similar ballleapt into the air and fell on the grass, where after a moment it laystill. The Bishop went as near as he dared to it, and saw—what but theremains of an enormous spider, veinous and seared! And, as the fireburned lower down, more terrible bodies like this began to break outfrom the trunk, and it was seen that these were covered with greyishhair.

All that day the ash burned, and until it fell to pieces the men stoodabout it, and from time to time killed the brutes as they darted out. Atlast there was a long interval when none appeared, and they cautiouslyclosed in and examined the roots of the tree.

"They found," says the Bishop of Kilmore, "below it a rounded hollowplace in the earth, wherein were two or three bodies of these creaturesthat had plainly been smothered by the smoke; and, what is to me morecurious, at the side of this den, against the wall, was crouching theanatomy or skeleton of a human being, with the skin dried upon thebones, having some remains of black hair, which was pronounced by thosethat examined it to be undoubtedly the body of a woman, and clearly deadfor a period of fifty years."

NUMBER 13

Among the towns of Jutland, Viborg justly holds a high place. It is theseat of a bishopric; it has a handsome but almost entirely newcathedral, a charming garden, a lake of great beauty, and many storks.Near it is Hald, accounted one of the prettiest things in Denmark; andhard by is Finderup, where Marsk Stig murdered King Erik Glipping on St.Cecilia's Day, in the year 1286. Fifty-six blows of square-headed ironmaces were traced on Erik's skull when his tomb was opened in theseventeenth century. But I am not writing a guide-book.

There are good hotels in Viborg—Preisler's and the Phoenix are all thatcan be desired. But my cousin, whose experiences I have to tell you now,went to the Golden Lion the first time that he visited Viborg. He hasnot been there since, and the following pages will perhaps explain thereason of his abstention.

The Golden Lion is one of the very few houses in the town that were notdestroyed in the great fire of 1726, which practically demolished thecathedral, the Sognekirke, the Raadhuus, and so much else that was oldand interesting. It is a great red-brick house—that is, the front is ofbrick, with corbie steps on the gables and a text over the door; but thecourtyard into which the omnibus drives is of black and white"cage-work" in wood and plaster.

The sun was declining in the heavens when my cousin walked up to thedoor, and the light smote full upon the imposing façade of the house. Hewas delighted with the old-fashioned aspect of the place, and promisedhimself a thoroughly satisfactory and amusing stay in an inn so typicalof old Jutland.

It was not business in the ordinary sense of the word that had broughtMr. Anderson to Viborg. He was engaged upon some researches into theChurch history of Denmark, and it had come to his knowledge that in theRigsarkiv of Viborg there were papers, saved from the fire, relating tothe last days of Roman Catholicism in the country. He proposed,therefore, to spend a considerable time—perhaps as much as a fortnightor three weeks—in examining and copying these, and he hoped that theGolden Lion would be able to give him a room of sufficient size to servealike as a bedroom and a study. His wishes were explained to thelandlord, and, after a certain amount of thought, the latter suggestedthat perhaps it might be the best way for the gentleman to look at oneor two of the larger rooms and pick one for himself. It seemed a goodidea.

The top floor was soon rejected as entailing too much getting upstairsafter the day's work; the second floor contained no room of exactly thedimensions required; but on the first floor there was a choice of twoor three rooms which would, so far as size went, suit admirably.

The landlord was strongly in favour of Number 17, but Mr. Andersonpointed out that its windows commanded only the blank wall of the nexthouse, and that it would be very dark in the afternoon. Either Number 12or Number 14 would be better, for both of them looked on the street, andthe bright evening light and the pretty view would more than compensatehim for the additional amount of noise.

Eventually Number 12 was selected. Like its neighbours, it had threewindows, all on one side of the room; it was fairly high and unusuallylong. There was, of course, no fireplace, but the stove was handsome andrather old—a cast-iron erection, on the side of which was arepresentation of Abraham sacrificing Isaac, and the inscription, "1 BogMose, Cap. 22," above. Nothing else in the room was remarkable; the onlyinteresting picture was an old coloured print of the town, date about1820.

Supper-time was approaching, but when Anderson, refreshed by theordinary ablutions, descended the staircase, there were still a fewminutes before the bell rang. He devoted them to examining the list ofhis fellow-lodgers. As is usual in Denmark, their names were displayedon a large blackboard, divided into columns and lines, the numbers ofthe rooms being painted in at the beginning of each line. The list wasnot exciting. There was an advocate, or Sagförer, a German, and somebagmen from Copenhagen. The one and only point which suggested any foodfor thought was the absence of any Number 13 from the tale of the rooms,and even this was a thing which Anderson had already noticed half adozen times in his experience of Danish hotels. He could not helpwondering whether the objection to that particular number, common as itis, was so widespread and so strong as to make it difficult to let aroom so ticketed, and he resolved to ask the landlord if he and hiscolleagues in the profession had actually met with many clients whorefused to be accommodated in the thirteenth room.

He had nothing to tell me (I am giving the story as I heard it from him)about what passed at supper, and the evening, which was spent inunpacking and arranging his clothes, books, and papers, was not moreeventful. Towards eleven o'clock he resolved to go to bed, but with him,as with a good many other people nowadays, an almost necessarypreliminary to bed, if he meant to sleep, was the reading of a few pagesof print, and he now remembered that the particular book which he hadbeen reading in the train, and which alone would satisfy him at thatpresent moment, was in the pocket of his greatcoat, then hanging on apeg outside the dining-room.

To run down and secure it was the work of a moment, and, as the passageswere by no means dark, it was not difficult for him to find his way backto his own door. So, at least, he thought; but when he arrived there,and turned the handle, the door entirely refused to open, and he caughtthe sound of a hasty movement towards it from within. He had tried thewrong door, of course. Was his own room to the right or to the left? Heglanced at the number: it was 13. His room would be on the left; and soit was. And not before he had been in bed for some minutes, had read hiswonted three or four pages of his book, blown out his light, and turnedover to go to sleep, did it occur to him that, whereas on the blackboardof the hotel there had been no Number 13, there was undoubtedly a roomnumbered 13 in the hotel. He felt rather sorry he had not chosen it forhis own. Perhaps he might have done the landlord a little service byoccupying it, and given him the chance of saying that a well-bornEnglish gentleman had lived in it for three weeks and liked it verymuch. But probably it was used as a servant's room or something of thekind. After all, it was most likely not so large or good a room as hisown. And he looked drowsily about the room, which was fairly perceptiblein the half-light from the street-lamp. It was a curious effect, hethought. Rooms usually look larger in a dim light than a full one, butthis seemed to have contracted in length and grown proportionatelyhigher. Well, well! sleep was more important than these vagueruminations—and to sleep he went.

On the day after his arrival Anderson attacked the Rigsarkiv of Viborg.He was, as one might expect in Denmark, kindly received, and access toall that he wished to see was made as easy for him as possible. Thedocuments laid before him were far more numerous and interesting than hehad at all anticipated. Besides official papers, there was a largebundle of correspondence relating to Bishop Jörgen Friis, the last RomanCatholic who held the see, and in these there cropped up many amusingand what are called "intimate" details of private life and individualcharacter. There was much talk of a house owned by the Bishop, but notinhabited by him, in the town. Its tenant was apparently somewhat of ascandal and a stumbling-block to the reforming party. He was a disgrace,they wrote, to the city; he practised secret and wicked arts, and hadsold his soul to the enemy. It was of a piece with the gross corruptionand superstition of the Babylonish Church that such a viper andblood-sucking Troldmand should be patronized and harboured by theBishop. The Bishop met these reproaches boldly; he protested his ownabhorrence of all such things as secret arts, and required hisantagonists to bring the matter before the proper court—of course, thespiritual court—and sift it to the bottom. No one could be more readyand willing than himself to condemn Mag. Nicolas Francken if theevidence showed him to have been guilty of any of the crimes informallyalleged against him.

Anderson had not time to do more than glance at the next letter of theProtestant leader, Rasmus Nielsen, before the record office was closedfor the day, but he gathered its general tenor, which was to the effectthat Christian men were now no longer bound by the decisions of Bishopsof Rome, and that the Bishop's Court was not, and could not be, a fit orcompetent tribunal to judge so grave and weighty a cause.

On leaving the office, Mr. Anderson was accompanied by the old gentlemanwho presided over it, and, as they walked, the conversation verynaturally turned to the papers of which I have just been speaking.

Herr Scavenius, the Archivist of Viborg, though very well informed as tothe general run of the documents under his charge, was not a specialistin those of the Reformation period. He was much interested in whatAnderson had to tell him about them. He looked forward with greatpleasure, he said, to seeing the publication in which Mr. Anderson spokeof embodying their contents. "This house of the Bishop Friis," he added,"it is a great puzzle to me where it can have stood. I have studiedcarefully the topography of old Viborg, but it is most unlucky—of theold terrier of the Bishop's property which was made in 1560, and ofwhich we have the greater part in the Arkiv, just the piece which hadthe list of the town property is missing. Never mind. Perhaps I shallsome day succeed to find him."

After taking some exercise—I forget exactly how or where—Anderson wentback to the Golden Lion, his supper, his game of patience, and his bed.On the way to his room it occurred to him that he had forgotten to talkto the landlord about the omission of Number 13 from the hotel, and alsothat he might as well make sure that Number 13 did actually existbefore he made any reference to the matter.

The decision was not difficult to arrive at. There was the door with itsnumber as plain as could be, and work of some kind was evidently goingon inside it, for as he neared the door he could hear footsteps andvoices, or a voice, within. During the few seconds in which he halted tomake sure of the number, the footsteps ceased, seemingly very near thedoor, and he was a little startled at hearing a quick hissing breathingas of a person in strong excitement. He went on to his own room, andagain he was surprised to find how much smaller it seemed now than ithad when he selected it. It was a slight disappointment, but onlyslight. If he found it really not large enough, he could very easilyshift to another. In the meantime he wanted something—as far as Iremember it was a pocket-handkerchief—out of his portmanteau, which hadbeen placed by the porter on a very inadequate trestle or stool againstthe wall at the farthest end of the room from his bed. Here was a verycurious thing: the portmanteau was not to be seen. It had been moved byofficious servants; doubtless the contents had been put in the wardrobe.No, none of them were there. This was vexatious. The idea of a theft hedismissed at once. Such things rarely happen in Denmark, but some pieceof stupidity had certainly been performed (which is not so uncommon),and the stuepige must be severely spoken to. Whatever it was that hewanted, it was not so necessary to his comfort that he could not waittill the morning for it, and he therefore settled not to ring the belland disturb the servants. He went to the window—the right-hand windowit was—and looked out on the quiet street. There was a tall buildingopposite, with large spaces of dead wall; no passers-by; a dark night;and very little to be seen of any kind.

The light was behind him, and he could see his own shadow clearly caston the wall opposite. Also the shadow of the bearded man in Number 11 onthe left, who passed to and fro in shirtsleeves once or twice, and wasseen first brushing his hair, and later on in a nightgown. Also theshadow of the occupant of Number 13 on the right. This might be moreinteresting. Number 13 was, like himself, leaning on his elbows on thewindow-sill looking out into the street. He seemed to be a tall thinman—or was it by any chance a woman?—at least, it was someone whocovered his or her head with some kind of drapery before going to bed,and, he thought, must be possessed of a red lamp-shade—and the lampmust be flickering very much. There was a distinct playing up and downof a dull red light on the opposite wall. He craned out a little to seeif he could make any more of the figure, but beyond a fold of somelight, perhaps white, material on the window-sill he could see nothing.

Now came a distant step in the street, and its approach seemed to recallNumber 13 to a sense of his exposed position, for very swiftly andsuddenly he swept aside from the window, and his red light went out.Anderson, who had been smoking a cigarette, laid the end of it on thewindow-sill and went to bed.

Next morning he was woke by the stuepige with hot water, etc. Heroused himself, and after thinking out the correct Danish words, said asdistinctly as he could:

"You must not move my portmanteau. Where is it?"

As is not uncommon, the maid laughed, and went away without making anydistinct answer.

Anderson, rather irritated, sat up in bed, intending to call her back,but he remained sitting up, staring straight in front of him. There washis portmanteau on its trestle, exactly where he had seen the porter putit when he first arrived. This was a rude shock for a man who pridedhimself on his accuracy of observation. How it could possibly haveescaped him the night before he did not pretend to understand; at anyrate, there it was now.

The daylight showed more than the portmanteau; it let the trueproportions of the room with its three windows appear, and satisfied itstenant that his choice after all had not been a bad one. When he wasalmost dressed he walked to the middle one of the three windows to lookout at the weather. Another shock awaited him. Strangely unobservant hemust have been last night. He could have sworn ten times over that hehad been smoking at the right-hand window the last thing before he wentto bed, and here was his cigarette-end on the sill of the middle window.

He started to go down to breakfast. Rather late, but Number 13 waslater: here were his boots still outside his door—a gentleman's boots.So then Number 13 was a man, not a woman. Just then he caught sight ofthe number on the door. It was 14. He thought he must have passed Number13 without noticing it. Three stupid mistakes in twelve hours were toomuch for a methodical, accurate-minded man, so he turned back to makesure. The next number to 14 was number 12, his own room. There was noNumber 13 at all.

After some minutes devoted to a careful consideration of everything hehad had to eat and drink during the last twenty-four hours, Andersondecided to give the question up. If his sight or his brain were givingway he would have plenty of opportunities for ascertaining that fact; ifnot, then he was evidently being treated to a very interestingexperience. In either case the development of events would certainly beworth watching.

During the day he continued his examination of the episcopalcorrespondence which I have already summarized. To his disappointment,it was incomplete. Only one other letter could be found which referredto the affair of Mag. Nicolas Francken. It was from the Bishop JörgenFriis to Rasmus Nielsen. He said:

"Although we are not in the least degree inclined to assent to yourjudgment concerning our court, and shall be prepared if need be towithstand you to the uttermost in that behalf, yet forasmuch as ourtrusty and well-beloved Mag. Nicolas Francken, against whom you havedared to allege certain false and malicious charges, hath been suddenlyremoved from among us, it is apparent that the question for this timefalls. But forasmuch as you further allege that the Apostle andEvangelist St. John in his heavenly Apocalypse describes the Holy RomanChurch under the guise and symbol of the Scarlet Woman, be it known toyou," etc.

Search as he might, Anderson could find no sequel to this letter nor anyclue to the cause or manner of the "removal" of the casus belli. Hecould only suppose that Francken had died suddenly; and as there wereonly two days between the date of Nielsen's last letter—when Franckenwas evidently still in being—and that of the Bishop's letter, the deathmust have been completely unexpected.

In the afternoon he paid a short visit to Hald, and took his tea atBaekkelund; nor could he notice, though he was in a somewhat nervousframe of mind, that there was any indication of such a failure of eye orbrain as his experiences of the morning had led him to fear.

At supper he found himself next to the landlord.

"What," he asked him, after some indifferent conversation, "is thereason why in most of the hotels one visits in this country the numberthirteen is left out of the list of rooms? I see you have none here."

The landlord seemed amused.

"To think that you should have noticed a thing like that! I've thoughtabout it once or twice myself, to tell the truth. An educated man, I'vesaid, has no business with these superstitious notions. I was brought upmyself here in the High School of Viborg, and our old master was alwaysa man to set his face against anything of that kind. He's been dead nowthis many years—a fine upstanding man he was, and ready with his handsas well as his head. I recollect us boys, one snowy day——"

Here he plunged into reminiscence.

"Then you don't think there is any particular objection to having aNumber 13?" said Anderson.

"Ah! to be sure. Well, you understand, I was brought up to the businessby my poor old father. He kept an hotel in Aarhuus first, and then, whenwe were born, he moved to Viborg here, which was his native place, andhad the Phoenix here until he died. That was in 1876. Then I startedbusiness in Silkeborg, and only the year before last I moved into thishouse."

Then followed more details as to the state of the house and businesswhen first taken over.

"And when you came here, was there a Number 13?"

"No, no. I was going to tell you about that. You see, in a place likethis, the commercial class—the travellers—are what we have to providefor in general. And put them in Number 13? Why, they'd as soon sleep inthe street, or sooner. As far as I'm concerned myself, it wouldn't makea penny difference to me what the number of my room was, and so I'veoften said to them; but they stick to it that it brings them bad luck.Quantities of stories they have among them of men that have slept in aNumber 13 and never been the same again, or lost their best customers,or—one thing and another," said the landlord, after searching for amore graphic phrase.

"Then, what do you use your Number 13 for?" said Anderson, conscious ashe said the words of a curious anxiety quite disproportionate to theimportance of the question.

"My Number 13? Why, don't I tell you that there isn't such a thing inthe house? I thought you might have noticed that. If there was it wouldbe next door to your own room."

"Well, yes; only I happened to think—that is, I fancied last night thatI had seen a door numbered thirteen in that passage; and, really, I amalmost certain I must have been right, for I saw it the night before aswell."

Of course, Herr Kristensen laughed this notion to scorn, as Anderson hadexpected, and emphasized with much iteration the fact that no Number 13existed or had existed before him in that hotel.

Anderson was in some ways relieved by his certainty but still puzzled,and he began to think that the best way to make sure whether he hadindeed been subject to an illusion or not was to invite the landlord tohis room to smoke a cigar later on in the evening. Some photographs ofEnglish towns which he had with him formed a sufficiently good excuse.

Herr Kristensen was flattered by the invitation, and most willinglyaccepted it. At about ten o'clock he was to make his appearance, butbefore that Anderson had some letters to write, and retired for thepurpose of writing them. He almost blushed to himself at confessing it,but he could not deny that it was the fact that he was becoming quitenervous about the question of the existence of Number 13; so much sothat he approached his room by way of Number 11, in order that he mightnot be obliged to pass the door, or the place where the door ought tobe. He looked quickly and suspiciously about the room when he enteredit, but there was nothing, beyond that indefinable air of being smallerthan usual, to warrant any misgivings. There was no question of thepresence or absence of his portmanteau to-night. He had himself emptiedit of its contents and lodged it under his bed. With a certain effort hedismissed the thought of Number 13 from his mind, and sat down to hiswriting.

His neighbours were quiet enough. Occasionally a door opened in thepassage and a pair of boots was thrown out, or a bagman walked pasthumming to himself, and outside, from time to time a cart thundered overthe atrocious cobble-stones, or a quick step hurried along the flags.

Anderson finished his letters, ordered in whisky and soda, and then wentto the window and studied the dead wall opposite and the shadows uponit.

As far as he could remember, Number 14 had been occupied by the lawyer,a staid man, who said little at meals, being generally engaged instudying a small bundle of papers beside his plate. Apparently, however,he was in the habit of giving vent to his animal spirits when alone. Whyelse should he be dancing? The shadow from the next room evidentlyshowed that he was. Again and again his thin form crossed the window,his arms waved, and a gaunt leg was kicked up with surprising agility.He seemed to be barefooted, and the floor must be well laid, for nosound betrayed his movements. Sagförer Herr Anders Jensen, dancing atten o'clock at night in a hotel bedroom, seemed a fitting subject for ahistorical painting in the grand style; and Anderson's thoughts, likethose of Emily in the Mysteries of Udolpho, began to "arrangethemselves in the following lines":

Had not the landlord at this moment knocked at the door, it is probablethat quite a long poem might have been laid before the reader. To judgefrom his look of surprise when he found himself in the room, HerrKristensen was struck, as Anderson had been, by something unusual in itsaspect. But he made no remark. Anderson's photographs interested himmightily, and formed the text of many autobiographical discourses. Noris it quite clear how the conversation could have been diverted into thedesired channel of Number 13, had not the lawyer at this moment begun tosing, and to sing in a manner which could leave no doubt in anyone'smind that he was either exceedingly drunk or raving mad. It was a high,thin voice that they heard, and it seemed dry, as if from long disuse.Of words or tune there was no question. It went sailing up to asurprising height, and was carried down with a despairing moan as of awinter wind in a hollow chimney, or an organ whose wind fails suddenly.It was a really horrible sound, and Anderson felt that if he had beenalone he must have fled for refuge and society to some neighbourbagman's room.

The landlord sat open-mouthed.

"I don't understand it," he said at last, wiping his forehead. "It isdreadful. I have heard it once before, but I made sure it was a cat."

"Is he mad?" said Anderson.

"He must be; and what a sad thing! Such a good customer, too, and sosuccessful in his business, by what I hear, and a young family to bringup."

Just then, came an impatient knock at the door, and the knocker entered,without waiting to be asked. It was the lawyer, in deshabille and veryrough-haired; and very angry he looked.

"I beg pardon, sir," he said, "but I should be much obliged if youwould kindly desist——"

Here he stopped, for it was evident that neither of the persons beforehim was responsible for the disturbance; and after a moment's lull itswelled forth again more wildly than before.

"But what in the name of Heaven does it mean?" broke out the lawyer."Where is it? Who is it? Am I going out of my mind?"

"Surely, Herr Jensen, it comes from your room next door? Isn't there acat or something stuck in the chimney?"

This was the best that occurred to Anderson to say, and he realized itsfutility as he spoke; but anything was better than to stand and listento that horrible voice, and look at the broad, white face of thelandlord, all perspiring and quivering as he clutched the arms of hischair.

"Impossible," said the lawyer, "impossible. There is no chimney. I camehere because I was convinced the noise was going on here. It wascertainly in the next room to mine."

"Was there no door between yours and mine?" said Anderson eagerly.

"No, sir," said Herr Jensen, rather sharply. "At least, not thismorning."

"Ah!" said Anderson. "Nor to-night?"

"I am not sure," said the lawyer with some hesitation.

Suddenly the crying or singing voice in the next room died away, and thesinger was heard seemingly to laugh to himself in a crooning manner. Thethree men actually shivered at the sound. Then there was a silence.

"Come," said the lawyer, "what have you to say, Herr Kristensen? Whatdoes this mean?"

"Good Heaven!" said Kristensen. "How should I tell! I know no more thanyou, gentlemen. I pray I may never hear such a noise again."

"So do I," said Herr Jensen, and he added something under his breath.Anderson thought it sounded like the last words of the Psalter, "omnisspiritus laudet Dominum," but he could not be sure.

"But we must do something," said Anderson—"the three of us. Shall we goand investigate in the next room?"

"But that is Herr Jensen's room," wailed the landlord. "It is no use; hehas come from there himself."

"I am not so sure," said Jensen. "I think this gentleman is right: wemust go and see."

The only weapons of defence that could be mustered on the spot were astick and umbrella. The expedition went out into the passage, notwithout quakings. There was a deadly quiet outside, but a light shonefrom under the next door. Anderson and Jensen approached it. The latterturned the handle, and gave a sudden vigorous push. No use. The doorstood fast.

"Herr Kristensen," said Jensen, "will you go and fetch the strongestservant you have in the place? We must see this through."

The landlord nodded, and hurried off, glad to be away from the scene ofaction. Jensen and Anderson remained outside looking at the door.

"It is Number 13, you see," said the latter.

"Yes; there is your door, and there is mine," said Jensen.

"My room has three windows in the daytime," said Anderson, withdifficulty suppressing a nervous laugh.

"By George, so has mine!" said the lawyer, turning and looking atAnderson. His back was now to the door. In that moment the door opened,and an arm came out and clawed at his shoulder. It was clad in ragged,yellowish linen, and the bare skin, where it could be seen, had longgrey hair upon it.

Anderson was just in time to pull Jensen out of its reach with a cry ofdisgust and fright, when the door shut again, and a low laugh was heard.

Jensen had seen nothing, but when Anderson hurriedly told him what arisk he had run, he fell into a great state of agitation, and suggestedthat they should retire from the enterprise and lock themselves up inone or other of their rooms.

However, while he was developing this plan, the landlord and twoable-bodied men arrived on the scene, all looking rather serious andalarmed. Jensen met them with a torrent of description and explanation,which did not at all tend to encourage them for the fray.

The men dropped the crowbars they had brought, and said flatly that theywere not going to risk their throats in that devil's den. The landlordwas miserably nervous and undecided, conscious that if the danger werenot faced his hotel was ruined, and very loth to face it himself.Luckily Anderson hit upon a way of rallying the demoralized force.

"Is this," he said, "the Danish courage I have heard so much of? Itisn't a German in there, and if it was, we are five to one."

The two servants and Jensen were stung into action by this, and made adash at the door.

"Stop!" said Anderson. "Don't lose your heads. You stay out here withthe light, landlord, and one of you two men break in the door, and don'tgo in when it gives way."

The men nodded, and the younger stepped forward, raised his crowbar, anddealt a tremendous blow on the upper panel. The result was not in theleast what any of them anticipated. There was no cracking or rending ofwood—only a dull sound, as if the solid wall had been struck. The mandropped his tool with a shout, and began rubbing his elbow. His cry drewtheir eyes upon him for a moment; then Anderson looked at the dooragain. It was gone; the plaster wall of the passage stared him in theface, with a considerable gash in it where the crowbar had struck it.Number 13 had passed out of existence.

For a brief space they stood perfectly still, gazing at the blank wall.An early cock in the yard beneath was heard to crow; and as Andersonglanced in the direction of the sound, he saw through the window at theend of the long passage that the eastern sky was paling to the dawn.

"Perhaps," said the landlord, with hesitation, "you gentlemen would likeanother room for to-night—a double-bedded one?"

Neither Jensen nor Anderson was averse to the suggestion. They feltinclined to hunt in couples after their late experience. It was foundconvenient, when each of them went to his room to collect the articleshe wanted for the night, that the other should go with him and hold thecandle. They noticed that both Number 12 and Number 14 had threewindows.

Next morning the same party reassembled in Number 12. The landlord wasnaturally anxious to avoid engaging outside help, and yet it wasimperative that the mystery attaching to that part of the house shouldbe cleared up. Accordingly the two servants had been induced to takeupon them the function of carpenters. The furniture was cleared away,and, at the cost of a good many irretrievably damaged planks, thatportion of the floor was taken up which lay nearest to Number 14.

You will naturally suppose that a skeleton—say that of Mag. NicolasFrancken—was discovered. That was not so. What they did find lyingbetween the beams which supported the flooring was a small copper box.In it was a neatly-folded vellum document, with about twenty lines ofwriting. Both Anderson and Jensen (who proved to be something of apalæographer) were much excited by this discovery, which promised toafford the key to these extraordinary phenomena.

I possess a copy of an astrological work which I have never read. Ithas, by way of frontispiece, a woodcut by Hans Sebald Beham,representing a number of sages seated round a table. This detail mayenable connoisseurs to identify the book. I cannot myself recollect itstitle, and it is not at this moment within reach; but the fly-leaves ofit are covered with writing, and, during the ten years in which I haveowned the volume, I have not been able to determine which way up thiswriting ought to be read, much less in what language it is. Notdissimilar was the position of Anderson and Jensen after the protractedexamination to which they submitted the document in the copper box.

After two days' contemplation of it, Jensen, who was the bolder spiritof the two, hazarded the conjecture that the language was either Latinor Old Danish.

Anderson ventured upon no surmises, and was very willing to surrenderthe box and the parchment to the Historical Society of Viborg to beplaced in their museum.

I had the whole story from him a few months later, as we sat in a woodnear Upsala, after a visit to the library there, where we—or, rather,I—had laughed over the contract by which Daniel Salthenius (in laterlife Professor of Hebrew at Königsberg) sold himself to Satan. Andersonwas not really amused.

"Young idiot!" he said, meaning Salthenius, who was only anundergraduate when he committed that indiscretion, "how did he know whatcompany he was courting?"

And when I suggested the usual considerations he only grunted. That sameafternoon he told me what you have read; but he refused to draw anyinferences from it, and to assent to any that I drew for him.

COUNT MAGNUS

By what means the papers out of which I have made a connected story cameinto my hands is the last point which the reader will learn from thesepages. But it is necessary to prefix to my extracts from them astatement of the form in which I possess them.

They consist, then, partly of a series of collections for a book oftravels, such a volume as was a common product of the forties andfifties. Horace Marryat's Journal of a Residence in Jutland and theDanish Isles is a fair specimen of the class to which I allude. Thesebooks usually treated of some unfamiliar district on the Continent. Theywere illustrated with woodcuts or steel plates. They gave details ofhotel accommodation, and of means of communication, such as we nowexpect to find in any well-regulated guide-book, and they dealt largelyin reported conversations with intelligent foreigners, racy innkeepersand garrulous peasants. In a word, they were chatty.

Begun with the idea of furnishing material for such a book, my papers asthey progressed assumed the character of a record of one single personalexperience, and this record was continued up to the very eve, almost, ofits termination.

The writer was a Mr. Wraxall. For my knowledge of him I have to dependentirely on the evidence his writings afford, and from these I deducethat he was a man past middle age, possessed of some private means, andvery much alone in the world. He had, it seems, no settled abode inEngland, but was a denizen of hotels and boarding-houses. It is probablethat he entertained the idea of settling down at some future time whichnever came; and I think it also likely that the Pantechnicon fire in theearly seventies must have destroyed a great deal that would have thrownlight on his antecedents, for he refers once or twice to property of histhat was warehoused at that establishment.

It is further apparent that Mr. Wraxall had published a book, and thatit treated of a holiday he had once taken in Brittany. More than this Icannot say about his work, because a diligent search in bibliographicalworks has convinced me that it must have appeared either anonymously orunder a pseudonym.

As to his character, it is not difficult to form some superficialopinion. He must have been an intelligent and cultivated man. It seemsthat he was near being a Fellow of his college at Oxford—Brasenose, asI judge from the Calendar. His besetting fault was pretty clearly thatof over-inquisitiveness, possibly a good fault in a traveller, certainlya fault for which this traveller paid dearly enough in the end.

On what proved to be his last expedition, he was plotting another book.Scandinavia, a region not widely known to Englishmen forty years ago,had struck him as an interesting field. He must have lighted on someold books of Swedish history or memoirs, and the idea had struck himthat there was room for a book descriptive of travel in Sweden,interspersed with episodes from the history of some of the great Swedishfamilies. He procured letters of introduction, therefore, to somepersons of quality in Sweden, and set out thither in the early summer of1863.

Of his travels in the North there is no need to speak, nor of hisresidence of some weeks in Stockholm. I need only mention that somesavant resident there put him on the track of an important collectionof family papers belonging to the proprietors of an ancient manor-housein Vestergothland, and obtained for him permission to examine them.

The manor-house, or herrgård, in question is to be called Råbäck(pronounced something like Roebeck), though that is not its name. It isone of the best buildings of its kind in all the country, and thepicture of it in Dablenberg's Suecia antiqua et moderna, engraved in1694, shows it very much as the tourist may see it to-day. It was builtsoon after 1600, and is, roughly speaking, very much like an Englishhouse of that period in respect of material—red-brick with stonefacings—and style. The man who built it was a scion of the great houseof De la Gardie, and his descendants possess it still. De la Gardie isthe name by which I will designate them when mention of them becomesnecessary.

They received Mr. Wraxall with great kindness and courtesy, and pressedhim to stay in the house as long as his researches lasted. But,preferring to be independent, and mistrusting his powers of conversingin Swedish, he settled himself at the village inn, which turned outquite sufficiently comfortable, at any rate during the summer months.This arrangement would entail a short walk daily to and from themanor-house of something under a mile. The house itself stood in a park,and was protected—we should say grown up—with large old timber. Nearit you found the walled garden, and then entered a close wood fringingone of the small lakes with which the whole country is pitted. Then camethe wall of the demesne, and you climbed a steep knoll—a knob of rocklightly covered with soil—and on the top of this stood the church,fenced in with tall dark trees. It was a curious building to Englisheyes. The nave and aisles were low, and filled with pews and galleries.In the western gallery stood the handsome old organ, gaily painted, andwith silver pipes. The ceiling was flat, and had been adorned by aseventeenth-century artist with a strange and hideous "Last Judgment,"full of lurid flames, falling cities, burning ships, crying souls, andbrown and smiling demons. Handsome brass coronæ hung from the roof; thepulpit was like a doll's-house, covered with little painted woodencherubs and saints; a stand with three hour-glasses was hinged to thepreacher's desk. Such sights as these may be seen in many a church inSweden now, but what distinguished this one was an addition to theoriginal building. At the eastern end of the north aisle the builder ofthe manor-house had erected a mausoleum for himself and his family. Itwas a largish eight-sided building, lighted by a series of oval windows,and it had a domed roof, topped by a kind of pumpkin-shaped objectrising into a spire, a form in which Swedish architects greatlydelighted. The roof was of copper externally, and was painted black,while the walls, in common with those of the church, were staringlywhite. To this mausoleum there was no access from the church. It had aportal and steps of its own on the northern side.

Past the churchyard the path to the village goes, and not more thanthree or four minutes bring you to the inn door.

On the first day of his stay at Råbäck Mr. Wraxall found the church dooropen, and made those notes of the interior which I have epitomized. Intothe mausoleum, however, he could not make his way. He could by lookingthrough the keyhole just descry that there were fine marble effigies andsarcophagi of copper, and a wealth of armorial ornament, which made himvery anxious to spend some time in investigation.

The papers he had come to examine at the manor-house proved to be ofjust the kind he wanted for his book. There were family correspondence,journals, and account-books of the earliest owners of the estate, verycarefully kept and clearly written, full of amusing and picturesquedetail. The first De la Gardie appeared in them as a strong and capableman. Shortly after the building of the mansion there had been a periodof distress in the district, and the peasants had risen and attackedseveral châteaux and done some damage. The owner of Råbäck took aleading part in suppressing the trouble, and there was reference toexecutions of ringleaders and severe punishments inflicted with nosparing hand.

The portrait of this Magnus de la Gardie was one of the best in thehouse, and Mr. Wraxall studied it with no little interest after hisday's work. He gives no detailed description of it, but I gather thatthe face impressed him rather by its power than by its beauty orgoodness; in fact, he writes that Count Magnus was an almostphenomenally ugly man.

On this day Mr. Wraxall took his supper with the family, and walked backin the late but still bright evening.

"I must remember," he writes, "to ask the sexton if he can let me intothe mausoleum at the church. He evidently has access to it himself, forI saw him to-night standing on the steps, and, as I thought, locking orunlocking the door."

I find that early on the following day Mr. Wraxall had some conversationwith his landlord. His setting it down at such length as he doessurprised me at first; but I soon realized that the papers I wasreading were, at least in their beginning, the materials for thebook he was meditating, and that it was to have been one of thosequasi-journalistic productions which admit of the introduction of anadmixture of conversational matter.

His object, he says, was to find out whether any traditions of CountMagnus de la Gardie lingered on in the scenes of that gentleman'sactivity, and whether the popular estimate of him were favourable ornot. He found that the Count was decidedly not a favourite. If histenants came late to their work on the days which they owed to him asLord of the Manor, they were set on the wooden horse, or flogged andbranded in the manor-house yard. One or two cases there were of men whohad occupied lands which encroached on the lord's domain, and whosehouses had been mysteriously burnt on a winter's night, with the wholefamily inside. But what seemed to dwell on the innkeeper's mindmost—for he returned to the subject more than once—was that the Counthad been on the Black Pilgrimage, and had brought something or someoneback with him.

You will naturally inquire, as Mr. Wraxall did, what the BlackPilgrimage may have been. But your curiosity on the point must remainunsatisfied for the time being, just as his did. The landlord wasevidently unwilling to give a full answer, or indeed any answer, on thepoint, and, being called out for a moment, trotted off with obviousalacrity, only putting his head in at the door a few minutes afterwardsto say that he was called away to Skara, and should not be back tillevening.

So Mr. Wraxall had to go unsatisfied to his day's work at themanor-house. The papers on which he was just then engaged soon put histhoughts into another channel, for he had to occupy himself withglancing over the correspondence between Sophia Albertina in Stockholmand her married cousin Ulrica Leonora at Råbäck in the years 1705-1710.The letters were of exceptional interest from the light they threw uponthe culture of that period in Sweden, as anyone can testify who has readthe full edition of them in the publications of the Swedish HistoricalManuscripts Commission.

In the afternoon he had done with these, and after returning the boxesin which they were kept to their places on the shelf, he proceeded, verynaturally, to take down some of the volumes nearest to them, in order todetermine which of them had best be his principal subject ofinvestigation next day. The shelf he had hit upon was occupied mostly bya collection of account-books in the writing of the first Count Magnus.But one among them was not an account-book, but a book of alchemical andother tracts in another sixteenth-century hand. Not being very familiarwith alchemical literature, Mr. Wraxall spends much space which he mighthave spared in setting out the names and beginnings of the varioustreatises: The book of the Phoenix, book of the Thirty Words, book of theToad, book of Miriam, Turba philosophorum, and so forth; and then heannounces with a good deal of circumstance his delight at finding, on aleaf originally left blank near the middle of the book, some writing ofCount Magnus himself headed "Liber nigræ peregrinationis." It is truethat only a few lines were written, but there was quite enough to showthat the landlord had that morning been referring to a belief at leastas old as the time of Count Magnus, and probably shared by him. This isthe English of what was written:

"If any man desires to obtain a long life, if he would obtain a faithfulmessenger and see the blood of his enemies, it is necessary that heshould first go into the city of Chorazin, and there salute theprince...." Here there was an erasure of one word, not very thoroughlydone, so that Mr. Wraxall felt pretty sure that he was right in readingit as aëris ("of the air"). But there was no more of the text copied,only a line in Latin: "Quære reliqua hujus materiei inter secretiora"(See the rest of this matter among the more private things).

It could not be denied that this threw a rather lurid light upon thetastes and beliefs of the Count; but to Mr. Wraxall, separated from himby nearly three centuries, the thought that he might have added to hisgeneral forcefulness alchemy, and to alchemy something like magic, onlymade him a more picturesque figure; and when, after a rather prolongedcontemplation of his picture in the hall, Mr. Wraxall set out on hishomeward way, his mind was full of the thought of Count Magnus. He hadno eyes for his surroundings, no perception of the evening scents ofthe woods or the evening light on the lake; and when all of a sudden hepulled up short, he was astonished to find himself already at the gateof the churchyard, and within a few minutes of his dinner. His eyes fellon the mausoleum.

"Ah," he said, "Count Magnus, there you are. I should dearly like to seeyou."

"Like many solitary men," he writes, "I have a habit of talking tomyself aloud; and, unlike some of the Greek and Latin particles, I donot expect an answer. Certainly, and perhaps fortunately in this case,there was neither voice nor any that regarded: only the woman who, Isuppose, was cleaning up the church, dropped some metallic object on thefloor, whose clang startled me. Count Magnus, I think, sleeps soundenough."

That same evening the landlord of the inn, who had heard Mr. Wraxall saythat he wished to see the clerk or deacon (as he would be called inSweden) of the parish, introduced him to that official in the innparlour. A visit to the De la Gardie tomb-house was soon arranged forthe next day, and a little general conversation ensued.

Mr. Wraxall, remembering that one function of Scandinavian deacons is toteach candidates for Confirmation, thought he would refresh his ownmemory on a Biblical point.

"Can you tell me," he said, "anything about Chorazin?"

The deacon seemed startled, but readily reminded him how that villagehad once been denounced.

"To be sure," said Mr. Wraxall; "it is, I suppose, quite a ruin now?"

"So I expect," replied the deacon. "I have heard some of our old priestssay that Antichrist is to be born there; and there are tales——"

"Ah! what tales are those?" Mr. Wraxall put in.

"Tales, I was going to say, which I have forgotten," said the deacon;and soon after that he said good night.

The landlord was now alone, and at Mr. Wraxall's mercy; and thatinquirer was not inclined to spare him.

"Herr Nielsen," he said, "I have found out something about the BlackPilgrimage. You may as well tell me what you know. What did the Countbring back with him?"

Swedes are habitually slow, perhaps, in answering, or perhaps thelandlord was an exception. I am not sure; but Mr. Wraxall notes that thelandlord spent at least one minute in looking at him before he saidanything at all. Then he came close up to his guest, and with a gooddeal of effort he spoke:

"Mr. Wraxall, I can tell you this one little tale, and no more—not anymore. You must not ask anything when I have done. In my grandfather'stime—that is, ninety-two years ago—there were two men who said: 'TheCount is dead; we do not care for him. We will go to-night and have afree hunt in his wood'—the long wood on the hill that you have seenbehind Råbäck. Well, those that heard them say this, they said: 'No, donot go; we are sure you will meet with persons walking who should not bewalking. They should be resting, not walking.' These men laughed. Therewere no forest-men to keep the wood, because no one wished to huntthere. The family were not here at the house. These men could do whatthey wished.

"Very well, they go to the wood that night. My grandfather was sittinghere in this room. It was the summer, and a light night. With the windowopen, he could see out to the wood, and hear.

"So he sat there, and two or three men with him, and they listened. Atfirst they hear nothing at all; then they hear someone—you know how faraway it is—they hear someone scream, just as if the most inside part ofhis soul was twisted out of him. All of them in the room caught hold ofeach other, and they sat so for three-quarters of an hour. Then theyhear someone else, only about three hundred ells off. They hear himlaugh out loud: it was not one of those two men that laughed, and,indeed, they have all of them said that it was not any man at all. Afterthat they hear a great door shut.

"Then, when it was just light with the sun, they all went to the priest.They said to him:

"'Father, put on your gown and your ruff, and come to bury these men,Anders Bjornsen and Hans Thorbjorn.'

"You understand that they were sure these men were dead. So they went tothe wood—my grandfather never forgot this. He said they were all likeso many dead men themselves. The priest, too, he was in a white fear. Hesaid when they came to him:

"'I heard one cry in the night, and I heard one laugh afterwards. If Icannot forget that, I shall not be able to sleep again.'

"So they went to the wood, and they found these men on the edge of thewood. Hans Thorbjorn was standing with his back against a tree, and allthe time he was pushing with his hands—pushing something away from himwhich was not there. So he was not dead. And they led him away, and tookhim to the house at Nykjoping, and he died before the winter; but hewent on pushing with his hands. Also Anders Bjornsen was there; but hewas dead. And I tell you this about Anders Bjornsen, that he was once abeautiful man, but now his face was not there, because the flesh of itwas sucked away off the bones. You understand that? My grandfather didnot forget that. And they laid him on the bier which they brought, andthey put a cloth over his head, and the priest walked before; and theybegan to sing the psalm for the dead as well as they could. So, as theywere singing the end of the first verse, one fell down, who was carryingthe head of the bier, and the others looked back, and they saw that thecloth had fallen off, and the eyes of Anders Bjornsen were looking up,because there was nothing to close over them. And this they could notbear. Therefore the priest laid the cloth upon him, and sent for aspade, and they buried him in that place."

The next day Mr. Wraxall records that the deacon called for him soonafter his breakfast, and took him to the church and mausoleum. Henoticed that the key of the latter was hung on a nail just by thepulpit, and it occurred to him that, as the church door seemed to beleft unlocked as a rule, it would not be difficult for him to pay asecond and more private visit to the monuments if there proved to bemore of interest among them than could be digested at first. Thebuilding, when he entered it, he found not unimposing. The monuments,mostly large erections of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, weredignified if luxuriant, and the epitaphs and heraldry were copious. Thecentral space of the domed room was occupied by three copper sarcophagi,covered with finely-engraved ornament. Two of them had, as is commonlythe case in Denmark and Sweden, a large metal crucifix on the lid. Thethird, that of Count Magnus, as it appeared, had, instead of that, afull-length effigy engraved upon it, and round the edge were severalbands of similar ornament representing various scenes. One was a battle,with cannon belching out smoke, and walled towns, and troops of pikemen.Another showed an execution. In a third, among trees, was a man runningat full speed, with flying hair and outstretched hands. After himfollowed a strange form; it would be hard to say whether the artist hadintended it for a man, and was unable to give the requisite similitude,or whether it was intentionally made as monstrous as it looked. In viewof the skill with which the rest of the drawing was done, Mr. Wraxallfelt inclined to adopt the latter idea. The figure was unduly short, andwas for the most part muffled in a hooded garment which swept theground. The only part of the form which projected from that shelter wasnot shaped like any hand or arm. Mr. Wraxall compares it to the tentacleof a devil-fish, and continues: "On seeing this, I said to myself,'This, then, which is evidently an allegorical representation of somekind—a fiend pursuing a hunted soul—may be the origin of the story ofCount Magnus and his mysterious companion. Let us see how the huntsmanis pictured: doubtless it will be a demon blowing his horn.'" But, as itturned out, there was no such sensational figure, only the semblance ofa cloaked man on a hillock, who stood leaning on a stick, and watchingthe hunt with an interest which the engraver had tried to express in hisattitude.

Mr. Wraxall noted the finely-worked and massive steel padlocks—three innumber—which secured the sarcophagus. One of them, he saw, wasdetached, and lay on the pavement. And then, unwilling to delay thedeacon longer or to waste his own working-time, he made his way onwardto the manor-house.

"It is curious," he notes, "how on retracing a familiar path one'sthoughts engross one to the absolute exclusion of surrounding objects.To-night, for the second time, I had entirely failed to notice where Iwas going (I had planned a private visit to the tomb-house to copy theepitaphs), when I suddenly, as it were, awoke to consciousness, andfound myself (as before) turning in at the churchyard gate, and, Ibelieve, singing or chanting some such words as, 'Are you awake, CountMagnus? Are you asleep, Count Magnus?' and then something more which Ihave failed to recollect. It seemed to me that I must have been behavingin this nonsensical way for some time."

He found the key of the mausoleum where he had expected to find it, andcopied the greater part of what he wanted; in fact, he stayed until thelight began to fail him.

"I must have been wrong," he writes, "in saying that one of the padlocksof my Count's sarcophagus was unfastened; I see to-night that two areloose. I picked both up, and laid them carefully on the window-ledge,after trying unsuccessfully to close them. The remaining one is stillfirm, and, though I take it to be a spring lock, I cannot guess how itis opened. Had I succeeded in undoing it, I am almost afraid I shouldhave taken the liberty of opening the sarcophagus. It is strange, theinterest I feel in the personality of this, I fear, somewhat ferociousand grim old noble."

The day following was, as it turned out, the last of Mr. Wraxall's stayat Råbäck. He received letters connected with certain investments whichmade it desirable that he should return to England; his work among thepapers was practically done, and travelling was slow. He decided,therefore, to make his farewells, put some finishing touches to hisnotes, and be off.

These finishing touches and farewells, as it turned out, took more timethan he had expected. The hospitable family insisted on his staying todine with them—they dined at three—and it was verging on half-past sixbefore he was outside the iron gates of Råbäck. He dwelt on every stepof his walk by the lake, determined to saturate himself, now that hetrod it for the last time, in the sentiment of the place and hour. Andwhen he reached the summit of the churchyard knoll, he lingered for manyminutes, gazing at the limitless prospect of woods near and distant, alldark beneath a sky of liquid green. When at last he turned to go, thethought struck him that surely he must bid farewell to Count Magnus aswell as the rest of the De la Gardies. The church was but twenty yardsaway, and he knew where the key of the mausoleum hung. It was not longbefore he was standing over the great copper coffin, and, as usual,talking to himself aloud. "You may have been a bit of a rascal in yourtime, Magnus," he was saying, "but for all that I should like to seeyou, or, rather——"

"Just at that instant," he says, "I felt a blow on my foot. Hastilyenough I drew it back, and something fell on the pavement with a clash.It was the third, the last of the three padlocks which had fastened thesarcophagus. I stooped to pick it up, and—Heaven is my witness that Iam writing only the bare truth—before I had raised myself there was asound of metal hinges creaking, and I distinctly saw the lid shiftingupwards. I may have behaved like a coward, but I could not for my lifestay for one moment. I was outside that dreadful building in less timethan I can write—almost as quickly as I could have said—the words; andwhat frightens me yet more, I could not turn the key in the lock. As Isit here in my room noting these facts, I ask myself (it was not twentyminutes ago) whether that noise of creaking metal continued, and Icannot tell whether it did or not. I only know that there was somethingmore than I have written that alarmed me, but whether it was sound orsight I am not able to remember. What is this that I have done?"

Poor Mr. Wraxall! He set out on his journey to England on the next day,as he had planned, and he reached England in safety; and yet, as Igather from his changed hand and inconsequent jottings, a broken man.One of several small notebooks that have come to me with his papersgives, not a key to, but a kind of inkling of, his experiences. Much ofhis journey was made by canal-boat, and I find not less than sixpainful attempts to enumerate and describe his fellow-passengers. Theentries are of this kind:

"24. Pastor of village in Skåne. Usual black coat and soft blackhat.

"25. Commercial traveller from Stockholm going to Trollhättan.Black cloak, brown hat.

"26. Man in long black cloak, broad-leafed hat, very old-fashioned."

This entry is lined out, and a note added: "Perhaps identical with No.13. Have not yet seen his face." On referring to No. 13, I find that heis a Roman priest in a cassock.

The net result of the reckoning is always the same. Twenty-eight peopleappear in the enumeration, one being always a man in a long black cloakand broad hat, and the other a "short figure in dark cloak and hood." Onthe other hand, it is always noted that only twenty-six passengersappear at meals, and that the man in the cloak is perhaps absent, andthe short figure is certainly absent.

On reaching England, it appears that Mr. Wraxall landed at Harwich, andthat he resolved at once to put himself out of the reach of some personor persons whom he never specifies, but whom he had evidently come toregard as his pursuers. Accordingly he took a vehicle—it was a closedfly—not trusting the railway, and drove across country to the villageof Belchamp St. Paul. It was about nine o'clock on a moonlight Augustnight when he neared the place. He was sitting forward, and looking outof the window at the fields and thickets—there was little else to beseen—racing past him. Suddenly he came to a cross-road. At the cornertwo figures were standing motionless; both were in dark cloaks; thetaller one wore a hat, the shorter a hood. He had no time to see theirfaces, nor did they make any motion that he could discern. Yet the horseshied violently and broke into a gallop, and Mr. Wraxall sank back intohis seat in something like desperation. He had seen them before.

Arrived at Belchamp St. Paul, he was fortunate enough to find a decentfurnished lodging, and for the next twenty-four hours he lived,comparatively speaking, in peace. His last notes were written on thisday. They are too disjointed and ejaculatory to be given here in full,but the substance of them is clear enough. He is expecting a visit fromhis pursuers—how or when he knows not—and his constant cry is "Whathas he done?" and "Is there no hope?" Doctors, he knows, would call himmad, policemen would laugh at him. The parson is away. What can he dobut lock his door and cry to God?

People still remembered last year at Belchamp St. Paul how a strangegentleman came one evening in August years back; and how the nextmorning but one he was found dead, and there was an inquest; and thejury that viewed the body fainted, seven of 'em did, and none of 'emwouldn't speak to what they see, and the verdict was visitation of God;and how the people as kep' the 'ouse moved out that same week, and wentaway from that part. But they do not, I think, know that any glimmer oflight has ever been thrown, or could be thrown, on the mystery. It sohappened that last year the little house came into my hands as part of alegacy. It had stood empty since 1863, and there seemed no prospect ofletting it; so I had it pulled down, and the papers of which I havegiven you an abstract were found in a forgotten cupboard under thewindow in the best bedroom.

"OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD"

"I suppose you will be getting away pretty soon, now Full term is over,Professor," said a person not in the story to the Professor ofOntography, soon after they had sat down next to each other at a feastin the hospitable hall of St. James's College.

The Professor was young, neat, and precise in speech.

"Yes," he said; "my friends have been making me take up golf this term,and I mean to go to the East Coast—in point of fact to Burnstow—(Idare say you know it) for a week or ten days, to improve my game. I hopeto get off to-morrow."

"Oh, Parkins," said his neighbour on the other side, "if you are goingto Burnstow, I wish you would look at the site of the Templars'preceptory, and let me know if you think it would be any good to have adig there in the summer."

It was, as you might suppose, a person of antiquarian pursuits who saidthis, but, since he merely appears in this prologue, there is no need togive his entitlements.

"Certainly," said Parkins, the Professor: "if you will describe to mewhereabouts the site is, I will do my best to give you an idea of thelie of the land when I get back; or I could write to you about it, ifyou would tell me where you are likely to be."

"Don't trouble to do that, thanks. It's only that I'm thinking of takingmy family in that direction in the Long, and it occurred to me that, asvery few of the English preceptories have ever been properly planned, Imight have an opportunity of doing something useful on off-days."

The Professor rather sniffed at the idea that planning out a preceptorycould be described as useful. His neighbour continued:

"The site—I doubt if there is anything showing above ground—must bedown quite close to the beach now. The sea has encroached tremendously,as you know, all along that bit of coast. I should think, from the map,that it must be about three-quarters of a mile from the Globe Inn, atthe north end of the town. Where are you going to stay?"

"Well, at the Globe Inn, as a matter of fact," said Parkins; "I haveengaged a room there. I couldn't get in anywhere else; most of thelodging-houses are shut up in winter, it seems; and, as it is, they tellme that the only room of any size I can have is really a double-beddedone, and that they haven't a corner in which to store the other bed, andso on. But I must have a fairly large room, for I am taking some booksdown, and mean to do a bit of work; and though I don't quite fancyhaving an empty bed—not to speak of two—in what I may call for thetime being my study, I suppose I can manage to rough it for the shorttime I shall be there."

"Do you call having an extra bed in your room roughing it, Parkins?"said a bluff person opposite. "Look here, I shall come down and occupyit for a bit; it'll be company for you."

The Professor quivered, but managed to laugh in a courteous manner.

"By all means, Rogers; there's nothing I should like better. But I'mafraid you would find it rather dull; you don't play golf, do you?"

"No, thank Heaven!" said rude Mr. Rogers.

"Well, you see, when I'm not writing I shall most likely be out on thelinks, and that, as I say, would be rather dull for you, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I don't know! There's certain to be somebody I know in the place;but, of course, if you don't want me, speak the word, Parkins; I shan'tbe offended. Truth, as you always tell us, is never offensive."

Parkins was, indeed, scrupulously polite and strictly truthful. It is tobe feared that Mr. Rogers sometimes practised upon his knowledge ofthese characteristics. In Parkins's breast there was a conflict nowraging, which for a moment or two did not allow him to answer. Thatinterval being over, he said:

"Well, if you want the exact truth, Rogers, I was considering whetherthe room I speak of would really be large enough to accommodate us bothcomfortably; and also whether (mind, I shouldn't have said this if youhadn't pressed me) you would not constitute something in the nature of ahindrance to my work."

Rogers laughed loudly.

"Well done, Parkins!" he said. "It's all right. I promise not tointerrupt your work; don't you disturb yourself about that. No, I won'tcome if you don't want me; but I thought I should do so nicely to keepthe ghosts off." Here he might have been seen to wink and to nudge hisnext neighbour. Parkins might also have been seen to become pink. "I begpardon, Parkins," Rogers continued; "I oughtn't to have said that. Iforgot you didn't like levity on these topics."

"Well," Parkins said, "as you have mentioned the matter, I freely ownthat I do not like careless talk about what you call ghosts. A man inmy position," he went on, raising his voice a little, "cannot, I find,be too careful about appearing to sanction the current beliefs on suchsubjects. As you know, Rogers, or as you ought to know; for I think Ihave never concealed my views——"

"No, you certainly have not, old man," put in Rogers sotto voce.

"——I hold that any semblance, any appearance of concession to the viewthat such things might exist is equivalent to a renunciation of all thatI hold most sacred. But I'm afraid I have not succeeded in securing yourattention."

"Your undivided attention, was what Dr. Blimber actually said,"[4]Rogers interrupted, with every appearance of an earnest desire foraccuracy. "But I beg your pardon, Parkins: I'm stopping you."

"No, not at all," said Parkins. "I don't remember Blimber; perhaps hewas before my time. But I needn't go on. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"Yes, yes," said Rogers, rather hastily—"just so. We'll go into itfully at Burnstow, or somewhere."

In repeating the above dialogue I have tried to give the impressionwhich it made on me, that Parkins was something of an old woman—ratherhen-like, perhaps, in his little ways; totally destitute, alas! of thesense of humour, but at the same time dauntless and sincere in hisconvictions, and a man deserving of the greatest respect. Whether or notthe reader has gathered so much, that was the character which Parkinshad.

On the following day Parkins did, as he had hoped, succeed in gettingaway from his college, and in arriving at Burnstow. He was made welcomeat the Globe Inn, was safely installed in the large double-bedded roomof which we have heard, and was able before retiring to rest to arrangehis materials for work in apple-pie order upon a commodious table whichoccupied the outer end of the room, and was surrounded on three sides bywindows looking out seaward; that is to say, the central window lookedstraight out to sea, and those on the left and right commanded prospectsalong the shore to the north and south respectively. On the south yousaw the village of Burnstow. On the north no houses were to be seen, butonly the beach and the low cliff backing it. Immediately in front was astrip—not considerable—of rough grass, dotted with old anchors,capstans, and so forth; then a broad path; then the beach. Whatever mayhave been the original distance between the Globe Inn and the sea, notmore than sixty yards now separated them.

The rest of the population of the inn was, of course, a golfing one, andincluded few elements that call for a special description. The mostconspicuous figure was, perhaps, that of an ancient militaire,secretary of a London club, and possessed of a voice of incrediblestrength, and of views of a pronouncedly Protestant type. These were aptto find utterance after his attendance upon the ministrations of theVicar, an estimable man with inclinations towards a picturesque ritual,which he gallantly kept down as far as he could out of deference to EastAnglian tradition.

Professor Parkins, one of whose principal characteristics was pluck,spent the greater part of the day following his arrival at Burnstow inwhat he had called improving his game, in company with this ColonelWilson: and during the afternoon—whether the process of improvementwere to blame or not, I am not sure—the Colonel's demeanour assumed acolouring so lurid that even Parkins jibbed at the thought of walkinghome with him from the links. He determined, after a short and furtivelook at that bristling moustache and those incarnadined features, thatit would be wiser to allow the influences of tea and tobacco to do whatthey could with the Colonel before the dinner-hour should render ameeting inevitable.

"I might walk home to-night along the beach," he reflected—"yes, andtake a look—there will be light enough for that—at the ruins of whichDisney was talking. I don't exactly know where they are, by the way; butI expect I can hardly help stumbling on them."

This he accomplished, I may say, in the most literal sense, for inpicking his way from the links to the shingle beach his foot caught,partly in a gorse-root and partly in a biggish stone, and over he went.When he got up and surveyed his surroundings, he found himself in apatch of somewhat broken ground covered with small depressions andmounds. These latter, when he came to examine them, proved to be simplymasses of flints embedded in mortar and grown over with turf. He must,he quite rightly concluded, be on the site of the preceptory he hadpromised to look at. It seemed not unlikely to reward the spade of theexplorer; enough of the foundations was probably left at no great depthto throw a good deal of light on the general plan. He remembered vaguelythat the Templars, to whom this site had belonged, were in the habit ofbuilding round churches, and he thought a particular series of the humpsor mounds near him did appear to be arranged in something of a circularform. Few people can resist the temptation to try a little amateurresearch in a department quite outside their own, if only for thesatisfaction of showing how successful they would have been had theyonly taken it up seriously. Our Professor, however, if he felt somethingof this mean desire, was also truly anxious to oblige Mr. Disney. So hepaced with care the circular area he had noticed, and wrote down itsrough dimensions in his pocket-book. Then he proceeded to examine anoblong eminence which lay east of the centre of the circle, and seemedto his thinking likely to be the base of a platform or altar. At one endof it, the northern, a patch of the turf was gone—removed by some boyor other creature feræ naturæ. It might, he thought, be as well toprobe the soil here for evidences of masonry, and he took out his knifeand began scraping away the earth. And now followed another littlediscovery: a portion of soil fell inward as he scraped, and disclosed asmall cavity. He lighted one match after another to help him to see ofwhat nature the hole was, but the wind was too strong for them all. Bytapping and scratching the sides with his knife, however, he was able tomake out that it must be an artificial hole in masonry. It wasrectangular, and the sides, top, and bottom, if not actually plastered,were smooth and regular. Of course it was empty. No! As he withdrew theknife he heard a metallic clink, and when he introduced his hand it metwith a cylindrical object lying on the floor of the hole. Naturallyenough, he picked it up, and when he brought it into the light, now fastfading, he could see that it, too, was of man's making—a metal tubeabout four inches long, and evidently of some considerable age.

By the time Parkins had made sure that there was nothing else in thisodd receptacle, it was too late and too dark for him to think ofundertaking any further search. What he had done had proved sounexpectedly interesting that he determined to sacrifice a little moreof the daylight on the morrow to archæology. The object which he now hadsafe in his pocket was bound to be of some slight value at least, hefelt sure.

Bleak and solemn was the view on which he took a last look beforestarting homeward. A faint yellow light in the west showed the links, onwhich a few figures moving towards the club-house were still visible,the squat martello tower, the lights of Aldsey village, the pale ribbonof sands intersected at intervals by black wooden groynes, the dim andmurmuring sea. The wind was bitter from the north, but was at his backwhen he set out for the Globe. He quickly rattled and clashed throughthe shingle and gained the sand, upon which, but for the groynes whichhad to be got over every few yards, the going was both good and quiet.One last look behind, to measure the distance he had made since leavingthe ruined Templars' church, showed him a prospect of company on hiswalk, in the shape of a rather indistinct personage, who seemed to bemaking great efforts to catch up with him, but made little, if any,progress. I mean that there was an appearance of running about hismovements, but that the distance between him and Parkins did not seemmaterially to lessen. So, at least, Parkins thought, and decided that healmost certainly did not know him, and that it would be absurd to waituntil he came up. For all that, company, he began to think, would reallybe very welcome on that lonely shore, if only you could choose yourcompanion. In his unenlightened days he had read of meetings in suchplaces which even now would hardly bear thinking of. He went on thinkingof them, however, until he reached home, and particularly of one whichcatches most people's fancy at some time of their childhood. "Now I sawin my dream that Christian had gone but a very little way when he saw afoul fiend coming over the field to meet him." "What should I do now,"he thought, "if I looked back and caught sight of a black figure sharplydefined against the yellow sky, and saw that it had horns and wings? Iwonder whether I should stand or run for it. Luckily, the gentlemanbehind is not of that kind, and he seems to be about as far off now aswhen I saw him first. Well, at this rate he won't get his dinner assoon as I shall; and, dear me! it's within a quarter of an hour of thetime now. I must run!"

Parkins had, in fact, very little time for dressing. When he met theColonel at dinner, Peace—or as much of her as that gentleman couldmanage—reigned once more in the military bosom; nor was she put toflight in the hours of bridge that followed dinner, for Parkins was amore than respectable player. When, therefore, he retired towards twelveo'clock, he felt that he had spent his evening in quite a satisfactoryway, and that, even for so long as a fortnight or three weeks, life atthe Globe would be supportable under similar conditions—"especially,"thought he, "if I go on improving my game."

As he went along the passages he met the boots of the Globe, who stoppedand said:

"Beg your pardon, sir, but as I was a-brushing your coat just now therewas somethink fell out of the pocket. I put it on your chest of drawers,sir, in your room, sir—a piece of a pipe or somethink of that, sir.Thank you, sir. You'll find it on your chest of drawers, sir—yes, sir.Good night, sir."

The speech served to remind Parkins of his little discovery of thatafternoon. It was with some considerable curiosity that he turned itover by the light of his candles. It was of bronze, he now saw, and wasshaped very much after the manner of the modern dog-whistle; in fact itwas—yes, certainly it was—actually no more nor less than a whistle.He put it to his lips, but it was quite full of a fine, caked-up sand orearth, which would not yield to knocking, but must be loosened with aknife. Tidy as ever in his habits, Parkins cleared out the earth on to apiece of paper, and took the latter to the window to empty it out. Thenight was clear and bright, as he saw when he had opened the casement,and he stopped for an instant to look at the sea and note a belatedwanderer stationed on the shore in front of the inn. Then he shut thewindow, a little surprised at the late hours people kept at Burnstow,and took his whistle to the light again. Why, surely there were marks onit, and not merely marks, but letters! A very little rubbing renderedthe deeply-cut inscription quite legible, but the Professor had toconfess, after some earnest thought, that the meaning of it was asobscure to him as the writing on the wall to Belshazzar. There werelegends both on the front and on the back of the whistle. The one readthus:

The other:

QUIS EST ISTE QUI UENIT

"I ought to be able to make it out," he thought; "but I suppose I am alittle rusty in my Latin. When I come to think of it, I don't believe Ieven know the word for a whistle. The long one does seem simple enough.It ought to mean, 'Who is this who is coming?' Well, the best way tofind out is evidently to whistle for him."

He blew tentatively and stopped suddenly, startled and yet pleased atthe note he had elicited. It had a quality of infinite distance in it,and, soft as it was, he somehow felt it must be audible for miles round.It was a sound, too, that seemed to have the power (which many scentspossess) of forming pictures in the brain. He saw quite clearly for amoment a vision of a wide, dark expanse at night, with a fresh windblowing, and in the midst a lonely figure—how employed, he could nottell. Perhaps he would have seen more had not the picture been broken bythe sudden surge of a gust of wind against his casement, so sudden thatit made him look up, just in time to see the white glint of a sea-bird'swing somewhere outside the dark panes.

The sound of the whistle had so fascinated him that he could not helptrying it once more, this time more boldly. The note was little, if atall, louder than before, and repetition broke the illusion—no picturefollowed, as he had half hoped it might. "But what is this? Goodness!what force the wind can get up in a few minutes! What a tremendous gust!There! I knew that window-fastening was no use! Ah! I thought so—bothcandles out. It's enough to tear the room to pieces."

The first thing was to get the window shut. While you might count twentyParkins was struggling with the small casement, and felt almost as if hewere pushing back a sturdy burglar, so strong was the pressure. Itslackened all at once, and the window banged to and latched itself. Nowto relight the candles and see what damage, if any, had been done. No,nothing seemed amiss; no glass even was broken in the casement. But thenoise had evidently roused at least one member of the household: theColonel was to be heard stumping in his stockinged feet on the floorabove, and growling.

Quickly as it had risen, the wind did not fall at once. On it went,moaning and rushing past the house, at times rising to a cry so desolatethat, as Parkins disinterestedly said, it might have made fancifulpeople feel quite uncomfortable; even the unimaginative, he thoughtafter a quarter of an hour, might be happier without it.

Whether it was the wind, or the excitement of golf, or of the researchesin the preceptory that kept Parkins awake, he was not sure. Awake heremained, in any case, long enough to fancy (as I am afraid I often domyself under such conditions) that he was the victim of all manner offatal disorders: he would lie counting the beats of his heart, convincedthat it was going to stop work every moment, and would entertain gravesuspicions of his lungs, brain, liver, etc.—suspicions which he wassure would be dispelled by the return of daylight, but which until thenrefused to be put aside. He found a little vicarious comfort in the ideathat someone else was in the same boat. A near neighbour (in thedarkness it was not easy to tell his direction) was tossing andrustling in his bed, too.

The next stage was that Parkins shut his eyes and determined to givesleep every chance. Here again over-excitement asserted itself inanother form—that of making pictures. Experto crede, pictures do cometo the closed eyes of one trying to sleep, and are often so little tohis taste that he must open his eyes and disperse them.

Parkins's experience on this occasion was a very distressing one. Hefound that the picture which presented itself to him was continuous.When he opened his eyes, of course, it went; but when he shut them oncemore it framed itself afresh, and acted itself out again, neitherquicker nor slower than before. What he saw was this:

A long stretch of shore—shingle edged by sand, and intersected at shortintervals with black groynes running down to the water—a scene, infact, so like that of his afternoon's walk that, in the absence of anylandmark, it could not be distinguished therefrom. The light wasobscure, conveying an impression of gathering storm, late winterevening, and slight cold rain. On this bleak stage at first no actor wasvisible. Then, in the distance, a bobbing black object appeared; amoment more, and it was a man running, jumping, clambering over thegroynes, and every few seconds looking eagerly back. The nearer he camethe more obvious it was that he was not only anxious, but even terriblyfrightened, though his face was not to be distinguished. He was,moreover, almost at the end of his strength. On he came; each successiveobstacle seemed to cause him more difficulty than the last. "Will he getover this next one?" thought Parkins; "it seems a little higher than theothers." Yes; half climbing, half throwing himself, he did get over, andfell all in a heap on the other side (the side nearest to thespectator). There, as if really unable to get up again, he remainedcrouching under the groyne, looking up in an attitude of painfulanxiety.

So far no cause whatever for the fear of the runner had been shown; butnow there began to be seen, far up the shore, a little flicker ofsomething light-coloured moving to and fro with great swiftness andirregularity. Rapidly growing larger, it, too, declared itself as afigure in pale, fluttering draperies, ill-defined. There was somethingabout its motion which made Parkins very unwilling to see it at closequarters. It would stop, raise arms, bow itself toward the sand, thenrun stooping across the beach to the water-edge and back again; andthen, rising upright, once more continue its course forward at a speedthat was startling and terrifying. The moment came when the pursuer washovering about from left to right only a few yards beyond the groynewhere the runner lay in hiding. After two or three ineffectual castingshither and thither it came to a stop, stood upright, with arms raisedhigh, and then darted straight forward towards the groyne.

It was at this point that Parkins always failed in his resolution tokeep his eyes shut. With many misgivings as to incipient failure ofeyesight, over-worked brain, excessive smoking, and so on, he finallyresigned himself to light his candle, get out a book, and pass the nightwaking, rather than be tormented by this persistent panorama, which hesaw clearly enough could only be a morbid reflection of his walk and histhoughts on that very day.

The scraping of match on box and the glare of light must have startledsome creatures of the night—rats or what not—which he heard scurryacross the floor from the side of his bed with much rustling. Dear,dear! the match is out! Fool that it is! But the second one burntbetter, and a candle and book were duly procured, over which Parkinspored till sleep of a wholesome kind came upon him, and that in no longspace. For about the first time in his orderly and prudent life heforgot to blow out the candle, and when he was called next morning ateight there was still a flicker in the socket and a sad mess of gutteredgrease on the top of the little table.

After breakfast he was in his room, putting the finishing touches to hisgolfing costume—fortune had again allotted the Colonel to him for apartner—when one of the maids came in.

"Oh, if you please," she said, "would you like any extra blankets onyour bed, sir?"

"Ah! thank you," said Parkins. "Yes, I think I should like one. Itseems likely to turn rather colder."

In a very short time the maid was back with the blanket.

"Which bed should I put it on, sir?" she asked.

"What? Why, that one—the one I slept in last night," he said, pointingto it.

"Oh yes! I beg your pardon, sir, but you seemed to have tried both of'em; leastways, we had to make 'em both up this morning."

"Really? How very absurd!" said Parkins. "I certainly never touched theother, except to lay some things on it. Did it actually seem to havebeen slept in?"

"Oh yes, sir!" said the maid. "Why, all the things was crumpled andthrowed about all ways, if you'll excuse me, sir—quite as if anyone'adn't passed but a very poor night, sir."

"Dear me," said Parkins. "Well, I may have disordered it more than Ithought when I unpacked my things. I'm very sorry to have given you theextra trouble, I'm sure. I expect a friend of mine soon, by the way—agentleman from Cambridge—to come and occupy it for a night or two. Thatwill be all right, I suppose, won't it?"

"Oh yes, to be sure, sir. Thank you, sir. It's no trouble, I'm sure,"said the maid, and departed to giggle with her colleagues.

Parkins set forth, with a stern determination to improve his game.

I am glad to be able to report that he succeeded so far in thisenterprise that the Colonel, who had been rather repining at theprospect of a second day's play in his company, became quite chatty asthe morning advanced; and his voice boomed out over the flats, ascertain also of our own minor poets have said, "like some great bourdonin a minster tower."

"Extraordinary wind, that, we had last night," he said. "In my old homewe should have said someone had been whistling for it."

"Should you, indeed!" said Parkins. "Is there a superstition of thatkind still current in your part of the country?"

"I don't know about superstition," said the Colonel. "They believe in itall over Denmark and Norway, as well as on the Yorkshire coast; and myexperience is, mind you, that there's generally something at the bottomof what these country-folk hold to, and have held to for generations.But it's your drive" (or whatever it might have been: the golfing readerwill have to imagine appropriate digressions at the proper intervals).

When conversation was resumed, Parkins said, with a slight hesitancy:

"Apropos of what you were saying just now, Colonel, I think I ought totell you that my own views on such subjects are very strong. I am, infact, a convinced disbeliever in what is called the 'supernatural.'"

"What!" said the Colonel, "do you mean to tell me you don't believe insecond-sight, or ghosts, or anything of that kind?"

"In nothing whatever of that kind," returned Parkins firmly.

"Well," said the Colonel, "but it appears to me at that rate, sir, thatyou must be little better than a Sadducee."

Parkins was on the point of answering that, in his opinion, theSadducees were the most sensible persons he had ever read of in the OldTestament; but, feeling some doubt as to whether much mention of themwas to be found in that work, he preferred to laugh the accusation off.

"Perhaps I am," he said; "but——Here, give me my cleek, boy!—Excuseme one moment, Colonel." A short interval. "Now, as to whistling for thewind, let me give you my theory about it. The laws which govern windsare really not at all perfectly known—to fisher-folk and such, ofcourse, not known at all. A man or woman of eccentric habits, perhaps,or a stranger, is seen repeatedly on the beach at some unusual hour, andis heard whistling. Soon afterwards a violent wind rises; a man whocould read the sky perfectly or who possessed a barometer could haveforetold that it would. The simple people of a fishing-village have nobarometers, and only a few rough rules for prophesying weather. Whatmore natural than that the eccentric personage I postulated should beregarded as having raised the wind, or that he or she should clutcheagerly at the reputation of being able to do so? Now, take last night'swind: as it happens, I myself was whistling. I blew a whistle twice, andthe wind seemed to come absolutely in answer to my call. If anyone hadseen me——"

The audience had been a little restive under this harangue, and Parkinshad, I fear, fallen somewhat into the tone of a lecturer; but at thelast sentence the Colonel stopped.

"Whistling, were you?" he said. "And what sort of whistle did you use?Play this stroke first." Interval.

"About that whistle you were asking, Colonel. It's rather a curious one.I have it in my——No; I see I've left it in my room. As a matter offact, I found it yesterday."

And then Parkins narrated the manner of his discovery of the whistle,upon hearing which the Colonel grunted, and opined that, in Parkins'splace, he should himself be careful about using a thing that hadbelonged to a set of Papists, of whom, speaking generally, it might beaffirmed that you never knew what they might not have been up to. Fromthis topic he diverged to the enormities of the Vicar, who had givennotice on the previous Sunday that Friday would be the Feast of St.Thomas the Apostle, and that there would be service at eleven o'clock inthe church. This and other similar proceedings constituted in theColonel's view a strong presumption that the Vicar was a concealedPapist, if not a Jesuit; and Parkins, who could not very readily followthe Colonel in this region, did not disagree with him. In fact, they goton so well together in the morning that there was no talk on either sideof their separating after lunch.

Both continued to play well during the afternoon, or, at least, wellenough to make them forget everything else until the light began to failthem. Not until then did Parkins remember that he had meant to do somemore investigating at the preceptory; but it was of no great importance,he reflected. One day was as good as another; he might as well go homewith the Colonel.

As they turned the corner of the house, the Colonel was almost knockeddown by a boy who rushed into him at the very top of his speed, andthen, instead of running away, remained hanging on to him and panting.The first words of the warrior were naturally those of reproof andobjurgation, but he very quickly discerned that the boy was almostspeechless with fright. Inquiries were useless at first. When the boygot his breath he began to howl, and still clung to the Colonel's legs.He was at last detached, but continued to howl.

"What in the world is the matter with you? What have you been up to?What have you seen?" said the two men.

"Ow, I seen it wive at me out of the winder," wailed the boy, "and Idon't like it."

"What window?" said the irritated Colonel. "Come, pull yourselftogether, my boy."

"The front winder it was, at the 'otel," said the boy.

At this point Parkins was in favour of sending the boy home, but theColonel refused; he wanted to get to the bottom of it, he said; it wasmost dangerous to give a boy such a fright as this one had had, and ifit turned out that people had been playing jokes, they should suffer forit in some way. And by a series of questions he made out this story: Theboy had been playing about on the grass in front of the Globe with someothers; then they had gone home to their teas, and he was just going,when he happened to look up at the front winder and see it a-wiving athim. It seemed to be a figure of some sort, in white as far as heknew—couldn't see its face; but it wived at him, and it warn't a rightthing—not to say not a right person. Was there a light in the room? No,he didn't think to look if there was a light. Which was the window? Wasit the top one or the second one? The seckind one it was—the big winderwhat got two little uns at the sides.

"Very well, my boy," said the Colonel, after a few more questions. "Yourun away home now. I expect it was some person trying to give you astart. Another time, like a brave English boy, you just throw astone—well, no, not that exactly, but you go and speak to the waiter,or to Mr. Simpson, the landlord, and—yes—and say that I advised you todo so."

The boy's face expressed some of the doubt he felt as to the likelihoodof Mr. Simpson's lending a favourable ear to his complaint, but theColonel did not appear to perceive this, and went on:

"And here's a sixpence—no, I see it's a shilling—and you be off home,and don't think any more about it."

The youth hurried off with agitated thanks, and the Colonel and Parkinswent round to the front of the Globe and reconnoitred. There was onlyone window answering to the description they had been hearing.

"Well, that's curious," said Parkins; "it's evidently my window the ladwas talking about. Will you come up for a moment, Colonel Wilson? Weought to be able to see if anyone has been taking liberties in my room."

They were soon in the passage, and Parkins made as if to open the door.Then he stopped and felt in his pockets.

"This is more serious than I thought," was his next remark. "I remembernow that before I started this morning I locked the door. It is lockednow, and, what is more, here is the key." And he held it up. "Now," hewent on, "if the servants are in the habit of going into one's roomduring the day when one is away, I can only say that—well, that I don'tapprove of it at all." Conscious of a somewhat weak climax, he busiedhimself in opening the door (which was indeed locked) and in lightingcandles. "No," he said, "nothing seems disturbed."

"Except your bed," put in the Colonel.

"Excuse me, that isn't my bed," said Parkins. "I don't use that one. Butit does look as if someone had been playing tricks with it."

It certainly did: the clothes were bundled up and twisted together in amost tortuous confusion. Parkins pondered.

"That must be it," he said at last: "I disordered the clothes last nightin unpacking, and they haven't made it since. Perhaps they came in tomake it, and that boy saw them through the window; and then they werecalled away and locked the door after them. Yes, I think that must beit."

"Well, ring and ask," said the Colonel, and this appealed to Parkins aspractical.

The maid appeared, and, to make a long story short, deposed that she hadmade the bed in the morning when the gentleman was in the room, andhadn't been there since. No, she hadn't no other key. Mr. Simpson hekep' the keys; he'd be able to tell the gentleman if anyone had been up.

This was a puzzle. Investigation showed that nothing of value had beentaken, and Parkins remembered the disposition of the small objects ontables and so forth well enough to be pretty sure that no pranks hadbeen played with them. Mr. and Mrs. Simpson furthermore agreed thatneither of them had given the duplicate key of the room to any personwhatever during the day. Nor could Parkins, fair-minded man as he was,detect anything in the demeanour of master, mistress, or maid thatindicated guilt. He was much more inclined to think that the boy hadbeen imposing on the Colonel.

The latter was unwontedly silent and pensive at dinner and throughoutthe evening. When he bade good night to Parkins, he murmured in a gruffundertone:

"You know where I am if you want me during the night."

"Why, yes, thank you, Colonel Wilson, I think I do; but there isn't muchprospect of my disturbing you, I hope. By the way," he added, "did Ishow you that old whistle I spoke of? I think not. Well, here it is."

The Colonel turned it over gingerly in the light of the candle.

"Can you make anything of the inscription?" asked Parkins, as he took itback.

"No, not in this light. What do you mean to do with it?"

"Oh, well, when I get back to Cambridge I shall submit it to some of thearchæologists there, and see what they think of it; and very likely, ifthey consider it worth having, I may present it to one of the museums."

"'M!" said the Colonel. "Well, you may be right. All I know is that, ifit were mine, I should chuck it straight into the sea. It's no usetalking, I'm well aware, but I expect that with you it's a case of liveand learn. I hope so, I'm sure, and I wish you a good night."

He turned away, leaving Parkins in act to speak at the bottom of thestair, and soon each was in his own bedroom.

By some unfortunate accident, there were neither blinds nor curtains tothe windows of the Professor's room. The previous night he had thoughtlittle of this, but to-night there seemed every prospect of a brightmoon rising to shine directly on his bed, and probably wake him lateron. When he noticed this he was a good deal annoyed, but, with aningenuity which I can only envy, he succeeded in rigging up, with thehelp of a railway-rug, some safety-pins, and a stick and umbrella, ascreen which, if it only held together, would completely keep themoonlight off his bed. And shortly afterwards he was comfortably in thatbed. When he had read a somewhat solid work long enough to produce adecided wish for sleep, he cast a drowsy glance round the room, blew outthe candle, and fell back upon the pillow.

He must have slept soundly for an hour or more, when a sudden clattershook him up in a most unwelcome manner. In a moment he realized whathad happened: his carefully-constructed screen had given way, and a verybright frosty moon was shining directly on his face. This was highlyannoying. Could he possibly get up and reconstruct the screen? or couldhe manage to sleep if he did not?

For some minutes he lay and pondered over the possibilities; then heturned over sharply, and with all his eyes open lay breathlesslylistening. There had been a movement, he was sure, in the empty bed onthe opposite side of the room. To-morrow he would have it moved, forthere must be rats or something playing about in it. It was quiet now.No! the commotion began again. There was a rustling and shaking: surelymore than any rat could cause.

I can figure to myself something of the Professor's bewilderment andhorror, for I have in a dream thirty years back seen the same thinghappen; but the reader will hardly, perhaps, imagine how dreadful it wasto him to see a figure suddenly sit up in what he had known was an emptybed. He was out of his own bed in one bound, and made a dash towards thewindow, where lay his only weapon, the stick with which he had proppedhis screen. This was, as it turned out, the worst thing he could havedone, because the personage in the empty bed, with a sudden smoothmotion, slipped from the bed and took up a position, with outspreadarms, between the two beds, and in front of the door. Parkins watched itin a horrid perplexity. Somehow, the idea of getting past it andescaping through the door was intolerable to him; he could not haveborne—he didn't know why—to touch it; and as for its touching him, hewould sooner dash himself through the window than have that happen. Itstood for the moment in a band of dark shadow, and he had not seen whatits face was like. Now it began to move, in a stooping posture, and allat once the spectator realized, with some horror and some relief, thatit must be blind, for it seemed to feel about it with its muffled armsin a groping and random fashion. Turning half away from him, it becamesuddenly conscious of the bed he had just left, and darted towards it,and bent over and felt the pillows in a way which made Parkins shudderas he had never in his life thought it possible. In a very few momentsit seemed to know that the bed was empty, and then, moving forward intothe area of light and facing the window, it showed for the first timewhat manner of thing it was.

Parkins, who very much dislikes being questioned about it, did oncedescribe something of it in my hearing, and I gathered that what hechiefly remembers about it is a horrible, an intensely horrible, faceof crumpled linen. What expression he read upon it he could not orwould not tell, but that the fear of it went nigh to maddening him iscertain.

But he was not at leisure to watch it for long. With formidablequickness it moved into the middle of the room, and, as it groped andwaved, one corner of its draperies swept across Parkins's face. He couldnot—though he knew how perilous a sound was—he could not keep back acry of disgust, and this gave the searcher an instant clue. It leapttowards him upon the instant, and the next moment he was half-waythrough the window backwards, uttering cry upon cry at the utmost pitchof his voice, and the linen face was thrust close into his own. Atthis, almost the last possible second, deliverance came, as you willhave guessed: the Colonel burst the door open, and was just in time tosee the dreadful group at the window. When he reached the figures onlyone was left. Parkins sank forward into the room in a faint, and beforehim on the floor lay a tumbled heap of bed-clothes.

Colonel Wilson asked no questions, but busied himself in keepingeveryone else out of the room and in getting Parkins back to his bed;and himself, wrapped in a rug, occupied the other bed for the rest ofthe night. Early on the next day Rogers arrived, more welcome than hewould have been a day before, and the three of them held a very longconsultation in the Professor's room. At the end of it the Colonel leftthe hotel door carrying a small object between his finger and thumb,which he cast as far into the sea as a very brawny arm could send it.Later on the smoke of a burning ascended from the back premises of theGlobe.

Exactly what explanation was patched up for the staff and visitors atthe hotel I must confess I do not recollect. The Professor was somehowcleared of the ready suspicion of delirium tremens, and the hotel of thereputation of a troubled house.

There is not much question as to what would have happened to Parkins ifthe Colonel had not intervened when he did. He would either have fallenout of the window or else lost his wits. But it is not so evident whatmore the creature that came in answer to the whistle could have donethan frighten. There seemed to be absolutely nothing material about itsave the bed-clothes of which it had made itself a body. The Colonel,who remembered a not very dissimilar occurrence in India, was of opinionthat if Parkins had closed with it it could really have done verylittle, and that its one power was that of frightening. The whole thing,he said, served to confirm his opinion of the Church of Rome.

There is really nothing more to tell, but, as you may imagine, theProfessor's views on certain points are less clear cut than they used tobe. His nerves, too, have suffered: he cannot even now see a surplicehanging on a door quite unmoved, and the spectacle of a scarecrow in afield late on a winter afternoon has cost him more than one sleeplessnight.

Footnotes

[4] Mr. Rogers was wrong, vide Dombey and Son, chapterxii.

THE TREASURE OF ABBOT THOMAS

I

"Verum usque in præsentem diem multa garriunt inter se Canonici deabscondito quodam istius Abbatis Thomæ thesauro, quem sæpe, quanquamadhuc incassum, quæsiverunt Steinfeldenses. Ipsum enim Thomam adhucflorida in ætate existentem ingentem auri massam circa monasteriumdefodisse perhibent; de quo multoties interrogatus ubi esset, cum risurespondere solitus erat: 'Job, Johannes, et Zacharias vel vobis velposteris indicabunt'; idemque aliquando adiicere se inventuris minimeinvisurum. Inter alia huius Abbatis opera, hoc memoria præcipue dignumiudico quod fenestram magnam in orientali parte alæ australis inecclesia sua imaginibus optime in vitro depictis impleverit: id quod etipsius effigies et insignia ibidem posita demonstrant. Domum quoqueAbbatialem fere totam restauravit: puteo in atrio ipsius effosso etlapidibus marmoreis pulchre cælatis exornato. Decessit autem, mortealiquantulum subitanea perculsus, ætatis suæ anno lxxii^do,incarnationis vero Dominicæ mdxxix^o."

"I suppose I shall have to translate this," said the antiquary tohimself, as he finished copying the above lines from that rather rareand exceedingly diffuse book, the "Sertum SteinfeldenseNorbertinum."[5] "Well, it may as well be done first as last," andaccordingly the following rendering was very quickly produced:

"Up to the present day there is much gossip among the Canons about acertain hidden treasure of this Abbot Thomas, for which those ofSteinfeld have often made search, though hitherto in vain. The story isthat Thomas, while yet in the vigour of life, concealed a very largequantity of gold somewhere in the monastery. He was often asked where itwas, and always answered, with a laugh: 'Job, John, and Zechariah willtell either you or your successors.' He sometimes added that he shouldfeel no grudge against those who might find it. Among other workscarried out by this Abbot I may specially mention his filling the greatwindow at the east end of the south aisle of the church with figuresadmirably painted on glass, as his effigy and arms in the window attest.He also restored almost the whole of the Abbot's lodging, and dug a wellin the court of it, which he adorned with beautiful carvings in marble.He died rather suddenly in the seventy-second year of his age, A.D.1529."

The object which the antiquary had before him at the moment was that oftracing the whereabouts of the painted windows of the Abbey Church ofSteinfeld. Shortly after the Revolution, a very large quantity ofpainted glass made its way from the dissolved abbeys of Germany andBelgium to this country, and may now be seen adorning various of ourparish churches, cathedrals, and private chapels. Steinfeld Abbey wasamong the most considerable of these involuntary contributors to ourartistic possessions (I am quoting the somewhat ponderous preamble ofthe book which the antiquary wrote), and the greater part of the glassfrom that institution can be identified without much difficulty by thehelp, either of the numerous inscriptions in which the place ismentioned, or of the subjects of the windows, in which severalwell-defined cycles or narratives were represented.

The passage with which I began my story had set the antiquary on thetrack of another identification. In a private chapel—no matterwhere—he had seen three large figures, each occupying a whole light ina window, and evidently the work of one artist. Their style made itplain that that artist had been a German of the sixteenth century; buthitherto the more exact localizing of them had been a puzzle. Theyrepresented—will you be surprised to hear it?—JOB PATRIARCHA, JOHANNESEVANGELISTA, ZACHARIAS PROPHETA, and each of them held a book or scroll,inscribed with a sentence from his writings. These, as a matter ofcourse, the antiquary had noted, and had been struck by the curious wayin which they differed from any text of the Vulgate that he had beenable to examine. Thus the scroll in Job's hand was inscribed: "Auro estlocus in quo absconditur" (for "conflatur");[6] on the book of John was:"Habent in vestimentis suis scripturam quam nemo novit"[7] (for "investimento scriptum," the following words being taken from anotherverse); and Zacharias had: "Super lapidem unum septem oculi sunt"[8](which alone of the three presents an unaltered text).

A sad perplexity it had been to our investigator to think why thesethree personages should have been placed together in one window. Therewas no bond of connection between them, either historic, symbolic, ordoctrinal, and he could only suppose that they must have formed part ofa very large series of Prophets and Apostles, which might have filled,say, all the clerestory windows of some capacious church. But thepassage from the "Sertum" had altered the situation by showing thatthe names of the actual personages represented in the glass now in LordD——'s chapel had been constantly on the lips of Abbot Thomas vonEschenhausen of Steinfeld, and that this Abbot had put up a paintedwindow, probably about the year 1520, in the south aisle of his abbeychurch. It was no very wild conjecture that the three figures might haveformed part of Abbot Thomas's offering; it was one which, moreover,could probably be confirmed or set aside by another careful examinationof the glass. And, as Mr. Somerton was a man of leisure, he set out onpilgrimage to the private chapel with very little delay. His conjecturewas confirmed to the full. Not only did the style and technique of theglass suit perfectly with the date and place required, but in anotherwindow of the chapel he found some glass, known to have been boughtalong with the figures, which contained the arms of Abbot Thomas vonEschenhausen.

At intervals during his researches Mr. Somerton had been haunted by therecollection of the gossip about the hidden treasure, and, as he thoughtthe matter over, it became more and more obvious to him that if theAbbot meant anything by the enigmatical answer which he gave to hisquestioners, he must have meant that the secret was to be foundsomewhere in the window he had placed in the abbey church. It wasundeniable, furthermore, that the first of the curiously-selected textson the scrolls in the window might be taken to have a reference tohidden treasure.

Every feature, therefore, or mark which could possibly assist inelucidating the riddle which, he felt sure, the Abbot had set toposterity he noted with scrupulous care, and, returning to his Berkshiremanor-house, consumed many a pint of the midnight oil over his tracingsand sketches. After two or three weeks, a day came when Mr. Somertonannounced to his man that he must pack his own and his master's thingsfor a short journey abroad, whither for the moment we will not followhim.

II

Mr. Gregory, the Rector of Parsbury, had strolled out before breakfast,it being a fine autumn morning, as far as the gate of hiscarriage-drive, with intent to meet the postman and sniff the cool air.Nor was he disappointed of either purpose. Before he had had time toanswer more than ten or eleven of the miscellaneous questions propoundedto him in the lightness of their hearts by his young offspring, who hadaccompanied him, the postman was seen approaching; and among themorning's budget was one letter bearing a foreign postmark and stamp(which became at once the objects of an eager competition among theyouthful Gregorys), and was addressed in an uneducated, but plainly anEnglish hand.

When the Rector opened it, and turned to the signature, he realized thatit came from the confidential valet of his friend and squire, Mr.Somerton. Thus it ran:

Honourd Sir,—

Has I am in a great anxeity about Master I write at is Wish to Begyou Sir if you could be so good as Step over. Master Has add aNastey Shock and keeps His Bedd. I never Have known Him like thisbut No wonder and Nothing will serve but you Sir. Master says wouldI mintion the Short Way Here is Drive to Cobblince and take a Trap.Hopeing I Have maid all Plain, but am much Confused in Myself whatwith Anxiatey and Weakfulness at Night. If I might be so Bold Sirit will be a Pleasure to see a Honnest Brish Face among all TheseForig ones.

I am Sir

Your obed^t Serv^t

William Brown.'

P.S.—The Villiage for Town I will not Turm It is name Steenfeld.'

The reader must be left to picture to himself in detail the surprise,confusion, and hurry of preparation into which the receipt of such aletter would be likely to plunge a quiet Berkshire parsonage in the yearof grace 1859. It is enough for me to say that a train to town wascaught in the course of the day, and that Mr. Gregory was able to securea cabin in the Antwerp boat and a place in the Coblentz train. Nor wasit difficult to manage the transit from that centre to Steinfeld.

I labour under a grave disadvantage as narrator of this story in that Ihave never visited Steinfeld myself, and that neither of the principalactors in the episode (from whom I derive my information) was able togive me anything but a vague and rather dismal idea of its appearance. Igather that it is a small place, with a large church despoiled of itsancient fittings; a number of rather ruinous great buildings, mostly ofthe seventeenth century, surround this church; for the abbey, in commonwith most of those on the Continent, was rebuilt in a luxurious fashionby its inhabitants at that period. It has not seemed to me worth whileto lavish money on a visit to the place, for though it is probably farmore attractive than either Mr. Somerton or Mr. Gregory thought it,there is evidently little, if anything, of first-rate interest to beseen—except, perhaps, one thing, which I should not care to see.

The inn where the English gentleman and his servant were lodged is, orwas, the only "possible" one in the village. Mr. Gregory was taken to itat once by his driver, and found Mr. Brown waiting at the door. Mr.Brown, a model when in his Berkshire home of the impassive whiskeredrace who are known as confidential valets, was now egregiously out ofhis element, in a light tweed suit, anxious, almost irritable, andplainly anything but master of the situation. His relief at the sight ofthe "honest British face" of his Rector was unmeasured, but words todescribe it were denied him. He could only say:

"Well, I ham pleased, I'm sure, sir, to see you. And so I'm sure, sir,will master."

"How is your master, Brown?" Mr. Gregory eagerly put in.

"I think he's better, sir, thank you; but he's had a dreadful time ofit. I 'ope he's gettin' some sleep now, but——"

"What has been the matter—I couldn't make out from your letter? Was itan accident of any kind?"

"Well, sir, I 'ardly know whether I'd better speak about it. Master wasvery partickler he should be the one to tell you. But there's no bonesbroke—that's one thing I'm sure we ought to be thankful——"

"What does the doctor say?" asked Mr. Gregory.

They were by this time outside Mr. Somerton's bedroom door, and speakingin low tones. Mr. Gregory, who happened to be in front, was feeling forthe handle, and chanced to run his fingers over the panels. Before Browncould answer, there was a terrible cry from within the room.

"In God's name, who is that?" were the first words they heard. "Brown,is it?"

"Yes, sir—me, sir, and Mr. Gregory," Brown hastened to answer, andthere was an audible groan of relief in reply.

They entered the room, which was darkened against the afternoon sun, andMr. Gregory saw, with a shock of pity, how drawn, how damp with drops offear, was the usually calm face of his friend, who, sitting up in thecurtained bed, stretched out a shaking hand to welcome him.

"Better for seeing you, my dear Gregory," was the reply to the Rector'sfirst question, and it was palpably true.

After five minutes of conversation Mr. Somerton was more his own man,Brown afterwards reported, than he had been for days. He was able to eata more than respectable dinner, and talked confidently of being fit tostand a journey to Coblentz within twenty-four hours.

"But there's one thing," he said, with a return of agitation which Mr.Gregory did not like to see, "which I must beg you to do for me, my dearGregory. Don't," he went on, laying his hand on Gregory's to forestallany interruption—"don't ask me what it is, or why I want it done. I'mnot up to explaining it yet; it would throw me back—undo all the goodyou have done me by coming. The only word I will say about it isthat you run no risk whatever by doing it, and that Brown can andwill show you to-morrow what it is. It's merely to put back—tokeep—something——No; I can't speak of it yet. Do you mind callingBrown?"

"Well, Somerton," said Mr. Gregory, as he crossed the room to the door,"I won't ask for any explanations till you see fit to give them. And ifthis bit of business is as easy as you represent it to be, I will verygladly undertake it for you the first thing in the morning."

"Ah, I was sure you would, my dear Gregory; I was certain I could relyon you. I shall owe you more thanks than I can tell. Now, here is Brown.Brown, one word with you."

"Shall I go?" interjected Mr. Gregory.

"Not at all. Dear me, no. Brown, the first thing to-morrowmorning—(you don't mind early hours, I know, Gregory)—you must takethe Rector to—there, you know" (a nod from Brown, who looked graveand anxious), "and he and you will put that back. You needn't be in theleast alarmed; it's perfectly safe in the daytime. You know what Imean. It lies on the step, you know, where—where we put it." (Brownswallowed dryly once or twice, and, failing to speak, bowed.) "And—yes,that's all. Only this one other word, my dear Gregory. If you canmanage to keep from questioning Brown about this matter, I shall bestill more bound to you. To-morrow evening, at latest, if all goes well,I shall be able, I believe, to tell you the whole story from start tofinish. And now I'll wish you good night. Brown will be with me—hesleeps here—and if I were you, I should lock my door. Yes, beparticular to do that. They—they like it, the people here, and it'sbetter. Good night, good night."

They parted upon this, and if Mr. Gregory woke once or twice in thesmall hours and fancied he heard a fumbling about the lower part of hislocked door, it was, perhaps, no more than what a quiet man, suddenlyplunged into a strange bed and the heart of a mystery, might reasonablyexpect. Certainly he thought, to the end of his days, that he had heardsuch a sound twice or three times between midnight and dawn.

He was up with the sun, and out in company with Brown soon after.Perplexing as was the service he had been asked to perform for Mr.Somerton, it was not a difficult or an alarming one, and within half anhour from his leaving the inn it was over. What it was I shall not asyet divulge.

Later in the morning Mr. Somerton, now almost himself again, was able tomake a start from Steinfeld; and that same evening, whether at Coblentzor at some intermediate stage on the journey I am not certain, hesettled down to the promised explanation. Brown was present, but howmuch of the matter was ever really made plain to his comprehension hewould never say, and I am unable to conjecture.

III

This was Mr. Somerton's story:

"You know roughly, both of you, that this expedition of mine wasundertaken with the object of tracing something in connection with someold painted glass in Lord D——'s private chapel. Well, thestarting-point of the whole matter lies in this passage from an oldprinted book, to which I will ask your attention."

And at this point Mr. Somerton went carefully over some ground withwhich we are already familiar.

"On my second visit to the chapel," he went on, "my purpose was to takeevery note I could of figures, lettering, diamond-scratchings on theglass, and even apparently accidental markings. The first point which Itackled was that of the inscribed scrolls. I could not doubt that thefirst of these, that of Job—'There is a place for the gold where it ishidden'—with its intentional alteration, must refer to the treasure; soI applied myself with some confidence to the next, that of St.John—'They have on their vestures a writing which no man knoweth.' Thenatural question will have occurred to you: Was there an inscription onthe robes of the figures? I could see none; each of the three had abroad black border to his mantle, which made a conspicuous and ratherugly feature in the window. I was nonplussed, I will own, and but for acurious bit of luck I think I should have left the search where theCanons of Steinfeld had left it before me. But it so happened that therewas a good deal of dust on the surface of the glass, and Lord D——,happening to come in, noticed my blackened hands, and kindly insisted onsending for a Turk's head broom to clean down the window. There must, Isuppose, have been a rough piece in the broom; anyhow, as it passed overthe border of one of the mantles, I noticed that it left a long scratch,and that some yellow stain instantly showed up. I asked the man to stophis work for a moment, and ran up the ladder to examine the place. Theyellow stain was there, sure enough, and what had come away was a thickblack pigment, which had evidently been laid on with the brush after theglass had been burnt, and could therefore be easily scraped off withoutdoing any harm. I scraped, accordingly, and you will hardly believe—no,I do you an injustice; you will have guessed already—that I foundunder this black pigment two or three clearly-formed capital letters inyellow stain on a clear ground. Of course, I could hardly contain mydelight.

"I told Lord D—— that I had detected an inscription which I thoughtmight be very interesting, and begged to be allowed to uncover the wholeof it. He made no difficulty about it whatever, told me to do exactly asI pleased, and then, having an engagement, was obliged—rather to myrelief, I must say—to leave me. I set to work at once, and found thetask a fairly easy one. The pigment, disintegrated, of course, by time,came off almost at a touch, and I don't think that it took me a coupleof hours, all told, to clean the whole of the black borders in all threelights. Each of the figures had, as the inscription said, 'a writing ontheir vestures which nobody knew.'

"This discovery, of course, made it absolutely certain to my mind that Iwas on the right track. And, now, what was the inscription? While I wascleaning the glass I almost took pains not to read the lettering, savingup the treat until I had got the whole thing clear. And when that wasdone, my dear Gregory, I assure you I could almost have cried from sheerdisappointment. What I read was only the most hopeless jumble of lettersthat was ever shaken up in a hat. Here it is:

Job. DREVICIOPEDMOOMSMVIVLISLCAVIBASBATAOVT

St. John. RDIIEAMRLESIPVSPODSEEIRSETTAAESGIAVNNR

Zechariah. FTEEAILNQDPVAIVMTLEEATTOHIOONVMCAAT.H.Q.E.

"Blank as I felt and must have looked for the first few minutes, mydisappointment didn't last long. I realized almost at once that I wasdealing with a cipher or cryptogram; and I reflected that it was likelyto be of a pretty simple kind, considering its early date. So I copiedthe letters with the most anxious care. Another little point, I may tellyou, turned up in the process which confirmed my belief in the cipher.After copying the letters on Job's robe I counted them, to make surethat I had them right. There were thirty-eight; and, just as I finishedgoing through them, my eye fell on a scratching made with a sharp pointon the edge of the border. It was simply the number xxxviii in Romannumerals. To cut the matter short, there was a similar note, as I maycall it, in each of the other lights; and that made it plain to me thatthe glass-painter had had very strict orders from Abbot Thomas about theinscription, and had taken pains to get it correct.

"Well, after that discovery you may imagine how minutely I went over thewhole surface of the glass in search of further light. Of course, I didnot neglect the inscription on the scroll of Zechariah—'Upon one stoneare seven eyes,' but I very quickly concluded that this must refer tosome mark on a stone which could only be found in situ, where thetreasure was concealed. To be short, I made all possible notes andsketches and tracings, and then came back to Parsbury to work out thecipher at leisure. Oh, the agonies I went through! I thought myself veryclever at first, for I made sure that the key would be found in some ofthe old books on secret writing. The 'Steganographia' of JoachimTrithemius, who was an earlier contemporary of Abbot Thomas, seemedparticularly promising; so I got that, and Selenius's 'Cryptographia'and Bacon 'de Augmentis Scientiarum,' and some more. But I could hitupon nothing. Then I tried the principle of the 'most frequent letter,'taking first Latin and then German as a basis. That didn't help, either;whether it ought to have done so, I am not clear. And then I came backto the window itself, and read over my notes, hoping almost against hopethat the Abbot might himself have somewhere supplied the key I wanted. Icould make nothing out of the colour or pattern of the robes. There wereno landscape backgrounds with subsidiary objects; there was nothing inthe canopies. The only resource possible seemed to be in the attitudesof the figures. 'Job,' I read: 'scroll in left hand, forefinger of righthand extended upwards. John: holds inscribed book in left hand; withright hand blesses, with two fingers. Zechariah: scroll in left hand;right hand extended upwards, as Job, but with three fingers pointingup.' In other words, I reflected, Job has one finger extended, John hastwo, Zechariah has three. May not there be a numeral key concealedin that? My dear Gregory," said Mr. Somerton, laying his hand on hisfriend's knee, "that was the key. I didn't get it to fit at first, butafter two or three trials I saw what was meant. After the first letterof the inscription you skip one letter, after the next you skip two,and after that skip three. Now look at the result I got. I'veunderlined the letters which form words:

DREVICIOPEDMOOMSMVIVLISLCAVIBASBATAOVT

RDIIEAMRLESIPVSPODSEEIRSETTAAESGIAVNNR

FTEEAILNQDPVAIVMTLEEATTOHIOONVMCAAT.H.Q E.

"Do you see it? 'Decem millia auri reposita sunt in puteo in at ...'(Ten thousand [pieces] of gold are laid up in a well in ...), followedby an incomplete word beginning at. So far so good. I tried the sameplan with the remaining letters; but it wouldn't work, and I fanciedthat perhaps the placing of dots after the three last letters mightindicate some difference of procedure. Then I thought to myself, 'Wasn'tthere some allusion to a well in the account of Abbot Thomas in thatbook the "Sertum"?' Yes, there was: he built a puteus in atrio (awell in the court). There, of course, was my word atrio. The next stepwas to copy out the remaining letter of the inscription, omitting thoseI had already used. That gave what you will see on this slip:

RVIIOPDOOSMVVISCAVBSBTAOTDIEAMLSIVSPDEERSETAEGIANRFEEALQDVAIMLEATTH OOVMCA.H.Q.E.

"Now, I knew what the three first letters I wanted were,—namely,rio—to complete the word atrio; and, as you will see, these are allto be found in the first five letters. I was a little confused at firstby the occurrence of two i's, but very soon I saw that every alternateletter must be taken in the remainder of the inscription. You can workit out for yourself; the result, continuing where the first 'round' leftoff, is this:

'rio domus abbatialis de Steinfeld a me, Thoma, qui posui custodemsuper ea. Gare à qui la touche.'

"So the whole secret was out:

'Ten thousand pieces of gold are laid up in the well in the courtof the Abbot's house of Steinfeld by me, Thomas, who have set aguardian over them. Gare à qui la touche.'

"The last words, I ought to say, are a device which Abbot Thomas hadadopted. I found it with his arms in another piece of glass at LordD——'s, and he drafted it bodily into his cipher, though it doesn'tquite fit in point of grammar.

"Well, what would any human being have been tempted to do, my dearGregory, in my place? Could he have helped setting off, as I did, toSteinfeld, and tracing the secret literally to the fountain-head? Idon't believe he could. Anyhow, I couldn't, and, as I needn't tell you,I found myself at Steinfeld as soon as the resources of civilizationcould put me there, and installed myself in the inn you saw. I must tellyou that I was not altogether free from forebodings—on one hand ofdisappointment, on the other of danger. There was always the possibilitythat Abbot Thomas's well might have been wholly obliterated, or elsethat someone, ignorant of cryptograms, and guided only by luck, mighthave stumbled on the treasure before me. And then"—there was a veryperceptible shaking of the voice here—"I was not entirely easy, I neednot mind confessing, as to the meaning of the words about the guardianof the treasure. But, if you don't mind, I'll say no more about thatuntil—until it becomes necessary.

"At the first possible opportunity Brown and I began exploring theplace. I had naturally represented myself as being interested in theremains of the abbey, and we could not avoid paying a visit to thechurch, impatient as I was to be elsewhere. Still, it did interest me tosee the windows where the glass had been, and especially that at theeast end of the south aisle. In the tracery lights of that I wasstartled to see some fragments and coats-of-arms remaining—AbbotThomas's shield was there, and a small figure with a scroll inscribed'Oculos habent, et non videbunt' (They have eyes, and shall not see),which, I take it, was a hit of the Abbot at his Canons.

"But, of course, the principal object was to find the Abbot's house.There is no prescribed place for this, so far as I know, in the plan ofa monastery; you can't predict of it, as you can of the chapter-house,that it will be on the eastern side of the cloister, or, as of thedormitory, that it will communicate with a transept of the church. Ifelt that if I asked many questions I might awaken lingering memories ofthe treasure, and I thought it best to try first to discover it formyself. It was not a very long or difficult search. That three-sidedcourt south-east of the church, with deserted piles of building roundit, and grass-grown pavement, which you saw this morning, was the place.And glad enough I was to see that it was put to no use, and was neithervery far from our inn nor overlooked by any inhabited building; therewere only orchards and paddocks on the slopes east of the church. I cantell you that fine stone glowed wonderfully in the rather watery yellowsunset that we had on the Tuesday afternoon.

"Next, what about the well? There was not much doubt about that, as youcan testify. It is really a very remarkable thing. That curb is, Ithink, of Italian marble, and the carving I thought must be Italianalso. There were reliefs, you will perhaps remember, of Eliezer andRebekah, and of Jacob opening the well for Rachel, and similar subjects;but, by way of disarming suspicion, I suppose, the Abbot had carefullyabstained from any of his cynical and allusive inscriptions.

"I examined the whole structure with the keenest interest, of course—asquare well-head with an opening in one side; an arch over it, with awheel for the rope to pass over, evidently in very good condition still,for it had been used within sixty years, or perhaps even later, thoughnot quite recently. Then there was the question of depth and access tothe interior. I suppose the depth was about sixty to seventy feet; andas to the other point, it really seemed as if the Abbot had wished tolead searchers up to the very door of his treasure-house, for, as youtested for yourself, there were big blocks of stone bonded into themasonry, and leading down in a regular staircase round and round theinside of the well.

"It seemed almost too good to be true. I wondered if there was atrap—if the stones were so contrived as to tip over when a weight wasplaced on them; but I tried a good many with my own weight and with mystick, and all seemed, and actually were, perfectly firm. Of course, Iresolved that Brown and I would make an experiment that very night.

"I was well prepared. Knowing the sort of place I should have toexplore, I had brought a sufficiency of good rope and bands of webbingto surround my body, and crossbars to hold to, as well as lanterns andcandles and crowbars, all of which would go into a single carpet-bag andexcite no suspicion. I satisfied myself that my rope would be longenough, and that the wheel for the bucket was in good working order,and then we went home to dinner.

"I had a little cautious conversation with the landlord, and made outthat he would not be overmuch surprised if I went out for a stroll withmy man about nine o'clock, to make (Heaven forgive me!) a sketch of theabbey by moonlight. I asked no questions about the well, and am notlikely to do so now. I fancy I know as much about it as anyone inSteinfeld: at least"—with a strong shudder—"I don't want to know anymore.

"Now we come to the crisis, and, though I hate to think of it, I feelsure, Gregory, that it will be better for me in all ways to recall itjust as it happened. We started, Brown and I, at about nine with ourbag, and attracted no attention; for we managed to slip out at thehinder end of the inn-yard into an alley which brought us quite to theedge of the village. In five minutes we were at the well, and for somelittle time we sat on the edge of the well-head to make sure that no onewas stirring or spying on us. All we heard was some horses croppinggrass out of sight farther down the eastern slope. We were perfectlyunobserved, and had plenty of light from the gorgeous full moon to allowus to get the rope properly fitted over the wheel. Then I secured theband round my body beneath the arms. We attached the end of the ropevery securely to a ring in the stonework. Brown took the lighted lanternand followed me; I had a crowbar. And so we began to descendcautiously, feeling every step before we set foot on it, and scanningthe walls in search of any marked stone.

"Half aloud I counted the steps as we went down, and we got as far asthe thirty-eighth before I noted anything at all irregular in thesurface of the masonry. Even here there was no mark, and I began to feelvery blank, and to wonder if the Abbot's cryptogram could possibly be anelaborate hoax. At the forty-ninth step the staircase ceased. It waswith a very sinking heart that I began retracing my steps, and when Iwas back on the thirty-eighth—Brown, with the lantern, being a step ortwo above me—I scrutinized the little bit of irregularity in thestonework with all my might; but there was no vestige of a mark.

"Then it struck me that the texture of the surface looked just a littlesmoother than the rest, or, at least, in some way different. It mightpossibly be cement and not stone. I gave it a good blow with my ironbar. There was a decidedly hollow sound, though that might be the resultof our being in a well. But there was more. A great flake of cementdropped on to my feet, and I saw marks on the stone underneath. I hadtracked the Abbot down, my dear Gregory; even now I think of it with acertain pride. It took but a very few more taps to clear the whole ofthe cement away, and I saw a slab of stone about two feet square, uponwhich was engraven a cross. Disappointment again, but only for amoment. It was you, Brown, who reassured me by a casual remark. Yousaid, if I remember right:

"'It's a funny cross; looks like a lot of eyes.'"

"I snatched the lantern out of your hand, and saw with inexpressiblepleasure that the cross was composed of seven eyes, four in a verticalline, three horizontal. The last of the scrolls in the window wasexplained in the way I had anticipated. Here was my 'stone with theseven eyes.' So far the Abbot's data had been exact, and, as I thoughtof this, the anxiety about the 'guardian' returned upon me withincreased force. Still, I wasn't going to retreat now.

"Without giving myself time to think, I knocked away the cement allround the marked stone, and then gave it a prise on the right side withmy crowbar. It moved at once, and I saw that it was but a thin lightslab, such as I could easily lift out myself, and that it stopped theentrance to a cavity. I did lift it out unbroken, and set it on thestep, for it might be very important to us to be able to replace it.Then I waited for several minutes on the step just above. I don't knowwhy, but I think to see if any dreadful thing would rush out. Nothinghappened. Next I lit a candle, and very cautiously I placed it insidethe cavity, with some idea of seeing whether there were foul air, and ofgetting a glimpse of what was inside. There was some foulness of airwhich nearly extinguished the flame, but in no long time it burnedquite steadily. The hole went some little way back, and also on theright and left of the entrance, and I could see some roundedlight-coloured objects within which might be bags. There was no use inwaiting. I faced the cavity, and looked in. There was nothingimmediately in the front of the hole. I put my arm in and felt to theright, very gingerly....

"Just give me a glass of cognac, Brown. I'll go on in a moment,Gregory....

"Well, I felt to the right, and my fingers touched something curved,that felt—yes—more or less like leather; dampish it was, and evidentlypart of a heavy, full thing. There was nothing, I must say, to alarmone. I grew bolder, and putting both hands in as well as I could, Ipulled it to me, and it came. It was heavy, but moved more easily than Ihad expected. As I pulled it towards the entrance, my left elbow knockedover and extinguished the candle. I got the thing fairly in front of themouth and began drawing it out. Just then Brown gave a sharp ejaculationand ran quickly up the steps with the lantern. He will tell you why in amoment. Startled as I was, I looked round after him, and saw him standfor a minute at the top and then walk away a few yards. Then I heard himcall softly, 'All right, sir,' and went on pulling out the great bag, incomplete darkness. It hung for an instant on the edge of the hole, thenslipped forward on to my chest, and put its arms round my neck.

"My dear Gregory, I am telling you the exact truth. I believe I am nowacquainted with the extremity of terror and repulsion which a man canendure without losing his mind. I can only just manage to tell you nowthe bare outline of the experience. I was conscious of a most horriblesmell of mould, and of a cold kind of face pressed against my own, andmoving slowly over it, and of several—I don't know how many—legs orarms or tentacles or something clinging to my body. I screamed out,Brown says, like a beast, and fell away backward from the step on whichI stood, and the creature slipped downwards, I suppose, on to that samestep. Providentially the band round me held firm. Brown did not lose hishead, and was strong enough to pull me up to the top and get me over theedge quite promptly. How he managed it exactly I don't know, and I thinkhe would find it hard to tell you. I believe he contrived to hide ourimplements in the deserted building near by, and with very greatdifficulty he got me back to the inn. I was in no state to makeexplanations, and Brown knows no German; but next morning I told thepeople some tale of having had a bad fall in the abbey ruins, which, Isuppose, they believed. And now, before I go further, I should just likeyou to hear what Brown's experiences during those few minutes were. Tellthe Rector, Brown, what you told me."

"Well, sir," said Brown, speaking low and nervously, "it was just thisway. Master was busy down in front of the 'ole, and I was 'olding thelantern and looking on, when I 'eard somethink drop in the water fromthe top, as I thought. So I looked up, and I see someone's 'ead lookin'over at us. I s'pose I must ha' said somethink, and I 'eld the light upand run up the steps, and my light shone right on the face. That was abad un, sir, if ever I see one! A holdish man, and the face very muchfell in, and larfin, as I thought. And I got up the steps as quickpretty nigh as I'm tellin' you, and when I was out on the ground therewarn't a sign of any person. There 'adn't been the time for anyone toget away, let alone a hold chap, and I made sure he warn't crouchingdown by the well, nor nothink. Next thing I hear master cry outsomethink 'orrible, and hall I see was him hanging out by the rope, and,as master says, 'owever I got him up I couldn't tell you."

"You hear that, Gregory?" said Mr. Somerton. "Now, does any explanationof that incident strike you?"

"The whole thing is so ghastly and abnormal that I must own it puts mequite off my balance; but the thought did occur to me that possiblythe—well, the person who set the trap might have come to see thesuccess of his plan."

"Just so, Gregory, just so. I can think of nothing else so—likely, Ishould say, if such a word had a place anywhere in my story. I think itmust have been the Abbot.... Well, I haven't much more to tell you.I spent a miserable night, Brown sitting up with me. Next day I was nobetter; unable to get up; no doctor to be had; and, if one had beenavailable, I doubt if he could have done much for me. I made Brown writeoff to you, and spent a second terrible night. And, Gregory, of this Iam sure, and I think it affected me more than the first shock, for itlasted longer: there was someone or something on the watch outside mydoor the whole night. I almost fancy there were two. It wasn't only thefaint noises I heard from time to time all through the dark hours, butthere was the smell—the hideous smell of mould. Every rag I had had onme on that first evening I had stripped off and made Brown take it away.I believe he stuffed the things into the stove in his room; and yet thesmell was there, as intense as it had been in the well; and, what ismore, it came from outside the door. But with the first glimmer of dawnit faded out, and the sounds ceased, too; and that convinced me that thething or things were creatures of darkness, and could not stand thedaylight; and so I was sure that if anyone could put back the stone, itor they would be powerless until someone else took it away again. I hadto wait until you came to get that done. Of course, I couldn't sendBrown to do it by himself, and still less could I tell anyone whobelonged to the place.

"Well, there is my story; and if you don't believe it, I can't help it.But I think you do."

"Indeed," said Mr. Gregory, "I can find no alternative. I mustbelieve it! I saw the well and the stone myself, and had a glimpse, Ithought, of the bags or something else in the hole. And, to be plainwith you, Somerton, I believe my door was watched last night, too."

"I dare say it was, Gregory; but, thank goodness, that is over. Haveyou, by the way, anything to tell about your visit to that dreadfulplace?"

"Very little," was the answer. "Brown and I managed easily enough to getthe slab into its place, and he fixed it very firmly with the irons andwedges you had desired him to get, and we contrived to smear the surfacewith mud so that it looks just like the rest of the wall. One thing Idid notice in the carving on the well-head, which I think must haveescaped you. It was a horrid, grotesque shape—perhaps more like a toadthan anything else, and there was a label by it inscribed with the twowords, 'Depositum custodi.'"[9]

Footnotes

[5] An account of the Premonstratensian abbey of Steinfeld, inthe Eiffel, with lives of the Abbots, published at Cologne in 1712 byChristian Albert Erhard, a resident in the district. The epithetNorbertinum is due to the fact that St. Norbert was founder of thePremonstratensian Order.

[6] There is a place for gold where it is hidden.

[7] They have on their raiment a writing which no man knoweth.

[8] Upon one stone are seven eyes.

[9] "Keep that which is committed to thee."

A SCHOOL STORY

Two men in a smoking-room were talking of their private-school days."At our school," said A., "we had a ghost's footmark on thestaircase. What was it like? Oh, very unconvincing. Just the shape ofa shoe, with a square toe, if I remember right. The staircase was astone one. I never heard any story about the thing. That seems odd,when you come to think of it. Why didn't somebody invent one, Iwonder?"

"You never can tell with little boys. They have a mythology of theirown. There's a subject for you, by the way—'The Folklore of PrivateSchools.'"

"Yes; the crop is rather scanty, though. I imagine, if you were toinvestigate the cycle of ghost stories, for instance, which the boysat private schools tell each other, they would all turn out to behighly-compressed versions of stories out of books."

"Nowadays the Strand and Pearson's, and so on, would beextensively drawn upon."

"No doubt: they weren't born or thought of in my time. Let's see. Iwonder if I can remember the staple ones that I was told. First, therewas the house with a room in which a series of people insisted onpassing a night; and each of them in the morning was found kneelingin a corner, and had just time to say, 'I've seen it,' and died."

"Wasn't that the house in Berkeley Square?"

"I dare say it was. Then there was the man who heard a noise in thepassage at night, opened his door, and saw someone crawling towardshim on all fours with his eye hanging out on his cheek. There wasbesides, let me think——Yes! the room where a man was found dead inbed with a horseshoe mark on his forehead, and the floor under the bedwas covered with marks of horseshoes also; I don't know why. Alsothere was the lady who, on locking her bedroom door in a strangehouse, heard a thin voice among the bed-curtains say, 'Now we're shutin for the night.' None of those had any explanation or sequel. Iwonder if they go on still, those stories."

"Oh, likely enough—with additions from the magazines, as I said. Younever heard, did you, of a real ghost at a private school? I thoughtnot; nobody has that ever I came across."

"From the way in which you said that, I gather that you have."

"I really don't know; but this is what was in my mind. It happened atmy private school thirty odd years ago, and I haven't any explanationof it.

"The school I mean was near London. It was established in a large andfairly old house—a great white building with very fine grounds aboutit; there were large cedars in the garden, as there are in so many ofthe older gardens in the Thames valley, and ancient elms in the threeor four fields which we used for our games. I think probably it wasquite an attractive place, but boys seldom allow that their schoolspossess any tolerable features.

"I came to the school in a September, soon after the year 1870; andamong the boys who arrived on the same day was one whom I took to: aHighland boy, whom I will call McLeod. I needn't spend time indescribing him: the main thing is that I got to know him very well. Hewas not an exceptional boy in any way—not particularly good at booksor games—but he suited me.

"The school was a large one: there must have been from 120 to 130 boysthere as a rule, and so a considerable staff of masters was required,and there were rather frequent changes among them.

"One term—perhaps it was my third or fourth—a new master made hisappearance. His name was Sampson. He was a tallish, stoutish, pale,black-bearded man. I think we liked him: he had travelled a good deal,and had stories which amused us on our school walks, so that there wassome competition among us to get within earshot of him. I remembertoo—dear me, I have hardly thought of it since then!—that he had acharm on his watch-chain that attracted my attention one day, and helet me examine it. It was, I now suppose, a gold Byzantine coin; therewas an effigy of some absurd emperor on one side; the other side hadbeen worn practically smooth, and he had had cut on it—ratherbarbarously—his own initials, G.W.S., and a date, 24 July, 1865.Yes, I can see it now: he told me he had picked it up inConstantinople: it was about the size of a florin, perhaps rathersmaller.

"Well, the first odd thing that happened was this. Sampson was doingLatin grammar with us. One of his favourite methods—perhaps it israther a good one—was to make us construct sentences out of our ownheads to illustrate the rules he was trying to make us learn. Ofcourse that is a thing which gives a silly boy a chance of beingimpertinent: there are lots of school stories in which thathappens—or anyhow there might be. But Sampson was too good adisciplinarian for us to think of trying that on with him. Now, onthis occasion he was telling us how to express remembering in Latin:and he ordered us each to make a sentence bringing in the verbmemini, 'I remember.' Well, most of us made up some ordinarysentence such as 'I remember my father,' or 'He remembers his book,'or something equally uninteresting: and I dare say a good many putdown memino librum meum, and so forth: but the boy Imentioned—McLeod—was evidently thinking of something more elaboratethan that. The rest of us wanted to have our sentences passed, and geton to something else, so some kicked him under the desk, and I, whowas next to him, poked him and whispered to him to look sharp. But hedidn't seem to attend. I looked at his paper and saw he had put downnothing at all. So I jogged him again harder than before andupbraided him sharply for keeping us all waiting. That did have someeffect. He started and seemed to wake up, and then very quickly hescribbled about a couple of lines on his paper, and showed it up withthe rest. As it was the last, or nearly the last, to come in, and asSampson had a good deal to say to the boys who had writtenmeminiscimus patri meo and the rest of it, it turned out that theclock struck twelve before he had got to McLeod, and McLeod had towait afterwards to have his sentence corrected. There was nothing muchgoing on outside when I got out, so I waited for him to come. He camevery slowly when he did arrive, and I guessed there had been some sortof trouble. 'Well,' I said, 'what did you get?' 'Oh, I don't know,'said McLeod, 'nothing much: but I think Sampson's rather sick withme.' 'Why, did you show him up some rot?' 'No fear,' he said. 'It wasall right as far as I could see: it was like this: Memento—that'sright enough for remember, and it takes a genitive,—memento puteiinter quatuor taxos.' 'What silly rot!' I said. 'What made you shovethat down? What does it mean?' 'That's the funny part,' said McLeod.'I'm not quite sure what it does mean. All I know is, it just cameinto my head and I corked it down. I know what I think it means,because just before I wrote it down I had a sort of picture of it inmy head: I believe it means "Remember the well among the four"—whatare those dark sort of trees that have red berries on them?' 'Mountainashes, I s'pose you mean.' 'I never heard of them,' said McLeod; 'no,I'll tell you—yews.' 'Well, and what did Sampson say?' 'Why, he wasjolly odd about it. When he read it he got up and went to themantelpiece and stopped quite a long time without saying anything,with his back to me. And then he said, without turning round, andrather quiet, "What do you suppose that means?" I told him what Ithought; only I couldn't remember the name of the silly tree: and thenhe wanted to know why I put it down, and I had to say something orother. And after that he left off talking about it, and asked me howlong I'd been here, and where my people lived, and things like that:and then I came away: but he wasn't looking a bit well.'

"I don't remember any more that was said by either of us about this.Next day McLeod took to his bed with a chill or something of the kind,and it was a week or more before he was in school again. And as muchas a month went by without anything happening that was noticeable.Whether or not Mr. Sampson was really startled, as McLeod had thought,he didn't show it. I am pretty sure, of course, now, that there wassomething very curious in his past history, but I'm not going topretend that we boys were sharp enough to guess any such thing.

"There was one other incident of the same kind as the last which Itold you. Several times since that day we had had to make up examplesin school to illustrate different rules, but there had never been anyrow except when we did them wrong. At last there came a day when wewere going through those dismal things which people call ConditionalSentences, and we were told to make a conditional sentence, expressinga future consequence. We did it, right or wrong, and showed up ourbits of paper, and Sampson began looking through them. All at once hegot up, made some odd sort of noise in his throat, and rushed out by adoor that was just by his desk. We sat there for a minute or two, andthen—I suppose it was incorrect—but we went up, I and one or twoothers, to look at the papers on his desk. Of course I thought someonemust have put down some nonsense or other, and Sampson had gone off toreport him. All the same, I noticed that he hadn't taken any of thepapers with him when he ran out. Well, the top paper on the desk waswritten in red ink—which no one used—and it wasn't in anyone's handwho was in the class. They all looked at it—McLeod and all—and tooktheir dying oaths that it wasn't theirs. Then I thought of countingthe bits of paper. And of this I made quite certain: that there wereseventeen bits of paper on the desk, and sixteen boys in the form.Well, I bagged the extra paper, and kept it, and I believe I have itnow. And now you will want to know what was written on it. It wassimple enough, and harmless enough, I should have said.

"'Si tu non veneris ad me, ego veniam ad te,' which means, Isuppose, 'If you don't come to me, I'll come to you.'"

"Could you show me the paper?" interrupted the listener.

"Yes, I could: but there's another odd thing about it. That sameafternoon I took it out of my locker—I know for certain it was thesame bit, for I made a finger-mark on it—and no single trace ofwriting of any kind was there on it. I kept it, as I said, and sincethat time I have tried various experiments to see whether sympatheticink had been used, but absolutely without result.

"So much for that. After about half an hour Sampson looked in again:said he had felt very unwell, and told us we might go. He came rathergingerly to his desk, and gave just one look at the uppermost paper:and I suppose he thought he must have been dreaming: anyhow, he askedno questions.

"That day was a half-holiday, and next day Sampson was in schoolagain, much as usual. That night the third and last incident in mystory happened.

"We—McLeod and I—slept in a dormitory at right angles to the mainbuilding. Sampson slept in the main building on the first floor. Therewas a very bright full moon. At an hour which I can't tell exactly,but some time between one and two, I was woken up by somebody shakingme. It was McLeod; and a nice state of mind he seemed to be in.'Come,' he said,—'come! there's a burglar getting in throughSampson's window.' As soon as I could speak, I said, 'Well, why notcall out and wake everybody up?' 'No, no,' he said, 'I'm not sure whoit is: don't make a row: come and look.' Naturally I came and looked,and naturally there was no one there. I was cross enough, and shouldhave called McLeod plenty of names: only—I couldn't tell why—itseemed to me that there was something wrong—something that made mevery glad I wasn't alone to face it. We were still at the windowlooking out, and as soon as I could, I asked him what he had heard orseen. 'I didn't hear anything at all,' he said, 'but about fiveminutes before I woke you, I found myself looking out of this windowhere, and there was a man sitting or kneeling on Sampson'swindow-sill, and looking in, and I thought he was beckoning.' 'Whatsort of man?' McLeod wriggled. 'I don't know,' he said, 'but I cantell you one thing—he was beastly thin: and he looked as if he waswet all over: and,' he said, looking round and whispering as if hehardly liked to hear himself, 'I'm not at all sure that he was alive.'

"We went on talking in whispers some time longer, and eventually creptback to bed. No one else in the room woke or stirred the whole time. Ibelieve we did sleep a bit afterwards, but we were very cheap nextday.

"And next day Mr. Sampson was gone: not to be found: and I believe notrace of him has ever come to light since. In thinking it over, one ofthe oddest things about it all has seemed to me to be the fact thatneither McLeod nor I ever mentioned what we had seen to any thirdperson whatever. Of course no questions were asked on the subject,and if they had been, I am inclined to believe that we could not havemade any answer: we seemed unable to speak about it.

"That is my story," said the narrator. "The only approach to a ghoststory connected with a school that I know, but still, I think, anapproach to such a thing."

The sequel to this may perhaps be reckoned highly conventional; but asequel there is, and so it must be produced. There had been more thanone listener to the story, and, in the latter part of that same year,or of the next, one such listener was staying at a country house inIreland.

One evening his host was turning over a drawer full of odds and endsin the smoking-room. Suddenly he put his hand upon a little box."Now," he said, "you know about old things; tell me what that is." Myfriend opened the little box, and found in it a thin gold chain withan object attached to it. He glanced at the object and then took offhis spectacles to examine it more narrowly. "What's the history ofthis?" he asked. "Odd enough," was the answer. "You know the yewthicket in the shrubbery: well, a year or two back we were cleaningout the old well that used to be in the clearing here, and what do yousuppose we found?"

"Is it possible that you found a body?" said the visitor, with an oddfeeling of nervousness.

"We did that: but what's more, in every sense of the word, we foundtwo."

"Good Heavens! Two? Was there anything to show how they got there? Wasthis thing found with them?"

"It was. Amongst the rags of the clothes that were on one of thebodies. A bad business, whatever the story of it may have been. Onebody had the arms tight round the other. They must have been therethirty years or more—long enough before we came to this place. Youmay judge we filled the well up fast enough. Do you make anything ofwhat's cut on that gold coin you have there?"

"I think I can," said my friend, holding it to the light (but he readit without much difficulty); "it seems to be G.W.S., 24 July, 1865."

THE ROSE-GARDEN

Mr. and Mrs. Anstruther were at breakfast in the parlour of WestfieldHall, in the county of Essex. They were arranging plans for the day.

"George," said Mrs. Anstruther, "I think you had better take the carto Maldon and see if you can get any of those knitted things I wasspeaking about which would do for my stall at the bazaar."

"Oh well, if you wish it, Mary, of course I can do that, but I hadhalf arranged to play a round with Geoffrey Williamson this morning.The bazaar isn't till Thursday of next week, is it?"

"What has that to do with it, George? I should have thought you wouldhave guessed that if I can't get the things I want in Maldon I shallhave to write to all manner of shops in town: and they are certain tosend something quite unsuitable in price or quality the first time. Ifyou have actually made an appointment with Mr. Williamson, you hadbetter keep it, but I must say I think you might have let me know."

"Oh no, no, it wasn't really an appointment. I quite see what youmean. I'll go. And what shall you do yourself?"

"Why, when the work of the house is arranged for, I must see aboutlaying out my new rose garden. By the way, before you start for MaldonI wish you would just take Collins to look at the place I fixed upon.You know it, of course."

"Well, I'm not quite sure that I do, Mary. Is it at the upper end,towards the village?"

"Good gracious no, my dear George; I thought I had made that quiteclear. No, it's that small clearing just off the shrubbery path thatgoes towards the church."

"Oh yes, where we were saying there must have been a summer-houseonce: the place with the old seat and the posts. But do you thinkthere's enough sun there?"

"My dear George, do allow me some common sense, and don't credit mewith all your ideas about summer-houses. Yes, there will be plenty ofsun when we have got rid of some of those box-bushes. I know what youare going to say, and I have as little wish as you to strip the placebare. All I want Collins to do is to clear away the old seats and theposts and things before I come out in an hour's time. And I hope youwill manage to get off fairly soon. After luncheon I think I shall goon with my sketch of the church; and if you please you can go over tothe links, or——"

"Ah, a good idea—very good! Yes, you finish that sketch, Mary, and Ishould be glad of a round."

"I was going to say, you might call on the Bishop; but I suppose it isno use my making any suggestion. And now do be getting ready, orhalf the morning will be gone."

Mr. Anstruther's face, which had shown symptoms of lengthening,shortened itself again, and he hurried from the room, and was soonheard giving orders in the passage. Mrs. Anstruther, a stately dame ofsome fifty summers, proceeded, after a second consideration of themorning's letters, to her house-keeping.

Within a few minutes Mr. Anstruther had discovered Collins in thegreenhouse, and they were on their way to the site of the projectedrose garden. I do not know much about the conditions most suitable tothese nurseries, but I am inclined to believe that Mrs. Anstruther,though in the habit of describing herself as "a great gardener," hadnot been well advised in the selection of a spot for the purpose. Itwas a small, dank clearing, bounded on one side by a path, and on theother by thick box-bushes, laurels, and other evergreens. The groundwas almost bare of grass and dark of aspect. Remains of rustic seatsand an old and corrugated oak post somewhere near the middle of theclearing had given rise to Mr. Anstruther's conjecture that asummer-house had once stood there.

Clearly Collins had not been put in possession of his mistress'sintentions with regard to this plot of ground: and when he learnt themfrom Mr. Anstruther he displayed no enthusiasm.

"Of course I could clear them seats away soon enough," he said. "Theyaren't no ornament to the place, Mr. Anstruther, and rotten too. Look'ere, sir"—and he broke off a large piece—"rotten right through.Yes, clear them away, to be sure we can do that."

"And the post," said Mr. Anstruther, "that's got to go too."

Collins advanced, and shook the post with both hands: then he rubbedhis chin.

"That's firm in the ground, that post is," he said. "That's been therea number of years, Mr. Anstruther. I doubt I shan't get that up notquite so soon as what I can do with them seats."

"But your mistress specially wishes it to be got out of the way in anhour's time," said Mr. Anstruther.

Collins smiled and shook his head slowly. "You'll excuse me, sir, butyou feel of it for yourself. No, sir, no one can't do what'simpossible to 'em, can they, sir? I could git that post up by aftertea-time, sir, but that'll want a lot of digging. What you require,you see, sir, if you'll excuse me naming of it, you want the soilloosening round this post 'ere, and me and the boy we shall take alittle time doing of that. But now, these 'ere seats," said Collins,appearing to appropriate this portion of the scheme as due to his ownresourcefulness, "why, I can get the barrer round and 'ave themcleared away in, why less than an hour's time from now, if you'llpermit of it. Only——"

"Only what, Collins?"

"Well now, it ain't for me to go against orders no more than what itis for you yourself—or anyone else" (this was added somewhathurriedly), "but if you'll pardon me, sir, this ain't the place Ishould have picked out for no rose garden myself. Why look at them boxand laurestinus, 'ow they reg'lar preclude the light from——"

"Ah yes, but we've got to get rid of some of them, of course."

"Oh, indeed, get rid of them! Yes, to be sure, but—I beg your pardon,Mr. Anstruther——"

"I'm sorry, Collins, but I must be getting on now. I hear the car atthe door. Your mistress will explain exactly what she wishes. I'lltell her, then, that you can see your way to clearing away the seatsat once, and the post this afternoon. Good morning."

Collins was left rubbing his chin. Mrs. Anstruther received the reportwith some discontent, but did not insist upon any change of plan.

By four o'clock that afternoon she had dismissed her husband to hisgolf, had dealt faithfully with Collins and with the other duties ofthe day, and, having sent a campstool and umbrella to the proper spot,had just settled down to her sketch of the church as seen from theshrubbery, when a maid came hurrying down the path to report that MissWilkins had called.

Miss Wilkins was one of the few remaining members of the family fromwhom the Anstruthers had bought the Westfield estate some few yearsback. She had been staying in the neighbourhood, and this was probablya farewell visit. "Perhaps you could ask Miss Wilkins to join mehere," said Mrs. Anstruther, and soon Miss Wilkins, a person of matureyears, approached.

"Yes, I'm leaving the Ashes to-morrow, and I shall be able to tell mybrother how tremendously you have improved the place. Of course hecan't help regretting the old house just a little—as I do myself—butthe garden is really delightful now."

"I am so glad you can say so. But you mustn't think we've finished ourimprovements. Let me show you where I mean to put a rose garden. It'sclose by here."

The details of the project were laid before Miss Wilkins at somelength; but her thoughts were evidently elsewhere.

"Yes, delightful," she said at last rather absently. "But do you know,Mrs. Anstruther, I'm afraid I was thinking of old times. I'm veryglad to have seen just this spot again before you altered it. Frankand I had quite a romance about this place."

"Yes?" said Mrs. Anstruther smilingly; "do tell me what it was.Something quaint and charming, I'm sure."

"Not so very charming, but it has always seemed to me curious. Neitherof us would ever be here alone when we were children, and I'm not surethat I should care about it now in certain moods. It is one of thosethings that can hardly be put into words—by me at least—and thatsound rather foolish if they are not properly expressed. I can tellyou after a fashion what it was that gave us—well, almost a horror ofthe place when we were alone. It was towards the evening of one veryhot autumn day, when Frank had disappeared mysteriously about thegrounds, and I was looking for him to fetch him to tea, and going downthis path I suddenly saw him, not hiding in the bushes, as I ratherexpected, but sitting on the bench in the old summer-house—there wasa wooden summer-house here, you know—up in the corner, asleep, butwith such a dreadful look on his face that I really thought he must beill or even dead. I rushed at him and shook him, and told him to wakeup; and wake up he did, with a scream. I assure you the poor boyseemed almost beside himself with fright. He hurried me away to thehouse, and was in a terrible state all that night, hardly sleeping.Someone had to sit up with him, as far as I remember. He was bettervery soon, but for days I couldn't get him to say why he had been insuch a condition. It came out at last that he had really been asleepand had had a very odd disjointed sort of dream. He never saw muchof what was around him, but he felt the scenes most vividly. Firsthe made out that he was standing in a large room with a number ofpeople in it, and that someone was opposite to him who was 'verypowerful,' and he was being asked questions which he felt to be veryimportant, and, whenever he answered them, someone—either the personopposite to him, or someone else in the room—seemed to be, as hesaid, making something up against him. All the voices sounded to himvery distant, but he remembered bits of the things that were said:'Where were you on the 19th of October?' and 'Is this yourhandwriting?' and so on. I can see now, of course, that he wasdreaming of some trial: but we were never allowed to see the papers,and it was odd that a boy of eight should have such a vivid idea ofwhat went on in a court. All the time he felt, he said, the mostintense anxiety and oppression and hopelessness (though I don'tsuppose he used such words as that to me). Then, after that, there wasan interval in which he remembered being dreadfully restless andmiserable, and then there came another sort of picture, when he wasaware that he had come out of doors on a dark raw morning with alittle snow about. It was in a street, or at any rate among houses,and he felt that there were numbers and numbers of people there too,and that he was taken up some creaking wooden steps and stood on asort of platform, but the only thing he could actually see was a smallfire burning somewhere near him. Someone who had been holding his armleft hold of it and went towards this fire, and then he said thefright he was in was worse than at any other part of his dream, and ifI had not wakened him up he didn't know what would have become of him.A curious dream for a child to have, wasn't it? Well, so much forthat. It must have been later in the year that Frank and I were here,and I was sitting in the arbour just about sunset. I noticed the sunwas going down, and told Frank to run in and see if tea was readywhile I finished a chapter in the book I was reading. Frank was awaylonger than I expected, and the light was going so fast that I had tobend over my book to make it out. All at once I became conscious thatsomeone was whispering to me inside the arbour. The only words I coulddistinguish, or thought I could, were something like 'Pull, pull. I'llpush, you pull.'

"I started up in something of a fright. The voice—it was little morethan a whisper—sounded so hoarse and angry, and yet as if it camefrom a long, long way off—just as it had done in Frank's dream. But,though I was startled, I had enough courage to look round and try tomake out where the sound came from. And—this sounds very foolish, Iknow, but still it is the fact—I made sure that it was strongest whenI put my ear to an old post which was part of the end of the seat. Iwas so certain of this that I remember making some marks on thepost—as deep as I could with the scissors out of my work-basket. Idon't know why. I wonder, by the way, whether that isn't the very postitself.... Well, yes, it might be: there are marks and scratcheson it—but one can't be sure. Anyhow, it was just like that post youhave there. My father got to know that both of us had had a fright inthe arbour, and he went down there himself one evening after dinner,and the arbour was pulled down at very short notice. I recollecthearing my father talking about it to an old man who used to do oddjobs in the place, and the old man saying, 'Don't you fear for that,sir: he's fast enough in there without no one don't take and let himout.' But when I asked who it was, I could get no satisfactory answer.Possibly my father or mother might have told me more about it when Igrew up, but, as you know, they both died when we were still quitechildren. I must say it has always seemed very odd to me, and I'veoften asked the older people in the village whether they knew ofanything strange: but either they knew nothing or they wouldn't tellme. Dear, dear, how I have been boring you with my childishremembrances! but indeed that arbour did absorb our thoughts quiteremarkably for a time. You can fancy, can't you, the kind of storiesthat we made up for ourselves. Well, dear Mrs. Anstruther, I must beleaving you now. We shall meet in town this winter, I hope, shan'twe?" etc., etc.

The seats and the post were cleared away and uprooted respectively bythat evening. Late summer weather is proverbially treacherous, andduring dinner-time Mrs. Collins sent up to ask for a little brandy,because her husband had took a nasty chill and she was afraid he wouldnot be able to do much next day.

Mrs. Anstruther's morning reflections were not wholly placid. She wassure some roughs had got into the plantation during the night. "Andanother thing, George: the moment that Collins is about again, youmust tell him to do something about the owls. I never heard anythinglike them, and I'm positive one came and perched somewhere justoutside our window. If it had come in I should have been out of mywits: it must have been a very large bird, from its voice. Didn't youhear it? No, of course not, you were sound asleep as usual. Still, Imust say, George, you don't look as if your night had done you muchgood."

"My dear, I feel as if another of the same would turn me silly. Youhave no idea of the dreams I had. I couldn't speak of them when I wokeup, and if this room wasn't so bright and sunny I shouldn't care tothink of them even now."

"Well, really, George, that isn't very common with you, I must say.You must have—no, you only had what I had yesterday—unless you hadtea at that wretched club house: did you?"

"No, no; nothing but a cup of tea and some bread and butter. I shouldreally like to know how I came to put my dream together—as I supposeone does put one's dreams together from a lot of little things one hasbeen seeing or reading. Look here, Mary, it was like this—if I shan'tbe boring you——"

"I wish to hear what it was, George. I will tell you when I have hadenough."

"All right. I must tell you that it wasn't like other nightmares inone way, because I didn't really see anyone who spoke to me ortouched me, and yet I was most fearfully impressed with the reality ofit all. First I was sitting, no, moving about, in an old-fashionedsort of panelled room. I remember there was a fireplace and a lot ofburnt papers in it, and I was in a great state of anxiety aboutsomething. There was someone else—a servant, I suppose, because Iremember saying to him, 'Horses, as quick as you can,' and thenwaiting a bit: and next I heard several people coming upstairs and anoise like spurs on a boarded floor, and then the door opened andwhatever it was that I was expecting happened."

"Yes, but what was that?"

"You see, I couldn't tell: it was the sort of shock that upsets you ina dream. You either wake up or else everything goes black. That waswhat happened to me. Then I was in a big dark-walled room, panelled, Ithink, like the other, and a number of people, and I wasevidently——"

"Standing your trial, I suppose, George."

"Goodness! yes, Mary, I was; but did you dream that too? How veryodd!"

"No, no; I didn't get enough sleep for that. Go on, George, and I willtell you afterwards."

"Yes; well, I was being tried, for my life, I've no doubt, from thestate I was in. I had no one speaking for me, and somewhere there wasa most fearful fellow—on the bench; I should have said, only that heseemed to be pitching into me most unfairly, and twisting everythingI said, and asking most abominable questions."

"What about?"

"Why, dates when I was at particular places, and letters I wassupposed to have written, and why I had destroyed some papers; and Irecollect his laughing at answers I made in a way that quite dauntedme. It doesn't sound much, but I can tell you, Mary, it was reallyappalling at the time. I am quite certain there was such a man once,and a most horrible villain he must have been. The things he said——"

"Thank you, I have no wish to hear them. I can go to the links any daymyself. How did it end?"

"Oh, against me; he saw to that. I do wish, Mary, I could give you anotion of the strain that came after that, and seemed to me to lastfor days: waiting and waiting, and sometimes writing things I knew tobe enormously important to me, and waiting for answers and nonecoming, and after that I came out——"

"Ah!"

"What makes you say that? Do you know what sort of thing I saw?"

"Was it a dark cold day, and snow in the streets, and a fire burningsomewhere near you?"

"By George, it was! You have had the same nightmare! Really not?Well, it is the oddest thing! Yes; I've no doubt it was an executionfor high treason. I know I was laid on straw and jolted along mostwretchedly, and then had to go up some steps, and someone was holdingmy arm, and I remember seeing a bit of a ladder and hearing a sound ofa lot of people. I really don't think I could bear now to go into acrowd of people and hear the noise they make talking. However,mercifully, I didn't get to the real business. The dream passed offwith a sort of thunder inside my head. But, Mary——"

"I know what you are going to ask. I suppose this is an instance of akind of thought-reading. Miss Wilkins called yesterday and told me ofa dream her brother had as a child when they lived here, and somethingdid no doubt make me think of that when I was awake last nightlistening to those horrible owls and those men talking and laughing inthe shrubbery (by the way, I wish you would see if they have done anydamage, and speak to the police about it); and so, I suppose, from mybrain it must have got into yours while you were asleep. Curious, nodoubt, and I am sorry it gave you such a bad night. You had better beas much in the fresh air as you can to-day."

"Oh, it's all right now; but I think I will go over to the Lodge andsee if I can get a game with any of them. And you?"

"I have enough to do for this morning; and this afternoon, if I am notinterrupted, there is my drawing."

"To be sure—I want to see that finished very much."

No damage was discoverable in the shrubbery. Mr. Anstruther surveyedwith faint interest the site of the rose garden, where the uprootedpost still lay, and the hole it had occupied remained unfilled.Collins, upon inquiry made, proved to be better, but quite unable tocome to his work. He expressed, by the mouth of his wife, a hope thathe hadn't done nothing wrong clearing away them things. Mrs. Collinsadded that there was a lot of talking people in Westfield, and thehold ones was the worst: seemed to think everything of them havingbeen in the parish longer than what other people had. But as to whatthey said no more could then be ascertained than that it had quiteupset Collins, and was a lot of nonsense.

Recruited by lunch and a brief period of slumber, Mrs. Anstruthersettled herself comfortably upon her sketching chair in the pathleading through the shrubbery to the side-gate of the churchyard.Trees and buildings were among her favourite subjects, and here shehad good studies of both. She worked hard, and the drawing wasbecoming a really pleasant thing to look upon by the time that thewooded hills to the west had shut off the sun. Still she would havepersevered, but the light changed rapidly, and it became obvious thatthe last touches must be added on the morrow. She rose and turnedtowards the house, pausing for a time to take delight in the limpidgreen western sky. Then she passed on between the dark box-bushes,and, at a point just before the path debouched on the lawn, shestopped once again and considered the quiet evening landscape, andmade a mental note that that must be the tower of one of the Roothingchurches that one caught on the skyline. Then a bird (perhaps)rustled in the box-bush on her left, and she turned and started atseeing what at first she took to be a Fifth of November mask peepingout among the branches. She looked closer.

It was not a mask. It was a face—large, smooth, and pink. Sheremembers the minute drops of perspiration which were starting fromits forehead: she remembers how the jaws were clean-shaven and theeyes shut. She remembers also, and with an accuracy which makes thethought intolerable to her, how the mouth was open and a single toothappeared below the upper lip. As she looked the face receded into thedarkness of the bush. The shelter of the house was gained and the doorshut before she collapsed.

Mr. and Mrs. Anstruther had been for a week or more recruiting atBrighton before they received a circular from the Essex ArchæologicalSociety, and a query as to whether they possessed certain historicalportraits which it was desired to include in the forthcoming work onEssex Portraits, to be published under the Society's auspices. Therewas an accompanying letter from the Secretary which contained thefollowing passage: "We are specially anxious to know whether youpossess the original of the engraving of which I enclose a photograph.It represents Sir —— ——, Lord Chief Justice under Charles II,who, as you doubtless know, retired after his disgrace to Westfield,and is supposed to have died there of remorse. It may interest you tohear that a curious entry has recently been found in the registers,not of Westfield but of Priors Roothing, to the effect that the parishwas so much troubled after his death that the rector of Westfieldsummoned the parsons of all the Roothings to come and lay him; whichthey did. The entry ends by saying: 'The stake is in a field adjoiningto the churchyard of Westfield, on the west side.' Perhaps you can letus know if any tradition to this effect is current in your parish."

The incidents which the "enclosed photograph" recalled were productiveof a severe shock to Mrs. Anstruther. It was decided that she mustspend the winter abroad.

Mr. Anstruther, when he went down to Westfield to make the necessaryarrangements, not unnaturally told his story to the rector (an oldgentleman), who showed little surprise.

"Really I had managed to piece out for myself very much what must havehappened, partly from old people's talk and partly from what I saw inyour grounds. Of course we have suffered to some extent also. Yes, itwas bad at first: like owls, as you say, and men talking sometimes.One night it was in this garden, and at other times about several ofthe cottages. But lately there has been very little: I think it willdie out. There is nothing in our registers except the entry of theburial, and what I for a long time took to be the family motto; butlast time I looked at it I noticed that it was added in a later handand had the initials of one of our rectors quite late in theseventeenth century, A. C.—Augustine Crompton. Here it is, yousee—quieta non movere. I suppose—— Well, it is rather hard to sayexactly what I do suppose."

THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH

Towards the end of an autumn afternoon an elderly man with a thin faceand grey Piccadilly weepers pushed open the swing-door leading intothe vestibule of a certain famous library, and addressing himself toan attendant, stated that he believed he was entitled to use thelibrary, and inquired if he might take a book out. Yes, if he were onthe list of those to whom that privilege was given. He produced hiscard—Mr. John Eldred—and, the register being consulted, a favourableanswer was given. "Now, another point," said he. "It is a long timesince I was here, and I do not know my way about your building;besides, it is near closing-time, and it is bad for me to hurry up anddown stairs. I have here the title of the book I want: is there anyoneat liberty who could go and find it for me?" After a moment's thoughtthe doorkeeper beckoned to a young man who was passing. "Mr. Garrett,"he said, "have you a minute to assist this gentleman?" "Withpleasure," was Mr. Garrett's answer. The slip with the title washanded to him. "I think I can put my hand on this; it happens to be inthe class I inspected last quarter, but I'll just look it up in thecatalogue to make sure. I suppose it is that particular edition thatyou require, sir?" "Yes, if you please; that, and no other," said Mr.Eldred; "I am exceedingly obliged to you." "Don't mention it I beg,sir," said Mr. Garrett, and hurried off.

"I thought so," he said to himself, when his finger, travelling downthe pages of the catalogue, stopped at a particular entry. "Talmud:Tractate Middoth, with the commentary of Nachmanides, Amsterdam, 1707.11.3.34. Hebrew class, of course. Not a very difficult job this."

Mr. Eldred, accommodated with a chair in the vestibule, awaitedanxiously the return of his messenger—and his disappointment atseeing an empty-handed Mr. Garrett running down the staircase was veryevident. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir," said the young man, "butthe book is out." "Oh dear!" said Mr. Eldred, "is that so? You aresure there can be no mistake?" "I don't think there is much chance ofit, sir; but it's possible, if you like to wait a minute, that youmight meet the very gentleman that's got it. He must be leaving thelibrary soon, and I think I saw him take that particular book out ofthe shelf." "Indeed! You didn't recognize him, I suppose? Would it beone of the professors or one of the students?" "I don't think so:certainly not a professor. I should have known him; but the lightisn't very good in that part of the library at this time of day, and Ididn't see his face. I should have said he was a shortish oldgentleman, perhaps a clergyman, in a cloak. If you could wait, I caneasily find out whether he wants the book very particularly."

"No, no," said Mr. Eldred, "I won't—I can't wait now, thank you—no.I must be off. But I'll call again to-morrow if I may, and perhaps youcould find out who has it."

"Certainly, sir, and I'll have the book ready for you if we——" ButMr. Eldred was already off, and hurrying more than one would havethought wholesome for him.

Garrett had a few moments to spare; and, thought he, "I'll go back tothat case and see if I can find the old man. Most likely he could putoff using the book for a few days. I dare say the other one doesn'twant to keep it for long." So off with him to the Hebrew class. Butwhen he got there it was unoccupied, and the volume marked 11.3.34 wasin its place on the shelf. It was vexatious to Garrett's self-respectto have disappointed an inquirer with so little reason: and he wouldhave liked, had it not been against library rules, to take the bookdown to the vestibule then and there, so that it might be ready forMr. Eldred when he called. However, next morning he would be on thelook out for him, and he begged the doorkeeper to send and let himknow when the moment came. As a matter of fact, he was himself in thevestibule when Mr. Eldred arrived, very soon after the library opened,and when hardly anyone besides the staff were in the building.

"I'm very sorry," he said; "it's not often that I make such a stupidmistake, but I did feel sure that the old gentleman I saw took outthat very book and kept it in his hand without opening it, just aspeople do, you know, sir, when they mean to take a book out of thelibrary and not merely refer to it. But, however, I'll run up now atonce and get it for you this time."

And here intervened a pause. Mr. Eldred paced the entry, read all thenotices, consulted his watch, sat and gazed up the staircase, did allthat a very impatient man could, until some twenty minutes had runout. At last he addressed himself to the doorkeeper and inquired if itwas a very long way to that part of the library to which Mr. Garretthad gone.

"Well, I was thinking it was funny, sir: he's a quick man as a rule,but to be sure he might have been sent for by the libarian, but evenso I think he'd have mentioned to him that you was waiting. I'll justspeak him up on the toob and see." And to the tube he addressedhimself. As he absorbed the reply to his question his face changed,and he made one or two supplementary inquiries which were shortlyanswered. Then he came forward to his counter and spoke in a lowertone. "I'm sorry to hear, sir, that something seems to have 'appened alittle awkward. Mr. Garrett has been took poorly, it appears, and thelibarian sent him 'ome in a cab the other way. Something of an attack,by what I can hear." "What, really? Do you mean that someone hasinjured him?" "No, sir, not violence 'ere, but, as I should judge,attacted with an attack, what you might term it, of illness. Not astrong constitootion, Mr. Garrett. But as to your book, sir, perhapsyou might be able to find it for yourself. It's too bad you should bedisappointed this way twice over——" "Er—well, but I'm so sorry thatMr. Garrett should have been taken ill in this way while he wasobliging me. I think I must leave the book, and call and inquire afterhim. You can give me his address, I suppose." That was easily done:Mr. Garrett, it appeared, lodged in rooms not far from the station."And, one other question. Did you happen to notice if an oldgentleman, perhaps a clergyman, in a—yes—in a black cloak, left thelibrary after I did yesterday. I think he may have been a—I think,that is, that he may be staying—or rather that I may have known him."

"Not in a black cloak, sir; no. There were only two gentlemen leftlater than what you done, sir, both of them youngish men. There wasMr. Carter took out a music-book and one of the prefessors with acouple o' novels. That's the lot, sir; and then I went off to me tea,and glad to get it. Thank you, sir, much obliged."

Mr. Eldred, still a prey to anxiety, betook himself in a cab to Mr.Garrett's address, but the young man was not yet in a condition toreceive visitors. He was better, but his landlady considered that hemust have had a severe shock. She thought most likely from what thedoctor said that he would be able to see Mr. Eldred to-morrow. Mr.Eldred returned to his hotel at dusk and spent, I fear, but a dullevening.

On the next day he was able to see Mr. Garrett. When in health Mr.Garrett was a cheerful and pleasant-looking young man. Now he was avery white and shaky being, propped up in an arm-chair by the fire,and inclined to shiver and keep an eye on the door. If, however, therewere visitors whom he was not prepared to welcome, Mr. Eldred was notamong them. "It really is I who owe you an apology, and I wasdespairing of being able to pay it, for I didn't know your address.But I am very glad you have called. I do dislike and regret giving allthis trouble, but you know I could not have foreseen this—this attackwhich I had."

"Of course not; but now, I am something of a doctor. You'll excuse myasking; you have had, I am sure, good advice. Was it a fall you had?"

"No. I did fall on the floor—but not from any height. It was, really,a shock."

"You mean something startled you. Was it anything you thought yousaw?"

"Not much thinking in the case, I'm afraid. Yes, it was something Isaw. You remember when you called the first time at the library?"

"Yes, of course. Well, now, let me beg you not to try to describeit—it will not be good for you to recall it, I'm sure."

"But indeed it would be a relief to me to tell anyone like yourself:you might be able to explain it away. It was just when I was goinginto the class where your book is——"

"Indeed, Mr. Garrett, I insist; besides, my watch tells me I have butvery little time left in which to get my things together and take thetrain. No—not another word—it would be more distressing to you thanyou imagine, perhaps. Now there is just one thing I want to say. Ifeel that I am really indirectly responsible for this illness ofyours, and I think I ought to defray the expense which it has—eh?"

But this offer was quite distinctly declined. Mr. Eldred, not pressingit, left almost at once: not, however, before Mr. Garrett had insistedupon his taking a note of the class-mark of the Tractate Middoth,which, as he said, Mr. Eldred could at leisure get for himself. ButMr. Eldred did not reappear at the library.

William Garrett had another visitor that day in the person of acontemporary and colleague from the library, one George Earle. Earlehad been one of those who found Garrett lying insensible on the floorjust inside the "class" or cubicle (opening upon the central alley ofa spacious gallery) in which the Hebrew books were placed, and Earlehad naturally been very anxious about his friend's condition. So assoon as library hours were over he appeared at the lodgings. "Well,"he said (after other conversation), "I've no notion what it was thatput you wrong, but I've got the idea that there's something wrong inthe atmosphere of the library. I know this, that just before we foundyou I was coming along the gallery with Davis, and I said to him, 'Didever you know such a musty smell anywhere as there is about here? Itcan't be wholesome.' Well now, if one goes on living a long time witha smell of that kind (I tell you it was worse than I ever knew it) itmust get into the system and break out some time, don't you think?"

Garrett shook his head. "That's all very well about the smell—but itisn't always there, though I've noticed it the last day or two—a sortof unnaturally strong smell of dust. But no—that's not what did forme. It was something I saw. And I want to tell you about it. I wentinto that Hebrew class to get a book for a man that was inquiring forit down below. Now that same book I'd made a mistake about the daybefore. I'd been for it, for the same man, and made sure that I saw anold parson in a cloak taking it out. I told my man it was out: off hewent, to call again next day. I went back to see if I could get it outof the parson: no parson there, and the book on the shelf. Well,yesterday, as I say, I went again. This time, if you please—teno'clock in the morning, remember, and as much light as ever you get inthose classes, and there was my parson again, back to me, looking atthe books on the shelf I wanted. His hat was on the table, and he hada bald head. I waited a second or two looking at him ratherparticularly. I tell you, he had a very nasty bald head. It looked tome dry, and it looked dusty, and the streaks of hair across it weremuch less like hair than cobwebs. Well, I made a bit of a noise onpurpose, coughed and moved my feet. He turned round and let me see hisface—which I hadn't seen before. I tell you again, I'm not mistaken.Though, for one reason or another I didn't take in the lower part ofhis face, I did see the upper part; and it was perfectly dry, and theeyes were very deep-sunk; and over them, from the eyebrows to thecheek-bone, there were cobwebs—thick. Now that closed me up, asthey say, and I can't tell you anything more."

What explanations were furnished by Earle of this phenomenon it doesnot very much concern us to inquire; at all events they did notconvince Garrett that he had not seen what he had seen.

Before William Garrett returned to work at the library, the librarianinsisted upon his taking a week's rest and change of air. Within a fewdays' time, therefore, he was at the station with his bag, looking fora desirable smoking compartment in which to travel to Burnstow-on-Sea,which he had not previously visited. One compartment and one onlyseemed to be suitable. But, just as he approached it, he saw, standingin front of the door, a figure so like one bound up with recentunpleasant associations that, with a sickening qualm, and hardlyknowing what he did, he tore open the door of the next compartment andpulled himself into it as quickly as if death were at his heels. Thetrain moved off, and he must have turned quite faint, for he was nextconscious of a smelling-bottle being put to his nose. His physicianwas a nice-looking old lady, who, with her daughter, was the onlypassenger in the carriage.

But for this incident it is not very likely that he would have madeany overtures to his fellow-travellers. As it was, thanks andinquiries and general conversation supervened inevitably; and Garrettfound himself provided before the journey's end not only with aphysician, but with a landlady: for Mrs. Simpson had apartments to letat Burnstow, which seemed in all ways suitable. The place was empty atthat season, so that Garrett was thrown a good deal into the societyof the mother and daughter. He found them very acceptable company. Onthe third evening of his stay he was on such terms with them as to beasked to spend the evening in their private sitting-room.

During their talk it transpired that Garrett's work lay in a library."Ah, libraries are fine places," said Mrs. Simpson, putting down herwork with a sigh; "but for all that, books have played me a sad turn,or rather a book has."

"Well, books give me my living, Mrs. Simpson, and I should be sorry tosay a word against them: I don't like to hear that they have been badfor you."

"Perhaps Mr. Garrett could help us to solve our puzzle, mother," saidMiss Simpson.

"I don't want to set Mr. Garrett off on a hunt that might waste alifetime, my dear, nor yet to trouble him with our private affairs."

"But if you think it in the least likely that I could be of use, I dobeg you to tell me what the puzzle is, Mrs. Simpson. If it is findingout anything about a book, you see, I am in rather a good position todo it."

"Yes, I do see that, but the worst of it is that we don't know thename of the book."

"Nor what it is about?"

"No, nor that either."

"Except that we don't think it's in English, mother—and that is notmuch of a clue."

"Well, Mr. Garrett," said Mrs. Simpson, who had not yet resumed herwork, and was looking at the fire thoughtfully, "I shall tell you thestory. You will please keep it to yourself, if you don't mind? Thankyou. Now it is just this. I had an old uncle, a Dr. Rant. Perhaps youmay have heard of him. Not that he was a distinguished man, but fromthe odd way he chose to be buried."

"I rather think I have seen the name in some guide-book."

"That would be it," said Miss Simpson. "He left directions—horrid oldman!—that he was to be put, sitting at a table in his ordinaryclothes, in a brick room that he'd had made underground in a fieldnear his house. Of course the country people say he's been seen aboutthere in his old black cloak."

"Well, dear, I don't know much about such things," Mrs. Simpson wenton, "but anyhow he is dead, these twenty years and more. He was aclergyman, though I'm sure I can't imagine how he got to be one: buthe did no duty for the last part of his life, which I think was a goodthing; and he lived on his own property: a very nice estate not agreat way from here. He had no wife or family; only one niece, who wasmyself, and one nephew, and he had no particular liking for either ofus—nor for anyone else, as far as that goes. If anything, he liked mycousin better than he did me—for John was much more like him in histemper, and, I'm afraid I must say, his very mean sharp ways. It mighthave been different if I had not married; but I did, and that he verymuch resented. Very well: here he was with this estate and a good dealof money, as it turned out, of which he had the absolute disposal, andit was understood that we—my cousin and I—would share it equally athis death. In a certain winter, over twenty years back, as I said, hewas taken ill, and I was sent for to nurse him. My husband was alivethen, but the old man would not hear of his coming. As I drove up tothe house I saw my cousin John driving away from it in an open fly andlooking, I noticed, in very good spirits. I went up and did what Icould for my uncle, but I was very soon sure that this would be hislast illness; and he was convinced of it too. During the day beforehe died he got me to sit by him all the time, and I could see therewas something, and probably something unpleasant, that he was savingup to tell me, and putting it off as long as he felt he could affordthe strength—I'm afraid purposely in order to keep me on the stretch.But, at last, out it came. 'Mary,' he said,—'Mary, I've made my willin John's favour: he has everything, Mary.' Well, of course that cameas a bitter shock to me, for we—my husband and I—were not richpeople, and if he could have managed to live a little easier than hewas obliged to do, I felt it might be the prolonging of his life. ButI said little or nothing to my uncle, except that he had a right to dowhat he pleased: partly because I couldn't think of anything to say,and partly because I was sure there was more to come: and so therewas. 'But, Mary,' he said, 'I'm not very fond of John, and I've madeanother will in your favour. You can have everything. Only you'vegot to find the will, you see: and I don't mean to tell you where itis.' Then he chuckled to himself, and I waited, for again I was surehe hadn't finished. 'That's a good girl,' he said after a time,—'youwait, and I'll tell you as much as I told John. But just let me remindyou, you can't go into court with what I'm saying to you, for youwon't be able to produce any collateral evidence beyond your own word,and John's a man that can do a little hard swearing if necessary. Verywell then, that's understood. Now, I had the fancy that I wouldn'twrite this will quite in the common way, so I wrote it in a book,Mary, a printed book. And there's several thousand books in thishouse. But there! you needn't trouble yourself with them, for it isn'tone of them. It's in safe keeping elsewhere: in a place where John cango and find it any day, if he only knew, and you can't. A good will itis: properly signed and witnessed, but I don't think you'll find thewitnesses in a hurry.'

"Still I said nothing: if I had moved at all I must have taken hold ofthe old wretch and shaken him. He lay there laughing to himself, andat last he said:

"'Well, well, you've taken it very quietly, and as I want to start youboth on equal terms, and John has a bit of a purchase in being able togo where the book is, I'll tell you just two other things which Ididn't tell him. The will's in English, but you won't know that ifever you see it. That's one thing, and another is that when I'm goneyou'll find an envelope in my desk directed to you, and inside itsomething that would help you to find it, if only you have the wits touse it.'

"In a few hours from that he was gone, and though I made an appeal toJohn Eldred about it——"

"John Eldred? I beg your pardon, Mrs. Simpson—I think I've seen a Mr.John Eldred. What is he like to look at?"

"It must be ten years since I saw him: he would be a thin elderly mannow, and unless he has shaved them off, he has that sort of whiskerswhich people used to call Dundreary or Piccadilly something."

"——weepers. Yes, that is the man."

"Where did you come across him, Mr. Garrett?"

"I don't know if I could tell you," said Garrett mendaciously, "insome public place. But you hadn't finished."

"Really I had nothing much to add, only that John Eldred, of course,paid no attention whatever to my letters, and has enjoyed the estateever since, while my daughter and I have had to take to thelodging-house business here, which I must say has not turned out byany means so unpleasant as I feared it might."

"But about the envelope."

"To be sure! Why, the puzzle turns on that. Give Mr. Garrett the paperout of my desk."

It was a small slip, with nothing whatever on it but five numerals,not divided or punctuated in any way: 11334.

Mr. Garrett pondered, but there was a light in his eye. Suddenly he"made a face," and then asked, "Do you suppose that Mr. Eldred canhave any more clue than you have to the title of the book?"

"I have sometimes thought he must," said Mrs. Simpson, "and in thisway: that my uncle must have made the will not very long before hedied (that, I think, he said himself), and got rid of the bookimmediately afterwards. But all his books were very carefullycatalogued: and John has the catalogue: and John was most particularthat no books whatever should be sold out of the house. And I'm toldthat he is always journeying about to booksellers and libraries; so Ifancy that he must have found out just which books are missing from myuncle's library of those which are entered in the catalogue, and mustbe hunting for them."

"Just so, just so," said Mr. Garrett, and relapsed into thought.

No later than next day he received a letter which, as he told Mrs.Simpson with great regret, made it absolutely necessary for him to cutshort his stay at Burnstow.

Sorry as he was to leave them (and they were at least as sorry to partwith him), he had begun to feel that a crisis, all-important to Mrs.(and shall we add, Miss?) Simpson, was very possibly supervening.

In the train Garrett was uneasy and excited. He racked his brains tothink whether the press mark of the book which Mr. Eldred had beeninquiring after was one in any way corresponding to the numbers onMrs. Simpson's little bit of paper. But he found to his dismay thatthe shock of the previous week had really so upset him that he couldneither remember any vestige of the title or nature of the book, oreven of the locality to which he had gone to seek it. And yet allother parts of library topography and work were clear as ever in hismind.

And another thing—he stamped with annoyance as he thought of it—hehad at first hesitated, and then had forgotten, to ask Mrs. Simpsonfor the name of the place where Eldred lived. That, however, he couldwrite about.

At least he had his clue in the figures on the paper. If they referredto a press mark in his library, they were only susceptible of alimited number of interpretations. They might be divided into 1.13.34,11.33.4, or 11.3.34. He could try all these in the space of a fewminutes, and if any one were missing he had every means of tracing it.He got very quickly to work, though a few minutes had to be spent inexplaining his early return to his landlady and his colleagues.1.13.34. was in place and contained no extraneous writing. As he drewnear to Class 11 in the same gallery, its association struck him likea chill. But he must go on. After a cursory glance at 11.33.4 (whichfirst confronted him, and was a perfectly new book) he ran his eyealong the line of quartos which fills 11.3. The gap he feared wasthere: 34 was out. A moment was spent in making sure that it had notbeen misplaced, and then he was off to the vestibule.

"Has 11.3.34 gone out? Do you recollect noticing that number?"

"Notice the number? What do you take me for, Mr. Garrett? There, takeand look over the tickets for yourself, if you've got a free daybefore you."

"Well then, has a Mr. Eldred called again?—the old gentleman whocame the day I was taken ill. Come! you'd remember him."

"What do you suppose? Of course I recollect of him: no, he haven'tbeen in again, not since you went off for your 'oliday. And yet I seemto—there now. Roberts'll know. Roberts, do you recollect of the nameof Heldred?"

"Not arf," said Roberts. "You mean the man that sent a bob over theprice for the parcel, and I wish they all did."

"Do you mean to say you've been sending books to Mr. Eldred? Come, dospeak up! Have you?"

"Well now, Mr. Garrett, if a gentleman sends the ticket all wrotecorrect and the secketry says this book may go and the box readyaddressed sent with the note, and a sum of money sufficient to deefraythe railway charges, what would be your action in the matter, Mr.Garrett, if I may take the liberty to ask such a question? Would youor would you not have taken the trouble to oblige, or would you havechucked the 'ole thing under the counter and——"

"You were perfectly right, of course, Hodgson—perfectly right: only,would you kindly oblige me by showing me the ticket Mr. Eldred sent,and letting me know his address?"

"To be sure, Mr. Garrett; so long as I'm not 'ectored about andinformed that I don't know my duty, I'm willing to oblige in every wayfeasible to my power. There is the ticket on the file. J. Eldred,11.3.34. Title of work: T—a—l—mwell, there, you can make what youlike of it—not a novel, I should 'azard the guess. And here is Mr.Heldred's note applying for the book in question, which I see he termsit a track."

"Thanks, thanks: but the address? There's none on the note."

"Ah, indeed; well, now ... stay now, Mr. Garrett, I 'ave it. Why,that note come inside of the parcel, which was directed verythoughtful to save all trouble, ready to be sent back with the bookinside; and if I have made any mistake in this 'ole transaction, itlays just in the one point that I neglected to enter the address in mylittle book here what I keep. Not but what I dare say there was goodreasons for me not entering of it: but there, I haven't the time,neither have you, I dare say, to go into 'em just now. And—no, Mr.Garrett, I do not carry it in my 'ed, else what would be the use ofme keeping this little book here—just a ordinary common notebook, yousee, which I make a practice of entering all such names and addressesin it as I see fit to do?"

"Admirable arrangement, to be sure—but—all right, thank you. Whendid the parcel go off?"

"Half-past ten, this morning."

"Oh, good; and it's just one now."

Garrett went upstairs in deep thought. How was he to get the address?A telegram to Mrs. Simpson: he might miss a train by waiting for theanswer. Yes, there was one other way. She had said that Eldred livedon his uncle's estate. If this were so, he might find that placeentered in the donation-book. That he could run through quickly, nowthat he knew the title of the book. The register was soon before him,and, knowing that the old man had died more than twenty years ago, hegave him a good margin, and turned back to 1870. There was but oneentry possible. "1875, August 14th. Talmud: Tractatus Middoth cumcomm. R. Nachmanidæ. Amstelod. 1707. Given by J. Rant, D.D., ofBretfield Manor."

A gazetteer showed Bretfield to be three miles from a small station onthe main line. Now to ask the doorkeeper whether he recollected if thename on the parcel had been anything like Bretfield.

"No, nothing like. It was, now you mention it, Mr. Garrett, eitherBredfield or Britfield, but nothing like that other name what youcoated."

So far well. Next, a time-table. A train could be got in twentyminutes—taking two hours over the journey. The only chance, but onenot to be missed; and the train was taken.

If he had been fidgety on the journey up, he was almost distracted onthe journey down. If he found Eldred, what could he say? That it hadbeen discovered that the book was a rarity and must be recalled? Anobvious untruth. Or that it was believed to contain importantmanuscript notes? Eldred would of course show him the book, from whichthe leaf would already have been removed. He might, perhaps, findtraces of the removal—a torn edge of a fly-leaf probably—and whocould disprove, what Eldred was certain to say, that he too hadnoticed and regretted the mutilation? Altogether the chase seemed veryhopeless. The one chance was this. The book had left the library at10.30: it might not have been put into the first possible train, at11.20. Granted that, then he might be lucky enough to arrivesimultaneously with it and patch up some story which would induceEldred to give it up.

It was drawing towards evening when he got out upon the platform ofhis station, and, like most country stations, this one seemedunnaturally quiet. He waited about till the one or two passengers whogot out with him had drifted off, and then inquired of thestationmaster whether Mr. Eldred was in the neighbourhood.

"Yes, and pretty near too, I believe. I fancy he means calling herefor a parcel he expects. Called for it once to-day already, didn't he,Bob?" (to the porter).

"Yes, sir, he did; and appeared to think it was all along of me thatit didn't come by the two o'clock. Anyhow, I've got it for him now,"and the porter flourished a square parcel, which a glance assuredGarrett contained all that was of any importance to him at thatparticular moment.

"Bretfield, sir? Yes—three miles just about. Short cut across thesethree fields brings it down by half a mile. There: there's Mr.Eldred's trap."

A dog-cart drove up with two men in it, of whom Garrett, gazing backas he crossed the little station yard, easily recognized one. The factthat Eldred was driving was slightly in his favour—for most likely hewould not open the parcel in the presence of his servant. On the otherhand, he would get home quickly, and unless Garrett were there withina very few minutes of his arrival, all would be over. He must hurry;and that he did. His short cut took him along one side of a triangle,while the cart had two sides to traverse; and it was delayed a littleat the station, so that Garrett was in the third of the three fieldswhen he heard the wheels fairly near. He had made the best progresspossible, but the pace at which the cart was coming made him despair.At this rate it must reach home ten minutes before him, and tenminutes would more than suffice for the fulfilment of Mr. Eldred'sproject.

It was just at this time that the luck fairly turned. The evening wasstill, and sounds came clearly. Seldom has any sound given greaterrelief than that which he now heard: that of the cart pulling up. Afew words were exchanged, and it drove on. Garrett, halting in theutmost anxiety, was able to see as it drove past the stile (near whichhe now stood) that it contained only the servant and not Eldred;further, he made out that Eldred was following on foot. From behindthe tall hedge by the stile leading into the road he watched the thinwiry figure pass quickly by with the parcel beneath its arm, andfeeling in its pockets. Just as he passed the stile something fell outof a pocket upon the grass, but with so little sound that Eldred wasnot conscious of it. In a moment more it was safe for Garrett to crossthe stile into the road and pick up—a box of matches. Eldred went on,and, as he went, his arms made hasty movements, difficult to interpretin the shadow of the trees that overhung the road. But, as Garrettfollowed cautiously, he found at various points the key to them—apiece of string, and then the wrapper of the parcel—meant to bethrown over the hedge, but sticking in it.

Now Eldred was walking slower, and it could just be made out that hehad opened the book and was turning over the leaves. He stopped,evidently troubled by the failing light. Garrett slipped into agate-opening, but still watched. Eldred, hastily looking around, satdown on a felled tree-trunk by the roadside and held the open book upclose to his eyes. Suddenly he laid it, still open, on his knee, andfelt in all his pockets: clearly in vain, and clearly to hisannoyance. "You would be glad of your matches now," thought Garrett.Then he took hold of a leaf, and was carefully tearing it out, whentwo things happened. First, something black seemed to drop upon thewhite leaf and run down it, and then as Eldred started and was turningto look behind him, a little dark form appeared to rise out of theshadow behind the tree-trunk and from it two arms enclosing a mass ofblackness came before Eldred's face and covered his head and neck.His legs and arms were wildly flourished, but no sound came. Then,there was no more movement. Eldred was alone. He had fallen back intothe grass behind the tree-trunk. The book was cast into the roadway.Garrett, his anger and suspicion gone for the moment at the sight ofthis horrid struggle, rushed up with loud cries of "Help!" and so too,to his enormous relief, did a labourer who had just emerged from afield opposite. Together they bent over and supported Eldred, but tono purpose. The conclusion that he was dead was inevitable. "Poorgentleman!" said Garrett to the labourer, when they had laid him down,"what happened to him, do you think?" "I wasn't two hundred yardsaway," said the man, "when I see Squire Eldred setting reading in hisbook, and to my thinking he was took with one of these fits—faceseemed to go all over black." "Just so," said Garrett. "You didn't seeanyone near him? It couldn't have been an assault?" "Not possible—noone couldn't have got away without you or me seeing them." "So Ithought. Well, we must get some help, and the doctor and thepoliceman; and perhaps I had better give them this book."

It was obviously a case for an inquest, and obvious also that Garrettmust stay at Bretfield and give his evidence. The medical inspectionshowed that, though some black dust was found on the face and in themouth of the deceased, the cause of death was a shock to a weak heart,and not asphyxiation. The fateful book was produced, a respectablequarto printed wholly in Hebrew, and not of an aspect likely to exciteeven the most sensitive.

"You say, Mr. Garrett, that the deceased gentleman appeared at themoment before his attack to be tearing a leaf out of this book?"

"Yes; I think one of the fly-leaves."

"There is here a fly-leaf partially torn through. It has Hebrewwriting on it. Will you kindly inspect it?"

"There are three names in English, sir, also, and a date. But I amsorry to say I cannot read Hebrew writing."

"Thank you. The names have the appearance of being signatures. Theyare John Rant, Walter Gibson, and James Frost, and the date is 20July, 1875. Does anyone here know any of these names?"

The Rector, who was present, volunteered a statement that the uncle ofthe deceased, from whom he inherited, had been named Rant.

The book being handed to him, he shook a puzzled head. "This is notlike any Hebrew I ever learnt."

"You are sure that it is Hebrew?"

"What? Yes—I suppose.... No—my dear sir, you are perfectlyright—that is, your suggestion is exactly to the point. Of course—itis not Hebrew at all. It is English, and it is a will."

It did not take many minutes to show that here was indeed a will ofDr. John Rant, bequeathing the whole of the property lately held byJohn Eldred to Mrs. Mary Simpson. Clearly the discovery of such adocument would amply justify Mr. Eldred's agitation. As to the partialtearing of the leaf, the coroner pointed out that no useful purposecould be attained by speculations whose correctness it would never bepossible to establish.

The Tractate Middoth was naturally taken in charge by the coroner forfurther investigation, and Mr. Garrett explained privately to him thehistory of it, and the position of events so far as he knew or guessedthem.

He returned to his work next day, and on his walk to the stationpassed the scene of Mr. Eldred's catastrophe. He could hardly leave itwithout another look, though the recollection of what he had seenthere made him shiver, even on that bright morning. He walked round,with some misgivings, behind the felled tree. Something dark thatstill lay there made him start back for a moment: but it hardlystirred. Looking closer, he saw that it was a thick black mass ofcobwebs; and, as he stirred it gingerly with his stick, several largespiders ran out of it into the grass.

There is no great difficulty in imagining the steps by which WilliamGarrett, from being an assistant in a great library, attained to hispresent position of prospective owner of Bretfield Manor, now in theoccupation of his mother-in-law, Mrs. Mary Simpson.

CASTING THE RUNES

"And who is Mr. Karswell?" inquired the Secretary's wife. She hadcalled at his office, and (perhaps unwarrantably) had picked up thelast of these three letters, which the typist had just brought in.

"Why, my dear, just at present Mr. Karswell is a very angry man. But Idon't know much about him otherwise, except that he is a person ofwealth, his address is Lufford Abbey, Warwickshire, and he's analchemist, apparently, and wants to tell us all about it; and that'sabout all—except that I don't want to meet him for the next week ortwo. Now, if you're ready to leave this place, I am."

"What have you been doing to make him angry?" asked Mrs. Secretary.

"The usual thing, my dear, the usual thing: he sent in a draft of apaper he wanted to read at he next meeting, and we referred it toEdward Dunning—almost the only man in England who knows about thesethings—and he said it was perfectly hopeless, so we declined it. SoKarswell has been pelting me with letters ever since. The last thinghe wanted was the name of the man we referred his nonsense to; yousaw my answer to that. But don't you say anything about it, forgoodness' sake."

"I should think not, indeed. Did I ever do such a thing? I do hope,though, he won't get to know that it was poor Mr. Dunning."

"Poor Mr. Dunning? I don't know why you call him that; he's a veryhappy man, is Dunning. Lots of hobbies and a comfortable home, and allhis time to himself."

"I only meant I should be sorry for him if this man got hold of hisname, and came and bothered him."

"Oh, ah! yes. I dare say he would be poor Mr. Dunning then."

The Secretary and his wife were lunching out, and the friends to whosehouse they were bound were Warwickshire people. So Mrs. Secretary hadalready settled it in her own mind that she would question themjudiciously about Mr. Karswell. But she was saved the trouble ofleading up to the subject, for the hostess said to the host, beforemany minutes had passed, "I saw the Abbot of Lufford this morning."The host whistled. "Did you? What in the world brings him up totown?" "Goodness knows; he was coming out of the British Museum gateas I drove past." It was not unnatural that Mrs. Secretary shouldinquire whether this was a real Abbot who was being spoken of. "Oh no,my dear: only a neighbour of ours in the country who bought LuffordAbbey a few years ago. His real name is Karswell." "Is he a friend ofyours?" asked Mr. Secretary, with a private wink to his wife. Thequestion let loose a torrent of declamation. There was really nothingto be said for Mr. Karswell. Nobody knew what he did with himself: hisservants were a horrible set of people; he had invented a new religionfor himself, and practised no one could tell what appalling rites; hewas very easily offended, and never forgave anybody: he had a dreadfulface (so the lady insisted, her husband somewhat demurring); he neverdid a kind action, and whatever influence he did exert wasmischievous. "Do the poor man justice, dear," the husband interrupted."You forget the treat he gave the school children." "Forget it,indeed! But I'm glad you mentioned it, because it gives an idea of theman. Now, Florence, listen to this. The first winter he was at Luffordthis delightful neighbour of ours wrote to the clergyman of his parish(he's not ours, but we know him very well) and offered to show theschool children some magic-lantern slides. He said he had some newkinds, which he thought would interest them. Well, the clergyman wasrather surprised, because Mr. Karswell had shown himself inclined tobe unpleasant to the children—complaining of their trespassing, orsomething of the sort; but of course he accepted, and the evening wasfixed, and our friend went himself to see that everything went right.He said he never had been so thankful for anything as that his ownchildren were all prevented from being there: they were at achildren's party at our house, as a matter of fact. Because this Mr.Karswell had evidently set out with the intention of frightening thesepoor village children out of their wits, and I do believe, if he hadbeen allowed to go on, he would actually have done so. He began withsome comparatively mild things. Red Riding Hood was one, and eventhen, Mr. Farrer said, the wolf was so dreadful that several of thesmaller children had to be taken out: and he said Mr. Karswell beganthe story by producing a noise like a wolf howling in the distance,which was the most gruesome thing he had ever heard. All the slides heshowed, Mr. Farrer said, were most clever; they were absolutelyrealistic, and where he had got them or how he worked them he couldnot imagine. Well, the show went on, and the stories kept on becominga little more terrifying each time, and the children were mesmerizedinto complete silence. At last he produced a series which representeda little boy passing through his own park—Lufford, I mean—in theevening. Every child in the room could recognize the place from thepictures. And this poor boy was followed, and at last pursued andovertaken, and either torn in pieces or somehow made away with, by ahorrible hopping creature in white, which you saw first dodging aboutamong the trees, and gradually it appeared more and more plainly. Mr.Farrer said it gave him one of the worst nightmares he everremembered, and what it must have meant to the children doesn't bearthinking of. Of course this was too much, and he spoke very sharplyindeed to Mr. Karswell, and said it couldn't go on. All he said was:'Oh, you think it's time to bring our little show to an end and sendthem home to their beds? Very well!' And then, if you please, heswitched on another slide, which showed a great mass of snakes,centipedes, and disgusting creatures with wings, and somehow or otherhe made it seem as if they were climbing out of the picture andgetting in amongst the audience; and this was accompanied by a sort ofdry rustling noise which sent the children nearly mad, and of coursethey stampeded. A good many of them were rather hurt in getting out ofthe room, and I don't suppose one of them closed an eye that night.There was the most dreadful trouble in the village afterwards. Ofcourse the mothers threw a good part of the blame on poor Mr. Farrer,and, if they could have got past the gates, I believe the fatherswould have broken every window in the Abbey. Well, now, that's Mr.Karswell: that's the Abbot of Lufford, my dear, and you can imaginehow we covet his society."

"Yes, I think he has all the possibilities of a distinguishedcriminal, has Karswell," said the host. "I should be sorry for anyonewho got into his bad books."

"Is he the man, or am I mixing him up with someone else?" asked theSecretary (who for some minutes had been wearing the frown of the manwho is trying to recollect something). "Is he the man who brought outa History of Witchcraft some time back—ten years or more?"

"That's the man; do you remember the reviews of it?"

"Certainly I do; and what's equally to the point, I knew the author ofthe most incisive of the lot. So did you: you must remember JohnHarrington; he was at John's in our time."

"Oh, very well indeed, though I don't think I saw or heard anything ofhim between the time I went down and the day I read the account of theinquest on him."

"Inquest?" said one of the ladies. "What has happened to him?"

"Why, what happened was that he fell out of a tree and broke his neck.But the puzzle was, what could have induced him to get up there. Itwas a mysterious business, I must say. Here was this man—not anathletic fellow, was he? and with no eccentric twist about him thatwas ever noticed—walking home along a country road late in theevening—no tramps about—well known and liked in the place—and hesuddenly begins to run like mad, loses his hat and stick, and finallyshins up a tree—quite a difficult tree—growing in the hedgerow: adead branch gives way, and he comes down with it and breaks his neck,and there he's found next morning with the most dreadful face of fearon him that could be imagined. It was pretty evident, of course, thathe had been chased by something, and people talked of savage dogs, andbeasts escaped out of menageries; but there was nothing to be made ofthat. That was in '89, and I believe his brother Henry (whom Iremember as well at Cambridge, but you probably don't) has beentrying to get on the track of an explanation ever since. He, ofcourse, insists there was malice in it, but I don't know. It'sdifficult to see how it could have come in."

After a time the talk reverted to the History of Witchcraft. "Didyou ever look into it?" asked the host.

"Yes, I did," said the Secretary. "I went so far as to read it."

"Was it as bad as it was made out to be?"

"Oh, in point of style and form, quite hopeless. It deserved all thepulverizing it got. But, besides that, it was an evil book. The manbelieved every word of what he was saying, and I'm very much mistakenif he hadn't tried the greater part of his receipts."

"Well, I only remember Harrington's review of it, and I must say ifI'd been the author it would have quenched my literary ambition forgood. I should never have held up my head again."

"It hasn't had that effect in the present case. But come, it'shalf-past three; I must be off."

On the way home the Secretary's wife said, "I do hope that horribleman won't find out that Mr. Dunning had anything to do with therejection of his paper." "I don't think there's much chance of that,"said the Secretary. "Dunning won't mention it himself, for thesematters are confidential, and none of us will for the same reason.Karswell won't know his name, for Dunning hasn't published anything onthe same subject yet. The only danger is that Karswell might find out,if he was to ask the British Museum people who was in the habit ofconsulting alchemical manuscripts: I can't very well tell them not tomention Dunning, can I? It would set them talking at once. Let's hopeit won't occur to him."

However, Mr. Karswell was an astute man.

This much is in the way of prologue. On an evening rather later in thesame week, Mr. Edward Dunning was returning from the British Museum,where he had been engaged in Research, to the comfortable house in asuburb where he lived alone, tended by two excellent women who hadbeen long with him. There is nothing to be added by way of descriptionof him to what we have heard already. Let us follow him as he takeshis sober course homewards.

A train took him to within a mile or two of his house, and an electrictram a stage farther. The line ended at a point some three hundredyards from his front door. He had had enough of reading when he gotinto the car, and indeed the light was not such as to allow him to domore than study the advertisements on the panes of glass that facedhim as he sat. As was not unnatural, the advertisements in thisparticular line of cars were objects of his frequent contemplation,and, with the possible exception of the brilliant and convincingdialogue between Mr. Lamplough and an eminent K.C. on the subject ofPyretic Saline, none of them afforded much scope to his imagination. Iam wrong: there was one at the corner of the car farthest from himwhich did not seem familiar. It was in blue letters on a yellowground, and all that he could read of it was a name—JohnHarrington—and something like a date. It could be of no interest tohim to know more; but for all that, as the car emptied, he was justcurious enough to move along the seat until he could read it well. Hefelt to a slight extent repaid for his trouble; the advertisement wasnot of the usual type. It ran thus: "In memory of John Harrington,F.S.A., of The Laurels, Ashbrooke. Died Sept. 18th, 1889. Three monthswere allowed."

The car stopped. Mr. Dunning, still contemplating the blue letters onthe yellow ground, had to be stimulated to rise by a word from theconductor. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I was looking at thatadvertisement; it's a very odd one, isn't it?" The conductor read itslowly. "Well, my word," he said, "I never see that one before. Well,that is a cure, ain't it? Someone bin up to their jokes 'ere, I shouldthink." He got out a duster and applied it, not without saliva, to thepane and then to the outside. "No," he said, returning, "that ain'tno transfer; seems to me as if it was reg'lar in the glass, what Imean in the substance, as you may say. Don't you think so, sir?" Mr.Dunning examined it and rubbed it with his glove, and agreed. "Wholooks after these advertisements, and gives leave for them to be putup? I wish you would inquire. I will just take a note of the words."At this moment there came a call from the driver: "Look alive, George,time's up." "All right, all right; there's somethink else what's up atthis end. You come and look at this 'ere glass." "What's gorn with theglass?" said the driver, approaching. "Well, and oo's 'Arrington?What's it all about?" "I was just asking who was responsible forputting the advertisements up in your cars, and saying it would be aswell to make some inquiry about this one." "Well, sir, that's all doneat the Company's orfice, that work is: it's our Mr. Timms, I believe,looks into that. When we put up to-night I'll leave word, and per'apsI'll be able to tell you to-morrer if you 'appen to be coming thisway."

This was all that passed that evening. Mr. Dunning did just go to thetrouble of looking up Ashbrooke, and found that it was inWarwickshire.

Next day he went to town again. The car (it was the same car) was toofull in the morning to allow of his getting a word with the conductor:he could only be sure that the curious advertisement had been madeaway with. The close of the day brought a further element of mysteryinto the transaction. He had missed the tram, or else preferredwalking home, but at a rather late hour, while he was at work in hisstudy, one of the maids came to say that two men from the tramways wasvery anxious to speak to him. This was a reminder of theadvertisement, which he had, he says, nearly forgotten. He had the menin—they were the conductor and driver of the car—and when the matterof refreshment had been attended to, asked what Mr. Timms had had tosay about the advertisement. "Well, sir, that's what we took theliberty to step round about," said the conductor. "Mr. Timm's 'e giveWilliam 'ere the rough side of his tongue about that: 'cordin' to 'imthere warn't no advertisement of that description sent in, norordered, nor paid for, nor put up, nor nothink, let alone not bein'there, and we was playing the fool takin' up his time. 'Well,' I says,'if that's the case, all I ask of you, Mr. Timms,' I says, 'is to takeand look at it for yourself,' I says. 'Of course if it ain't there,' Isays, 'you may take and call me what you like.' 'Right,' he says, 'Iwill': and we went straight off. Now, I leave it to you, sir, if thatad., as we term 'em, with 'Arrington on it warn't as plain as ever yousee anythink—blue letters on yeller glass, and as I says at the time,and you borne me out, reg'lar in the glass, because, if youremember, you recollect of me swabbing it with my duster." "To be sureI do, quite clearly—well?" "You may say well, I don't think. Mr.Timms he gets in that car with a light—no, he telled William to 'oldthe light outside. 'Now,' he says, 'where's your precious ad. whatwe've 'eard so much about?" ''Ere it is,' I says, 'Mr. Timms,' and Ilaid my 'and on it." The conductor paused.

"Well," said Mr. Dunning, "it was gone, I suppose. Broken?"

"Broke!—not it. There warn't, if you'll believe me, no more trace ofthem letters—blue letters they was—on that piece o' glass,than—well, it's no good me talkin'. I never see such a thing. Ileave it to William here if—but there, as I says, where's the benefitin me going on about it?"

"And what did Mr. Timms say?"

"Why 'e did what I give 'im leave to—called us pretty much anythinkhe liked, and I don't know as I blame him so much neither. But what wethought, William and me did, was as we seen you take down a bit of anote about that—well, that letterin'——"

"I certainly did that, and I have it now. Did you wish me to speak toMr. Timms myself, and show it to him? Was that what you came inabout?"

"There, didn't I say as much?" said William. "Deal with a gent if youcan get on the track of one, that's my word. Now perhaps, George,you'll allow as I ain't took you very far wrong to-night."

"Very well, William, very well; no need for you to go on as if you'd'ad to frog's-march me 'ere. I come quiet, didn't I? All the same forthat, we 'adn't ought to take up your time this way, sir; but if itso 'appened you could find time to step round to the Company's orficein the morning and tell Mr. Timms what you seen for yourself, weshould lay under a very 'igh obligation to you for the trouble. Yousee it ain't bein' called—well, one thing and another, as we mind,but if they got it into their 'ead at the orfice as we seen things aswarn't there, why, one thing leads to another, and where we should bea twelvemunce 'ence—well, you can understand what I mean."

Amid further elucidations of the proposition, George, conducted byWilliam, left the room.

The incredulity of Mr. Timms (who had a nodding acquaintance with Mr.Dunning) was greatly modified on the following day by what the lattercould tell and show him; and any bad mark that might have beenattached to the names of William and George was not suffered to remainon the Company's books; but explanation there was none.

Mr. Dunning's interest in the matter was kept alive by an incident ofthe following afternoon. He was walking from his club to the train,and he noticed some way ahead a man with a handful of leaflets such asare distributed to passers-by by agents of enterprising firms. Thisagent had not chosen a very crowded street for his operations: infact, Mr. Dunning did not see him get rid of a single leaflet beforehe himself reached the spot. One was thrust into his hand as hepassed: the hand that gave it touched his, and he experienced a sortof little shock as it did so. It seemed unnaturally rough and hot. Helooked in passing at the giver, but the impression he got was sounclear that, however much he tried to reckon it up subsequently,nothing would come. He was walking quickly, and as he went on glancedat the paper. It was a blue one. The name of Harrington in largecapitals caught his eye. He stopped, startled, and felt for hisglasses. The next instant the leaflet was twitched out of his hand bya man who hurried past, and was irrecoverably gone. He ran back a fewpaces, but where was the passer-by? and where the distributor?

It was in a somewhat pensive frame of mind that Mr. Dunning passed onthe following day into the Select Manuscript Room of the BritishMuseum, and filled up tickets for Harley 3586, and some other volumes.After a few minutes they were brought to him, and he was settling theone he wanted first upon the desk, when he thought he heard his ownname whispered behind him. He turned round hastily, and in doing so,brushed his little portfolio of loose papers on to the floor. He sawno one he recognized except one of the staff in charge of the room,who nodded to him, and he proceeded to pick up his papers. He thoughthe had them all, and was turning to begin work, when a stout gentlemanat the table behind him, who was just rising to leave, and hadcollected his own belongings, touched him on the shoulder, saying,"May I give you this? I think it should be yours," and handed him amissing quire. "It is mine, thank you," said Mr. Dunning. In anothermoment the man had left the room. Upon finishing his work for theafternoon, Mr. Dunning had some conversation with the assistant incharge, and took occasion to ask who the stout gentleman was. "Oh,he's a man named Karswell," said the assistant; "he was asking me aweek ago who were the great authorities on alchemy, and of course Itold him you were the only one in the country. I'll see if I can'tcatch him: he'd like to meet you, I'm sure."

"For heaven's sake don't dream of it!" said Mr. Dunning, "I'mparticularly anxious to avoid him."

"Oh! very well," said the assistant, "he doesn't come here often: Idare say you won't meet him."

More than once on the way home that day Mr. Dunning confessed tohimself that he did not look forward with his usual cheerfulness to asolitary evening. It seemed to him that something ill-defined andimpalpable had stepped in between him and his fellow-men—had takenhim in charge, as it were. He wanted to sit close up to his neighboursin the train and in the tram, but as luck would have it both train andcar were markedly empty. The conductor George was thoughtful, andappeared to be absorbed in calculations as to the number ofpassengers. On arriving at his house he found Dr. Watson, his medicalman, on his doorstep. "I've had to upset your household arrangements,I'm sorry to say, Dunning. Both your servants hors de combat. Infact, I've had to send them to the Nursing Home."

"Good heavens! what's the matter?"

"It's something like ptomaine poisoning, I should think: you've notsuffered yourself, I can see, or you wouldn't be walking about. Ithink they'll pull through all right."

"Dear, dear! Have you any idea what brought it on?"

"Well, they tell me they bought some shell-fish from a hawker at theirdinner-time. It's odd. I've made inquiries, but I can't find that anyhawker has been to other houses in the street. I couldn't send word toyou; they won't be back for a bit yet. You come and dine with meto-night, anyhow, and we can make arrangements for going on. Eighto'clock. Don't be too anxious."

The solitary evening was thus obviated; at the expense of somedistress and inconvenience, it is true. Mr. Dunning spent the timepleasantly enough with the doctor (a rather recent settler), andreturned to his lonely home at about 11.30. The night he passed is notone on which he looks back with any satisfaction. He was in bed andthe light was out. He was wondering if the charwoman would come earlyenough to get him hot water next morning, when he heard theunmistakable sound of his study door opening. No step followed it onthe passage floor, but the sound must mean mischief, for he knew thathe had shut the door that evening after putting his papers away in hisdesk. It was rather shame than courage that induced him to slip outinto the passage and lean over the banister in his nightgown,listening. No light was visible; no further sound came: only a gust ofwarm, or even hot air played for an instant round his shins. He wentback and decided to lock himself into his room. There was moreunpleasantness, however. Either an economical suburban company haddecided that their light would not be required in the small hours, andhad stopped working, or else something was wrong with the meter; theeffect was in any case that the electric light was off. The obviouscourse was to find a match, and also to consult his watch: he might aswell know how many hours of discomfort awaited him. So he put his handinto the well-known nook under the pillow: only, it did not get sofar. What he touched was, according to his account, a mouth, withteeth, and with hair about it, and, he declares, not the mouth of ahuman being. I do not think it is any use to guess what he said ordid; but he was in a spare room with the door locked and his ear to itbefore he was clearly conscious again. And there he spent the rest ofa most miserable night, looking every moment for some fumbling at thedoor: but nothing came.

The venturing back to his own room in the morning was attended withmany listenings and quiverings. The door stood open, fortunately, andthe blinds were up (the servants had been out of the house before thehour of drawing them down); there was, to be short, no trace of aninhabitant. The watch, too, was in its usual place; nothing wasdisturbed, only the wardrobe door had swung open, in accordance withits confirmed habit. A ring at the back door now announced thecharwoman, who had been ordered the night before, and nerved Mr.Dunning, after letting her in, to continue his search in other partsof the house. It was equally fruitless.

The day thus begun went on dismally enough. He dared not go to theMuseum: in spite of what the assistant had said, Karswell might turnup there, and Dunning felt he could not cope with a probably hostilestranger. His own house was odious; he hated sponging on the doctor.He spent some little time in a call at the Nursing Home, where he wasslightly cheered by a good report of his housekeeper and maid. Towardslunch-time he betook himself to his club, again experiencing a gleamof satisfaction at seeing the Secretary of the Association. Atluncheon Dunning told his friend the more material of his woes, butcould not bring himself to speak of those that weighed most heavily onhis spirits. "My poor dear man," said the Secretary, "what an upset!Look here: we're alone at home, absolutely. You must put up with us.Yes! no excuse: send your things in this afternoon." Dunning wasunable to stand out: he was, in truth, becoming acutely anxious, asthe hours went on, as to what that night might have waiting for him.He was almost happy as he hurried home to pack up.

His friends, when they had time to take stock of him, were rathershocked at his lorn appearance, and did their best to keep him up tothe mark. Not altogether without success: but, when the two men weresmoking alone later, Dunning became dull again. Suddenly he said,"Gayton, I believe that alchemist man knows it was I who got his paperrejected." Gayton whistled. "What makes you think that?" he said.Dunning told of his conversation with the Museum assistant, and Gaytoncould only agree that the guess seemed likely to be correct. "Not thatI care much," Dunning went on, "only it might be a nuisance if we wereto meet. He's a bad-tempered party, I imagine." Conversation droppedagain; Gayton became more and more strongly impressed with thedesolateness that came over Dunning's face and bearing, andfinally—though with a considerable effort—he asked him point-blankwhether something serious was not bothering him. Dunning gave anexclamation of relief. "I was perishing to get it off my mind," hesaid. "Do you know anything about a man named John Harrington?" Gaytonwas thoroughly startled, and at the moment could only ask why. Thenthe complete story of Dunning's experiences came out—what hadhappened in the tramcar, in his own house, and in the street, thetroubling of spirit that had crept over him, and still held him; andhe ended with the question he had begun with. Gayton was at a losshow to answer him. To tell the story of Harrington's end would perhapsbe right; only, Dunning was in a nervous state, the story was a grimone, and he could not help asking himself whether there were not aconnecting link between these two cases, in the person of Karswell. Itwas a difficult concession for a scientific man, but it could be easedby the phrase "hypnotic suggestion." In the end he decided that hisanswer to-night should be guarded; he would talk the situation overwith his wife. So he said that he had known Harrington at Cambridge,and believed he had died suddenly in 1889, adding a few details aboutthe man and his published work. He did talk over the matter with Mrs.Gayton, and, as he had anticipated, she leapt at once to theconclusion which had been hovering before him. It was she who remindedhim of the surviving brother, Henry Harrington, and she also whosuggested that he might be got hold of by means of their hosts of theday before. "He might be a hopeless crank," objected Gayton. "Thatcould be ascertained from the Bennetts, who knew him," Mrs. Gaytonretorted; and she undertook to see the Bennetts the very next day.

It is not necessary to tell in further detail the steps by which HenryHarrington and Dunning were brought together.

The next scene that does require to be narrated is a conversation thattook place between the two. Dunning had told Harrington of thestrange ways in which the dead man's name had been brought before him,and had said something, besides, of his own subsequent experiences.Then he had asked if Harrington was disposed, in return, to recall anyof the circumstances connected with his brother's death. Harrington'ssurprise at what he heard can be imagined: but his reply was readilygiven.

"John," he said, "was in a very odd state, undeniably, from time totime, during some weeks before, though not immediately before, thecatastrophe. There were several things; the principal notion he hadwas that he thought he was being followed. No doubt he was animpressionable man, but he never had had such fancies as this before.I cannot get it out of my mind that there was ill-will at work, andwhat you tell me about yourself reminds me very much of my brother.Can you think of any possible connecting link?"

"There is just one that has been taking shape vaguely in my mind. I'vebeen told that your brother reviewed a book very severely not longbefore he died, and just lately I have happened to cross the path ofthe man who wrote that book in a way he would resent."

"Don't tell me the man was called Karswell."

"Why not? that is exactly his name."

Henry Harrington leant back. "That is final to my mind. Now I mustexplain further. From something he said, I feel sure that my brotherJohn was beginning to believe—very much against his will—thatKarswell was at the bottom of his trouble. I want to tell you whatseems to me to have a bearing on the situation. My brother was a greatmusician, and used to run up to concerts in town. He came back, threemonths before he died, from one of these, and gave me his programme tolook at—an analytical programme: he always kept them. 'I nearlymissed this one,' he said. 'I suppose I must have dropped it: anyhow,I was looking for it under my seat and in my pockets and so on, and myneighbour offered me his: said "might he give it me, he had no furtheruse for it," and he went away just afterwards. I don't know who hewas—a stout, clean-shaven man. I should have been sorry to miss it;of course I could have bought another, but this cost me nothing.' Atanother time he told me that he had been very uncomfortable both onthe way to his hotel and during the night. I piece things together nowin thinking it over. Then, not very long after, he was going overthese programmes, putting them in order to have them bound up, and inthis particular one (which by the way I had hardly glanced at), hefound quite near the beginning a strip of paper with some very oddwriting on it in red and black—most carefully done—it looked to memore like Runic letters than anything else. 'Why,' he said, 'this mustbelong to my fat neighbour. It looks as if it might be worth returningto him; it may be a copy of something; evidently someone has takentrouble over it. How can I find his address?' We talked it over for alittle and agreed that it wasn't worth advertising about, and that mybrother had better look out for the man at the next concert, to whichhe was going very soon. The paper was lying on the book and we wereboth by the fire; it was a cold, windy summer evening. I suppose thedoor blew open, though I didn't notice it: at any rate a gust—a warmgust it was—came quite suddenly between us, took the paper and blewit straight into the fire: it was light, thin paper, and flared andwent up the chimney in a single ash. 'Well,' I said, 'you can't giveit back now.' He said nothing for a minute: then rather crossly, 'No,I can't; but why you should keep on saying so I don't know.' Iremarked that I didn't say it more than once. 'Not more than fourtimes, you mean,' was all he said. I remember all that very clearly,without any good reason; and now to come to the point. I don't know ifyou looked at that book of Karswell's which my unfortunate brotherreviewed. It's not likely that you should: but I did, both before hisdeath and after it. The first time we made game of it together. It waswritten in no style at all—split infinitives, and every sort of thingthat makes an Oxford gorge rise. Then there was nothing that the mandidn't swallow: mixing up classical myths, and stories out of theGolden Legend with reports of savage customs of to-day—all veryproper, no doubt, if you know how to use them, but he didn't: heseemed to put the Golden Legend and the Golden Bough exactly on apar, and to believe both: a pitiable exhibition, in short. Well, afterthe misfortune, I looked over the book again. It was no better thanbefore, but the impression which it left this time on my mind wasdifferent. I suspected—as I told you—that Karswell had borneill-will to my brother, even that he was in some way responsible forwhat had happened; and now his book seemed to me to be a very sinisterperformance indeed. One chapter in particular struck me, in which hespoke of 'casting the Runes' on people, either for the purpose ofgaining their affection or of getting them out of the way—perhapsmore especially the latter: he spoke of all this in a way that reallyseemed to me to imply actual knowledge. I've not time to go intodetails, but the upshot is that I am pretty sure from informationreceived that the civil man at the concert was Karswell: I suspect—Imore than suspect—that the paper was of importance: and I do believethat if my brother had been able to give it back, he might have beenalive now. Therefore, it occurs to me to ask you whether you haveanything to put beside what I have told you."

By way of answer, Dunning had the episode in the Manuscript Room atthe British Museum to relate. "Then he did actually hand you somepapers; have you examined them? No? because we must, if you'll allowit, look at them at once, and very carefully."

They went to the still empty house—empty, for the two servants werenot yet able to return to work. Dunning's portfolio of papers wasgathering dust on the writing-table. In it were the quires ofsmall-sized scribbling paper which he used for his transcripts: andfrom one of these, as he took it up, there slipped and fluttered outinto the room with uncanny quickness, a strip of thin light paper. Thewindow was open, but Harrington slammed it to, just in time tointercept the paper, which he caught. "I thought so," he said; "itmight be the identical thing that was given to my brother. You'll haveto look out, Dunning; this may mean something quite serious for you."

A long consultation took place. The paper was narrowly examined. AsHarrington had said, the characters on it were more like Runes thananything else, but not decipherable by either man, and both hesitatedto copy them, for fear, as they confessed, of perpetuating whateverevil purpose they might conceal. So it has remained impossible (if Imay anticipate a little) to ascertain what was conveyed in thiscurious message or commission. Both Dunning and Harrington are firmlyconvinced that it had the effect of bringing its possessors into veryundesirable company. That it must be returned to the source whence itcame they were agreed, and further, that the only safe and certain waywas that of personal service; and here contrivance would be necessary,for Dunning was known by sight to Karswell. He must, for one thing,alter his appearance by shaving his beard. But then might not the blowfall first? Harrington thought they could time it. He knew the date ofthe concert at which the "black spot" had been put on his brother: itwas June 18th. The death had followed on Sept. 18th. Dunning remindedhim that three months had been mentioned on the inscription on thecar-window. "Perhaps," he added, with a cheerless laugh, "mine may bea bill at three months too. I believe I can fix it by my diary. Yes,April 23rd was the day at the Museum; that brings us to July 23rd.Now, you know, it becomes extremely important to me to know anythingyou will tell me about the progress of your brother's trouble, if itis possible for you to speak of it." "Of course. Well, the sense ofbeing watched whenever he was alone was the most distressing thing tohim. After a time I took to sleeping in his room, and he was thebetter for that: still, he talked a great deal in his sleep. Whatabout? Is it wise to dwell on that, at least before things arestraightened out? I think not, but I can tell you this: two thingscame for him by post during those weeks, both with a London postmark,and addressed in a commercial hand. One was a woodcut of Bewick's,roughly torn out of the page: one which shows a moonlit road and a manwalking along it, followed by an awful demon creature. Under it werewritten the lines out of the 'Ancient Mariner' (which I suppose thecut illustrates) about one who, having once looked round—

The other was a calendar, such as tradesmen often send. My brotherpaid no attention to this, but I looked at it after his death, andfound that everything after Sept. 18 had been torn out. You may besurprised at his having gone out alone the evening he was killed, butthe fact is that during the last ten days or so of his life he hadbeen quite free from the sense of being followed or watched."

The end of the consultation was this. Harrington, who knew a neighbourof Karswell's, thought he saw a way of keeping a watch on hismovements. It would be Dunning's part to be in readiness to try tocross Karswell's path at any moment, to keep the paper safe and in aplace of ready access.

They parted. The next weeks were no doubt a severe strain uponDunning's nerves: the intangible barrier which had seemed to riseabout him on the day when he received the paper, gradually developedinto a brooding blackness that cut him off from the means of escape towhich one might have thought he might resort. No one was at hand whowas likely to suggest them to him, and he seemed robbed of allinitiative. He waited with inexpressible anxiety as May, June, andearly July passed on, for a mandate from Harrington. But all this timeKarswell remained immovable at Lufford.

At last, in less than a week before the date he had come to look uponas the end of his earthly activities, came a telegram: "LeavesVictoria by boat train Thursday night. Do not miss. I come to youto-night. Harrington."

He arrived accordingly, and they concocted plans. The train leftVictoria at nine and its last stop before Dover was Croydon West.Harrington would mark down Karswell at Victoria, and look out forDunning at Croydon, calling to him if need were by a name agreed upon.Dunning, disguised as far as might be, was to have no label orinitials on any hand luggage, and must at all costs have the paperwith him.

Dunning's suspense as he waited on the Croydon platform I need notattempt to describe. His sense of danger during the last days had onlybeen sharpened by the fact that the cloud about him had perceptiblybeen lighter; but relief was an ominous symptom, and, if Karswelleluded him now, hope was gone: and there were so many chances of that.The rumour of the journey might be itself a device. The twenty minutesin which he paced the platform and persecuted every porter withinquiries as to the boat train were as bitter as any he had spent.Still, the train came, and Harrington was at the window. It wasimportant, of course, that there should be no recognition: so Dunninggot in at the farther end of the corridor carriage, and only graduallymade his way to the compartment where Harrington and Karswell were. Hewas pleased, on the whole, to see that the train was far from full.

Karswell was on the alert, but gave no sign of recognition. Dunningtook the seat not immediately facing him, and attempted, vainly atfirst, then with increasing command of his faculties, to reckon thepossibilities of making the desired transfer. Opposite to Karswell,and next to Dunning, was a heap of Karswell's coats on the seat. Itwould be of no use to slip the paper into these—he would not be safe,or would not feel so, unless in some way it could be proffered by himand accepted by the other. There was a handbag, open, and with papersin it. Could he manage to conceal this (so that perhaps Karswell mightleave the carriage without it), and then find and give it to him? Thiswas the plan that suggested itself. If he could only have counselledwith Harrington! but that could not be. The minutes went on. More thanonce Karswell rose and went out into the corridor. The second timeDunning was on the point of attempting to make the bag fall off theseat, but he caught Harrington's eye, and read in it a warning.Karswell, from the corridor, was watching: probably to see if the twomen recognized each other. He returned, but was evidently restless:and, when he rose the third time, hope dawned, for something did slipoff his seat and fall with hardly a sound to the floor. Karswell wentout once more, and passed out of range of the corridor window. Dunningpicked up what had fallen, and saw that the key was in his hands inthe form of one of Cook's ticket-cases, with tickets in it. Thesecases have a pocket in the cover, and within very few seconds thepaper of which we have heard was in the pocket of this one. To makethe operation more secure, Harrington stood in the doorway of thecompartment and fiddled with the blind. It was done, and done at theright time, for the train was now slowing down towards Dover.

In a moment more Karswell re-entered the compartment. As he did so,Dunning, managing, he knew not how, to suppress the tremble in hisvoice, handed him the ticket-case, saying, "May I give you this, sir?I believe it is yours." After a brief glance at the ticket inside,Karswell uttered the hoped-for response, "Yes, it is; much obliged toyou, sir," and he placed it in his breast pocket.

Even in the few moments that remained—moments of tense anxiety, forthey knew not to what a premature finding of the paper mightlead—both men noticed that the carriage seemed to darken about themand to grow warmer; that Karswell was fidgety and oppressed; that hedrew the heap of loose coats near to him and cast it back as if itrepelled him; and that he then sat upright and glanced anxiously atboth. They, with sickening anxiety, busied themselves in collectingtheir belongings; but they both thought that Karswell was on the pointof speaking when the train stopped at Dover Town. It was natural thatin the short space between town and pier they should both go into thecorridor.

At the pier they got out, but so empty was the train that they wereforced to linger on the platform until Karswell should have passedahead of them with his porter on the way to the boat, and only thenwas it safe for them to exchange a pressure of the hand and a word ofconcentrated congratulation. The effect upon Dunning was to make himalmost faint. Harrington made him lean up against the wall, while hehimself went forward a few yards within sight of the gangway to theboat, at which Karswell had now arrived. The man at the head of itexamined his ticket, and, laden with coats, he passed down into theboat. Suddenly the official called after him, "You, sir, beg pardon,did the other gentleman show his ticket?" "What the devil do you meanby the other gentleman?" Karswell's snarling voice called back fromthe deck. The man bent over and looked at him. "The devil? Well, Idon't know, I'm sure," Harrington heard him say to himself, and thenaloud, "My mistake, sir; must have been your rugs! ask your pardon."And then, to a subordinate near him, "'Ad he got a dog with him, orwhat? Funny thing: I could 'a' swore 'e wasn't alone. Well, whateverit was, they'll 'ave to see to it aboard. She's off now. Another weekand we shall be gettin' the 'oliday customers." In five minutes morethere was nothing but the lessening lights of the boat, the long lineof the Dover lamps, the night breeze, and the moon.

Long and long the two sat in their room at the "Lord Warden." In spiteof the removal of their greatest anxiety, they were oppressed with adoubt, not of the lightest. Had they been justified in sending a manto his death, as they believed they had? Ought they not to warn him,at least? "No," said Harrington; "if he is the murderer I think him,we have done no more than is just. Still, if you think it better—buthow and where can you warn him?" "He was booked to Abbeville only,"said Dunning. "I saw that. If I wired to the hotels there in Joanne'sGuide, 'Examine your ticket-case, Dunning,' I should feel happier.This is the 21st: he will have a day. But I am afraid he has gone intothe dark." So telegrams were left at the hotel office.

It is not clear whether these reached their destination, or whether,if they did, they were understood. All that is known is that, on theafternoon of the 23rd, an English traveller, examining the front ofSt. Wulfram's Church at Abbeville, then under extensive repair, wasstruck on the head and instantly killed by a stone falling from thescaffold erected round the north-western tower, there being, as wasclearly proved, no workman on the scaffold at that moment: and thetraveller's papers identified him as Mr. Karswell.

Only one detail shall be added. At Karswell's sale a set of Bewick,sold with all faults, was acquired by Harrington. The page with thewoodcut of the traveller and the demon was, as he had expected,mutilated. Also, after a judicious interval, Harrington repeated toDunning something of what he had heard his brother say in his sleep:but it was not long before Dunning stopped him.

THE STALLS OF BARCHESTER CATHEDRAL

This matter began, as far as I am concerned, with the reading of anotice in the obituary section of the Gentleman's Magazine for anearly year in the nineteenth century:

"On February 26th, at his residence in the CathedralClose of Barchester, the Venerable John BenwellHaynes, D.D., aged 57, Archdeacon of Sowerbridgeand Rector of Pickhill and Candley. He was of ——College, Cambridge, and where, by talent and assiduity,he commanded the esteem of his seniors; when,at the usual time, he took his first degree, his namestood high in the list of wranglers. These academicalhonours procured for him within a short time aFellowship of his College. In the year 1783 hereceived Holy Orders, and was shortly afterwardspresented to the perpetual Curacy of Ranxton-sub-Asheby his friend and patron the late truly venerableBishop of Lichfield.... His speedy preferments,first to a Prebend, and subsequently to the dignity ofPrecentor in the Cathedral of Barchester, form aneloquent testimony to the respect in which he washeld and to his eminent qualifications. He succeededto the Archdeaconry upon the sudden decease ofArchdeacon Pulteney in 1810. His sermons, everconformable to the principles of the religion andChurch which he adorned, displayed in no ordinarydegree, without the least trace of enthusiasm, therefinement of the scholar united with the graces of theChristian. Free from sectarian violence, and informedby the spirit of the truest charity, they will long dwellin the memories of his hearers. (Here a furtheromission.) The productions of his pen include anable defence of Episcopacy, which, though oftenperused by the author of this tribute to his memory,afford but one additional instance of the want ofliberality and enterprise which is a too commoncharacteristic of the publishers of our generation.His published works are, indeed, confined to aspirited and elegant version of the Argonautica ofValerius Flaccus, a volume of Discourses upon theSeveral Events in the Life of Joshua, delivered in hisCathedral, and a number of the charges which hepronounced at various visitations to the clergy of hisArchdeaconry. These are distinguished by etc., etc.The urbanity and hospitality of the subject of theselines will not readily be forgotten by those who enjoyedhis acquaintance. His interest in the venerableand awful pile under whose hoary vault he was sopunctual an attendant, and particularly in the musicalportion of its rites, might be termed filial, and formeda strong and delightful contrast to the polite indifferencedisplayed by too many of our Cathedral dignitariesat the present time."

The final paragraph, after informing us that Dr.Haynes died a bachelor, says:

"It might have been augured that an existence soplacid and benevolent would have been terminatedin a ripe old age by a dissolution equally gradual andcalm. But how unsearchable are the workings ofProvidence! The peaceful and retired seclusionamid which the honoured evening of Dr. Haynes'life was mellowing to its close was destined to bedisturbed, nay, shattered, by a tragedy as appallingas it was unexpected. The morning of the 26th ofFebruary——"

But perhaps I shall do better to keep back the remainder of thenarrative until I have told the circumstances which led up to it.These, as far as they are now accessible, I have derived from anothersource.

I had read the obituary notice which I have been quoting, quite bychance, along with a great many others of the same period. It hadexcited some little speculation in my mind, but, beyond thinking that,if I ever had an opportunity of examining the local records of theperiod indicated, I would try to remember Dr. Haynes, I made no effortto pursue his case.

Quite lately I was cataloguing the manuscripts in the library of thecollege to which he belonged. I had reached the end of the numberedvolumes on the shelves, and I proceeded to ask the librarian whetherthere were any more books which he thought I ought to include in mydescription. "I don't think there are," he said, "but we had bettercome and look at the manuscript class and make sure. Have you time todo that now?" I had time. We went to the library, checked off themanuscripts, and, at the end of our survey, arrived at a shelf ofwhich I had seen nothing. Its contents consisted for the most part ofsermons, bundles of fragmentary papers, college exercises, Cyrus, anepic poem in several cantos, the product of a country clergyman'sleisure, mathematical tracts by a deceased professor, and othersimilar material of a kind with which I am only too familiar. I tookbrief notes of these. Lastly, there was a tin box, which was pulledout and dusted. Its label, much faded, was thus inscribed: "Papers ofthe Ven. Archdeacon Haynes. Bequeathed in 1834 by his sister, MissLetitia Haynes."

I knew at once that the name was one which I had somewhereencountered, and could very soon locate it. "That must be theArchdeacon Haynes who came to a very odd end at Barchester. I've readhis obituary in the Gentleman's Magazine. May I take the box home?Do you know if there is anything interesting in it?"

The librarian was very willing that I should take the box and examineit at leisure. "I never looked inside it myself," he said, "but I'vealways been meaning to. I am pretty sure that is the box which our oldMaster once said ought never to have been accepted by the college. Hesaid that to Martin years ago; and he said also that as long as hehad control over the library it should never be opened. Martin told meabout it, and said that he wanted terribly to know what was in it; butthe Master was librarian, and always kept the box in the lodge, sothere was no getting at it in his time, and when he died it was takenaway by mistake by his heirs, and only returned a few years ago. Ican't think why I haven't opened it; but, as I have to go away fromCambridge this afternoon, you had better have first go at it. I thinkI can trust you not to publish anything undesirable in our catalogue."

I took the box home and examined its contents, and thereafterconsulted the librarian as to what should be done about publication,and, since I have his leave to make a story out of it, provided Idisguise the identity of the people concerned, I will try what can bedone.

The materials are, of course, mainly journals and letters. How much Ishall quote and how much epitomize must be determined byconsiderations of space. The proper understanding of the situation hasnecessitated a little—not very arduous—research, which has beengreatly facilitated by the excellent illustrations and text of theBarchester volume in Bell's Cathedral Series.

When you enter the choir of Barchester Cathedral now, you pass througha screen of metal and coloured marbles, designed by Sir Gilbert Scott,and find yourself in what I must call a very bare and odiouslyfurnished place. The stalls are modern, without canopies. The placesof the dignitaries and the names of the prebends have fortunatelybeen allowed to survive, and are inscribed on small brass platesaffixed to the stalls. The organ is in the triforium, and what is seenof the case is Gothic. The reredos and its surroundings are like everyother.

Careful engravings of a hundred years ago show a very different stateof things. The organ is on a massive classical screen. The stalls arealso classical and very massive. There is a baldacchino of wood overthe altar, with urns upon its corners. Farther east is a solid altarscreen, classical in design, of wood, with a pediment, in which is atriangle surrounded by rays, enclosing certain Hebrew letters in gold.Cherubs contemplate these. There is a pulpit with a greatsounding-board at the eastern end of the stalls on the north side, andthere is a black and white marble pavement. Two ladies and a gentlemanare admiring the general effect. From other sources I gather that thearchdeacon's stall then, as now, was next to the bishop's throne atthe south-eastern end of the stalls. His house almost faces the westfront of the church, and is a fine red-brick building of William theThird's time.

Here Dr. Haynes, already a mature man, took up his abode with hissister in the year 1810. The dignity had long been the object of hiswishes, but his predecessor refused to depart until he had attainedthe age of ninety-two. About a week after he had held a modestfestival in celebration of that ninety-second birthday, there came amorning, late in the year, when Dr. Haynes, hurrying cheerfully intohis breakfast-room, rubbing his hands and humming a tune, was greeted,and checked in his genial flow of spirits, by the sight of his sister,seated, indeed, in her usual place behind the tea-urn, but bowedforward and sobbing unrestrainedly into her handkerchief. "What—whatis the matter? What bad news?" he began. "Oh, Johnny, you've notheard? The poor dear archdeacon!" "The archdeacon, yes? What isit—ill, is he?" "No, no; they found him on the staircase thismorning; it is so shocking." "Is it possible! Dear, dear, poorPulteney! Had there been any seizure?" "They don't think so, and thatis almost the worst thing about it. It seems to have been all thefault of that stupid maid of theirs, Jane." Dr. Haynes paused. "Idon't quite understand, Letitia. How was the maid at fault?" "Why, asfar as I can make out, there was a stair-rod missing, and she nevermentioned it, and the poor archdeacon set his foot quite on the edgeof the step—you know how slippery that oak is—and it seems he musthave fallen almost the whole flight and broken his neck. It is sosad for poor Miss Pulteney. Of course, they will get rid of the girlat once. I never liked her." Miss Haynes's grief resumed its sway, buteventually relaxed so far as to permit of her taking some breakfast.Not so her brother, who, after standing in silence before the windowfor some minutes, left the room, and did not appear again thatmorning.

I need only add that the careless maid-servant was dismissedforthwith, but that the missing stair-rod was very shortly afterwardsfound under the stair-carpet—an additional proof, if any wereneeded, of extreme stupidity and carelessness on her part.

For a good many years Dr. Haynes had been marked out by his ability,which seems to have been really considerable, as the likely successorof Archdeacon Pulteney, and no disappointment was in store for him. Hewas duly installed, and entered with zeal upon the discharge of thosefunctions which are appropriate to one in his position. A considerablespace in his journals is occupied with exclamations upon the confusionin which Archdeacon Pulteney had left the business of his office andthe documents appertaining to it. Dues upon Wringham and Barnswoodhave been uncollected for something like twelve years, and are largelyirrecoverable; no visitation has been held for seven years; fourchancels are almost past mending. The persons deputized by thearchdeacon have been nearly as incapable as himself. It was almost amatter for thankfulness that this state of things had not beenpermitted to continue, and a letter from a friend confirms this view."[Greek: ho kategôn]," it says (in rather cruel allusion to the SecondEpistle to the Thessalonians), "is removed at last. My poor friend!Upon what a scene of confusion will you be entering! I give you myword that, on the last occasion of my crossing his threshold, therewas no single paper that he could lay hands upon, no syllable of minethat he could hear, and no fact in connection with my business that hecould remember. But now, thanks to a negligent maid and a loosestair-carpet, there is some prospect that necessary business will betransacted without a complete loss alike of voice and temper." Thisletter was tucked into a pocket in the cover of one of the diaries.

There can be no doubt of the new archdeacon's zeal and enthusiasm."Give me but time to reduce to some semblance of order the innumerableerrors and complications with which I am confronted, and I shallgladly and sincerely join with the aged Israelite in the canticlewhich too many, I fear, pronounce but with their lips." Thisreflection I find, not in a diary, but a letter; the doctor's friendsseem to have returned his correspondence to his surviving sister. Hedoes not confine himself, however, to reflections. His investigationof the rights and duties of his office are very searching andbusiness-like, and there is a calculation in one place that a periodof three years will just suffice to set the business of theArchdeaconry upon a proper footing. The estimate appears to have beenan exact one. For just three years he is occupied in reforms; but Ilook in vain at the end of that time for the promised Nunc dimittis.He has now found a new sphere of activity. Hitherto his duties haveprecluded him from more than an occasional attendance at the Cathedralservices. Now he begins to take an interest in the fabric and themusic. Upon his struggles with the organist, an old gentleman who hadbeen in office since 1786, I have no time to dwell; they were notattended with any marked success. More to the purpose is his suddengrowth of enthusiasm for the Cathedral itself and its furniture. Thereis a draft of a letter to Sylvanus Urban (which I do not think wasever sent) describing the stalls in the choir. As I have said, thesewere of fairly late date—of about the year 1700, in fact.

"The archdeacon's stall, situated at the south-eastend, west of the episcopal throne (now so worthilyoccupied by the truly excellent prelate who adorns theSee of Barchester), is distinguished by some curiousornamentation. In addition to the arms of DeanWest, by whose efforts the whole of the internalfurniture of the choir was completed, the prayer-deskis terminated at the eastern extremity by three smallbut remarkable statuettes in the grotesque manner.One is an exquisitely modelled figure of a cat, whosecrouching posture suggests with admirable spirit thesuppleness, vigilance, and craft of the redoubtedadversary of the genus Mus. Opposite to this is afigure seated upon a throne and invested with theattributes of royalty; but it is no earthly monarchwhom the carver has sought to portray. His feet arestudiously concealed by the long robe in which he isdraped: but neither the crown nor the cap which hewears suffice to hide the prick-ears and curving hornswhich betray his Tartarean origin; and the hand whichrests upon his knee is armed with talons of horrifyinglength and sharpness. Between these two figuresstands a shape muffled in a long mantle. This mightat first sight be mistaken for a monk or 'friar oforders gray,' for the head is cowled and a knottedcord depends from somewhere about the waist. Aslight inspection, however, will lead to a very differentconclusion. The knotted cord is quickly seen to bea halter, held by a hand all but concealed within thedraperies; while the sunken features and, horrid torelate, the rent flesh upon the cheek-bones, proclaim theKing of Terrors. These figures are evidently the productionof no unskilled chisel; and should it chancethat any of your correspondents are able to throwlight upon their origin and significance, my obligationsto your valuable miscellany will be largely increased."

There is more description in the paper, and, seeing that the woodworkin question has now disappeared, it has a considerable interest. Aparagraph at the end is worth quoting:

"Some late researches among the Chapter accountshave shown me that the carving of the stalls was not,as was very usually reported, the work of Dutchartists, but was executed by a native of this city ordistrict named Austin. The timber was procuredfrom an oak copse in the vicinity, the property of theDean and Chapter, known as Holywood. Upon arecent visit to the parish within whose boundaries itis situated, I learned from the aged and truly respectableincumbent that traditions still lingered amongstthe inhabitants of the great size and age of the oaksemployed to furnish the materials of the statelystructure which has been, however imperfectly,described in the above lines. Of one in particular,which stood near the centre of the grove, it is rememberedthat it was known as the Hanging Oak. Thepropriety of that title is confirmed by the fact that aquantity of human bones was found in the soil aboutits roots, and that at certain times of the year it wasthe custom for those who wished to secure a successfulissue to their affairs, whether of love or the ordinarybusiness of life, to suspend from its boughs smallimages or puppets rudely fashioned of straw, twigs,or the like rustic materials."

So much for the archdeacon's archæological investigations. To returnto his career as it is to be gathered from his diaries. Those of hisfirst three years of hard and careful work show him throughout in highspirits, and, doubtless, during this time, that reputation forhospitality and urbanity which is mentioned in his obituary notice waswell deserved. After that, as time goes on, I see a shadow coming overhim—destined to develop into utter blackness—which I cannot butthink must have been reflected in his outward demeanour. He commits agood deal of his fears and troubles to his diary; there was no otheroutlet for them. He was unmarried, and his sister was not always withhim. But I am much mistaken if he has told all that he might havetold. A series of extracts shall be given:

With the return of spring, when his sister came to live with him forsome months, Dr. Haynes's entries become more cheerful, and, indeed,no symptom of depression is discernible until the early part ofSeptember, when he was again left alone. And now, indeed, there isevidence that he was incommoded again, and that more pressingly. Tothis matter I will return in a moment, but I digress to put in adocument which, rightly or wrongly, I believe to have a bearing on thethread of the story.

The account-books of Dr. Haynes, preserved along with his otherpapers, show, from a date but little later than that of hisinstitution as archdeacon, a quarterly payment of £25 to J. L. Nothingcould have been made of this, had it stood by itself. But I connectwith it a very dirty and ill-written letter, which, like another thatI have quoted, was in a pocket in the cover of a diary. Of date orpostmark there is no vestige, and the decipherment was not easy. Itappears to run:

About the time at which I suppose this letter to have been writtenthere is, in fact, a payment of £40 to J. L.

We return to the diary:

Not long after this it is evident to me that the archdeacon's firmnessbegan to give way under the pressure of these phenomena. I omit asunnecessarily painful and distressing the ejaculations and prayerswhich, in the months of December and January, appear for the firsttime and become increasingly frequent. Throughout this time, however,he is obstinate in clinging to his post. Why he did not pleadill-health and take refuge at Bath or Brighton I cannot tell; myimpression is that it would have done him no good; that he was a manwho, if he had confessed himself beaten by the annoyances, would havesuccumbed at once, and that he was conscious of this. He did seek topalliate them by inviting visitors to his house. The result he hasnoted in this fashion:

These words, I must be firm, occur again and again on subsequentdays; sometimes they are the only entry. In these cases they are in anunusually large hand, and dug into the paper in a way which must havebroken the pen that wrote them.

Apparently the archdeacon's friends did not remark any change in hisbehaviour, and this gives me a high idea of his courage anddetermination. The diary tells us nothing more than I have indicatedof the last days of his life. The end of it all must be told in thepolished language of the obituary notice:

"The morning of the 26th of February was cold and tempestuous.At an early hour the servants had occasion to gointo the front hall of the residence occupied by the lamentedsubject of these lines. What was their horror upon observingthe form of their beloved and respected master lying uponthe landing of the principal staircase in an attitude which inspiredthe gravest fears. Assistance was procured, and anuniversal consternation was experienced upon the discoverythat he had been the object of a brutal and a murderous attack.The vertebral column was fractured in more than one place.This might have been the result of a fall: it appeared that thestair-carpet was loosened at one point. But, in addition to this,there were injuries inflicted upon the eyes, nose and mouth, asif by the agency of some savage animal, which, dreadful torelate, rendered those features unrecognizable. The vitalspark was, it is needless to add, completely extinct, and hadbeen so, upon the testimony of respectable medical authorities,for several hours. The author or authors of this mysteriousoutrage are alike buried in mystery, and the most active conjecturehas hitherto failed to suggest a solution of the melancholyproblem afforded by this appalling occurrence."

The writer goes on to reflect upon the probability that the writingsof Mr. Shelley, Lord Byron, and M. Voltaire may have been instrumentalin bringing about the disaster, and concludes by hoping, somewhatvaguely, that this event may "operate as an example to the risinggeneration"; but this portion of his remarks need not be quoted infull.

I had already formed the conclusion that Dr. Haynes was responsiblefor the death of Dr. Pulteney. But the incident connected with thecarved figure of death upon the archdeacon's stall was a veryperplexing feature. The conjecture that it had been cut out of thewood of the Hanging Oak was not difficult, but seemed impossible tosubstantiate. However, I paid a visit to Barchester, partly with theview of finding out whether there were any relics of the woodwork tobe heard of. I was introduced by one of the canons to the curator ofthe local museum, who was, my friend said, more likely to be able togive me information on the point than anyone else. I told thisgentleman of the description of certain carved figures and armsformerly on the stalls, and asked whether any had survived. He wasable to show me the arms of Dean West and some other fragments. These,he said, had been got from an old resident, who had also once owned afigure—perhaps one of those which I was inquiring for. There was avery odd thing about that figure, he said. "The old man who had ittold me that he picked it up in a wood-yard, whence he had obtainedthe still extant pieces, and had taken it home for his children. Onthe way home he was fiddling about with it and it came in two in hishands, and a bit of paper dropped out. This he picked up and, justnoticing that there was writing on it, put it into his pocket, andsubsequently into a vase on his mantelpiece. I was at his house notvery long ago, and happened to pick up the vase and turn it over tosee whether there were any marks on it, and the paper fell into myhand. The old man, on my handing it to him, told me the story I havetold you, and said I might keep the paper. It was crumpled and rathertorn, so I have mounted it on a card, which I have here. If you cantell me what it means I shall be very glad, and also, I may say, agood deal surprised."

He gave me the card. The paper was quite legibly inscribed in an oldhand, and this is what was on it:

"I suppose it is a charm or a spell: wouldn't you call it something ofthat kind?" said the curator.

"Yes," I said, "I suppose one might. What became of the figure inwhich it was concealed?"

"Oh, I forgot," said he. "The old man told me it was so ugly andfrightened his children so much that he burnt it."

MARTIN'S CLOSE

Some few years back I was staying with the rector ofa parish in the West, where the society to which Ibelong owns property. I was to go over some ofthis land: and, on the first morning of my visit, soonafter breakfast, the estate carpenter and general handyman, John Hill, was announced as in readiness toaccompany us. The rector asked which part of theparish we were to visit that morning. The estatemap was produced, and when we had showed himour round, he put his finger on a particular spot."Don't forget," he said, "to ask John Hill aboutMartin's Close when you get there. I should like tohear what he tells you." "What ought he to tellus?" I said. "I haven't the slightest idea," said therector, "or, if that is not exactly true, it will do tilllunch-time." And here he was called away.

We set out; John Hill is not a man to withholdsuch information as he possesses on any point, andyou may gather from him much that is of interestabout the people of the place and their talk. An unfamiliarword, or one that he thinks ought to beunfamiliar to you, he will usually spell—as c-o-b cob,and the like. It is not, however, relevant to mypurpose to record his conversation before the momentwhen we reached Martin's Close. The bit of land isnoticeable, for it is one of the smallest enclosures youare likely to see—a very few square yards, hedged inwith quickset on all sides, and without any gate orgap leading into it. You might take it for a smallcottage garden long deserted, but that it lies awayfrom the village and bears no trace of cultivation. Itis at no great distance from the road, and is part ofwhat is there called a moor, in other words, a roughupland pasture cut up into largish fields.

"Why is this little bit hedged off so?" I asked,and John Hill (whose answer I cannot represent asperfectly as I should like) was not at fault. "That'swhat we call Martin's Close, sir: 'tes a curious thing'bout that bit of land, sir: goes by the name ofMartin's Close, sir. M-a-r-t-i-n Martin. Beg pardon,sir, did Rector tell you to make inquiry of me'bout that, sir?" "Yes, he did." "Ah, I thoughtso much, sir. I was tell'n Rector 'bout that last week,and he was very much interested. It 'pears there'sa murderer buried there, sir, by the name of Martin.Old Samuel Saunders, that formerly lived yurr atwhat we call South-town, sir, he had a long tale 'boutthat, sir: terrible murder done 'pon a young woman,sir. Cut her throat and cast her in the water downyurr." "Was he hung for it?" "Yes, sir, he washung just up yurr on the roadway, by what I've 'eard,on the Holy Innocents' Day, many 'undred years ago,by the man that went by the name of the bloodyjudge: terrible red and bloody, I've 'eard." "Washis name Jeffreys, do you think?" "Might bepossible 'twas—Jeffreys—J-e-f—Jeffreys. I reckon'twas, and the tale I've 'eard many times from Mr.Saunders,—how this young man Martin—GeorgeMartin—was troubled before his crule action cometo light by the young woman's sperit." "How wasthat, do you know?" "No, sir, I don't exactlyknow how 'twas with it: but by what I've 'eard hewas fairly tormented; and rightly tu. Old Mr.Saunders, he told a history regarding a cupboarddown yurr in the New Inn. According to what herelated, this young woman's sperit come out of thiscupboard: but I don't racollact the matter."

This was the sum of John Hill's information. Wepassed on, and in due time I reported what I hadheard to the Rector. He was able to show me fromthe parish account-books that a gibbet had been paidfor in 1684, and a grave dug in the following year,both for the benefit of George Martin; but he wasunable to suggest anyone in the parish, Saundersbeing now gone, who was likely to throw any furtherlight on the story.

Naturally, upon my return to the neighbourhoodof libraries, I made search in the more obvious places.The trial seemed to be nowhere reported. A newspaperof the time, and one or more news-letters, however,had some short notices, from which I learntthat, on the ground of local prejudice against theprisoner (he was described as a young gentleman ofa good estate), the venue had been moved from Exeterto London; that Jeffreys had been the judge, anddeath the sentence, and that there had been some"singular passages" in the evidence. Nothingfurther transpired till September of this year. Afriend who knew me to be interested in Jeffreys thensent me a leaf torn out of a second-hand bookseller'scatalogue with the entry: Jeffreys, Judge: Interestingold MS. trial for murder, and so forth, from whichI gathered, to my delight, that I could become possessed,for a very few shillings, of what seemed to bea verbatim report, in shorthand, of the Martin trial.I telegraphed for the manuscript and got it. It wasa thin bound volume, provided with a title writtenin longhand by someone in the eighteenth century,who had also added this note: "My father, who tookthese notes in court, told me that the prisoner's friendshad made interest with Judge Jeffreys that no reportshould be put out: he had intended doing this himselfwhen times were better, and had shew'd it to theRevd. Mr. Glanvil, who incourag'd his design verywarmly, but death surpriz'd them both before it couldbe brought to an accomplishment."

The initials W. G. are appended; I am advisedthat the original reporter may have been T. Gurney,who appears in that capacity in more than one Statetrial.

This was all that I could read for myself. Afterno long delay I heard of someone who was capableof deciphering the shorthand of the seventeenth century,and a little time ago the typewritten copy ofthe whole manuscript was laid before me. The portionswhich I shall communicate here help to fill inthe very imperfect outline which subsists in thememories of John Hill and, I suppose, one or twoothers who live on the scene of the events.

The report begins with a species of preface, thegeneral effect of which is that the copy is not thatactually taken in court, though it is a true copy inregard to the notes of what was said; but that thewriter has added to it some "remarkable passages"that took place during the trial, and has made thispresent fair copy of the whole, intending at somefavourable time to publish it; but has not put it intolonghand, lest it should fall into the possession ofunauthorized persons, and he or his family be deprivedof the profit.

The report then begins:

Then after some little parleying with the court(which seemed strange upon such a plain indictment)the prisoner pleaded Not Guilty.

So they were sworn. I omit the names. Therewas no challenging on the prisoner's part, for, as hesaid, he did not know any of the persons called.Thereupon the prisoner asked for the use of pen, ink,and paper, to which the L. C. J. replied: "Ay, ay,in God's name let him have it." Then the usualcharge was delivered to the jury, and the case openedby the junior counsel for the King, Mr. Dolben.

The Attorney-General followed:

[Here Mr. Attorney made a pause, and shifted withhis papers: and it was thought remarkable by meand others, because he was a man not easily dashed.]

[Here the people made a hum, and a good deal oflaughter, and the Court called for silence, and whenit was made]——

Then the facts of the acquaintance between theprisoner and Ann Clark were proved, and also thecoroner's inquest. I pass over this portion of thetrial, for it offers nothing of special interest.

Sarah Arscott was next called and sworn.

Then the prisoner asked some questions not verymaterial, and Thomas Snell was next called, who gaveevidence to the same effect as Mrs. Arscott, and addedthe following:

Asked if he heard the voice singing outside thehouse, he said "No," but the door into the kitchenwas shut, and there was a high wind: but says thatno one could mistake Ann Clark's voice.

Then a boy, William Reddaway, about thirteen yearsof age, was called, and by the usual questions, put bythe Lord Chief Justice, it was ascertained that he knewthe nature of an oath. And so he was sworn. Hisevidence referred to a time about a week later.

But, the boy using the country speech, my lordcould not well apprehend him, and so asked if therewas anyone that could interpret him, and it wasanswered the parson of the parish was there, and hewas accordingly sworn and so the evidence given.The boy said:

"I was on the moor about six o'clock, and sittingbehind a bush of furze near a pond of water: andthe prisoner came very cautiously and looking abouthim, having something like a long pole in his hand,and stopped a good while as if he would be listening,and then began to feel in the water with the pole:and I being very near the water—not above fiveyards—heard as if the pole struck up against somethingthat made a wallowing sound, and the prisonerdropped the pole and threw himself on the ground,and rolled himself about very strangely with his handsto his ears, and so after a while got up and wentcreeping away."

Asked if he had had any communication with theprisoner, "Yes, a day or two before, the prisoner,hearing I was used to be on the moor, he asked meif I had seen a knife laying about, and said he wouldgive sixpence to find it". And I said I had not seenany such thing, but I would ask about. Then he saidhe would give me sixpence to say nothing, and sohe did.

Asked if he had observed anything particular as tothe pond of water, he said, "No, except that it begunto have a very ill smell and the cows would not drinkof it for some days before."

Asked if he had ever seen the prisoner and AnnClark in company together, he began to cry verymuch, and it was a long time before they could gethim to speak intelligibly. At last the parson of theparish, Mr. Matthews, got him to be quiet, and thequestion being put to him again, he said he had seenAnn Clark waiting on the moor for the prisoner atsome way off, several times since last Christmas.

Then the witness began to cry again and clungvery much to Mr. Matthews, who bid him not befrightened. And so at last he told this story: thaton the day before their feast (being the same eveningthat he had before spoken of) after the prisoner hadgone away, it being then twilight and he very desirousto get home, but afraid for the present to stir fromwhere he was lest the prisoner should see him, remainedsome few minutes behind the bush, lookingon the pond, and saw something dark come up outof the water at the edge of the pond farthest awayfrom him, and so up the bank. And when it got tothe top where he could see it plain against the sky,it stood up and flapped the arms up and down, andthen run off very swiftly in the same direction theprisoner had taken: and being asked very strictlywho he took it to be, he said upon his oath that itcould be nobody but Ann Clark.

Thereafter his master was called, and gave evidencethat the boy had come home very late that eveningand been chided for it, and that he seemed very muchamazed, but could give no account of the reason.

Att. My lord, we have done with our evidencefor the King.

Then the Lord Chief Justice called upon theprisoner to make his defence; which he did, thoughat no great length, and in a very halting way, sayingthat he hoped the jury would not go about to takehis life on the evidence of a parcel of country peopleand children that would believe any idle tale; andthat he had been very much prejudiced in his trial;at which the L. C. J. interrupted him, saying that hehad had singular favour shown to him in having histrial removed from Exeter, which the prisoner acknowledging,said that he meant rather that since hewas brought to London there had not been care takento keep him secured from interruption and disturbance.Upon which the L. C. J. ordered the Marshalto be called, and questioned him about the safe keepingof the prisoner, but could find nothing: exceptthe Marshal said that he had been informed by theunderkeeper that they had seen a person outside hisdoor or going up the stairs to it: but there was nopossibility the person should have got in. And itbeing inquired further what sort of person this mightbe, the Marshal could not speak to it save by hearsay,which was not allowed. And the prisoner, beingasked if this was what he meant, said no, he knewnothing of that, but it was very hard that a man shouldnot be suffered to be at quiet when his life stood onit. But it was observed he was very hasty in hisdenial. And so he said no more, and called no witnesses.Whereupon the Attorney-General spoke tothe jury. [A full report of what he said is given,and, if time allowed, I would extract that portion inwhich he dwells on the alleged appearance of themurdered person: he quotes some authorities ofancient date, as St. Augustine de cura pro mortinisgerenda (a favourite book of reference with the oldwriters on the supernatural) and also cites some caseswhich may be seen in Glanvil's, but more convenientlyin Mr. Lang's books. He does not, however, tell usmore of those cases than is to be found in print.]

The Lord Chief Justice then summed up theevidence for the jury. His speech, again, containsnothing that I find worth copying out: but he wasnaturally impressed with the singular character ofthe evidence, saying that he had never heard suchgiven in his experience; but that there was nothingin law to set it aside, and that the jury must considerwhether they believed these witnesses or not.

And the jury after a very short consultation broughtthe prisoner in Guilty.

So he was asked whether he had anything to sayin arrest of judgment, and pleaded that his namewas spelt wrong in the indictment, being Martinwith an I, whereas it should be with a Y. But thiswas overruled as not material, Mr. Attorney saying,moreover, that he could bring evidence to show thatthe prisoner by times wrote it as it was laid in theindictment. And, the prisoner having nothingfurther to offer, sentence of death was passed uponhim, and that he should be hanged in chains upon agibbet near the place where the fact was committed,and that execution should take place upon the 28thDecember next ensuing, being Innocents' Day.

Thereafter the prisoner being to all appearancein a state of desperation, made shift to ask the L. C. J.that his relations might be allowed to come to himduring the short time he had to live.

L. C. J. Ay, with all my heart, so it be in thepresence of the keeper; and Ann Clark may cometo you as well, for what I care.

At which the prisoner broke out and cried to hislordship not to use such words to him, and his lordshipvery angrily told him he deserved no tendernessat any man's hands for a cowardly butcherly murdererthat had not the stomach to take the reward of hisdeeds: "and I hope to God," said he, "that shewill be with you by day and by night till an end ismade of you." Then the prisoner was removed,and, so far as I saw, he was in a swound, and theCourt broke up.

I cannot refrain from observing that the prisonerduring all the time of the trial seemed to be moreuneasy than is commonly the case even in capitalcauses: that, for example, he was looking narrowlyamong the people and often turning round verysharply, as if some person might be at his ear. Itwas also very noticeable at this trial what a silencethe people kept, and further (though this mightnot be otherwise than natural in that season of theyear), what a darkness and obscurity there was inthe court room, lights being brought in not longafter two o'clock in the day, and yet no fog in thetown.

It was not without interest that I heard lately fromsome young men who had been giving a concert inthe village I speak of, that a very cold reception wasaccorded to the song which has been mentioned inthis narrative: "Madam, will you walk?" It cameout in some talk they had next morning with someof the local people that that song was regarded withan invincible repugnance; it was not so, they believed,at North Tawton, but here it was reckoned to beunlucky. However, why that view was taken noone had the shadow of an idea.

MR. HUMPHREYS AND HIS INHERITANCE

About fifteen years ago, on a date late in August or early inSeptember, a train drew up at Wilsthorpe, a country station in EasternEngland. Out of it stepped (with other passengers) a rather tall andreasonably good-looking young man, carrying a handbag and some paperstied up in a packet. He was expecting to be met, one would say, fromthe way in which he looked about him: and he was, as obviously,expected. The stationmaster ran forward a step or two, and then,seeming to recollect himself, turned and beckoned to a stout andconsequential person with a short round beard who was scanning thetrain with some appearance of bewilderment. "Mr. Cooper," he calledout,—"Mr. Cooper, I think this is your gentleman"; and then to thepassenger who had just alighted, "Mr. Humphreys, sir? Glad to bid youwelcome to Wilsthorpe. There's a cart from the Hall for your luggage,and here's Mr. Cooper, what I think you know." Mr. Cooper had hurriedup, and now raised his hat and shook hands. "Very pleased, I'm sure,"he said, "to give the echo to Mr. Palmer's kind words. I should havebeen the first to render expression to them but for the face not beingfamiliar to me, Mr. Humphreys. May your residence among us be markedas a red-letter day, sir." "Thank you very much, Mr. Cooper," saidHumphreys, "for your good wishes, and Mr. Palmer also. I do hope verymuch that this change of—er—tenancy—which you must all regret, I amsure—will not be to the detriment of those with whom I shall bebrought in contact." He stopped, feeling that the words were notfitting themselves together in the happiest way, and Mr. Cooper cutin, "Oh, you may rest satisfied of that, Mr. Humphreys. I'll take itupon myself to assure you, sir, that a warm welcome awaits you on allsides. And as to any change of propriety turning out detrimental tothe neighbourhood, well, your late uncle——" And here Mr. Cooper alsostopped, possibly in obedience to an inner monitor, possibly becauseMr. Palmer, clearing his throat loudly, asked Humphreys for histicket. The two men left the little station, and—at Humphreys'suggestion—decided to walk to Mr. Cooper's house, where luncheon wasawaiting them.

The relation in which these personages stood to each other can beexplained in a very few lines. Humphreys had inherited—quiteunexpectedly—a property from an uncle: neither the property nor theuncle had he ever seen. He was alone in the world—a man of goodability and kindly nature, whose employment in a Government office forthe last four or five years had not gone far to fit him for the lifeof a country gentleman. He was studious and rather diffident, and hadfew out-of-door pursuits except golf and gardening. To-day he had comedown for the first time to visit Wilsthorpe and confer with Mr.Cooper, the bailiff, as to the matters which needed immediateattention. It may be asked how this came to be his first visit? Oughthe not in decency to have attended his uncle's funeral? The answer isnot far to seek: he had been abroad at the time of the death, and hisaddress had not been at once procurable. So he had put off coming toWilsthorpe till he heard that all things were ready for him. And nowwe find him arrived at Mr. Cooper's comfortable house, facing theparsonage, and having just shaken hands with the smiling Mrs. and MissCooper.

During the minutes that preceded the announcement of luncheon theparty settled themselves on elaborate chairs in the drawing-room,Humphreys, for his part, perspiring quietly in the consciousness thatstock was being taken of him.

"I was just saying to Mr. Humphreys, my dear," said Mr. Cooper, "thatI hope and trust that his residence among us here in Wilsthorpe willbe marked as a red-letter day."

"Yes, indeed, I'm sure," said Mrs. Cooper heartily, "and many, many ofthem."

Miss Cooper murmured words to the same effect, and Humphreys attempteda pleasantry about painting the whole calendar red, which, thoughgreeted with shrill laughter, was evidently not fully understood. Atthis point they proceeded to luncheon.

"Do you know this part of the country at all, Mr. Humphreys?" saidMrs. Cooper, after a short interval. This was a better opening.

"No, I'm sorry to say I do not" said Humphreys. "It seems verypleasant, what I could see of it coming down in the train."

"Oh, it is a pleasant part. Really, I sometimes say I don't know anicer district, for the country; and the people round, too: such aquantity always going on. But I'm afraid you've come a little late forsome of the better garden parties, Mr. Humphreys."

"I suppose I have; dear me, what a pity!" said Humphreys, with a gleamof relief; and then, feeling that something more could be got out ofthis topic, "But after all, you see, Mrs. Cooper, even if I could havebeen here earlier, I should have been cut off from them, should I not?My poor uncle's recent death, you know——"

"Oh dear, Mr. Humphreys, to be sure; what a dreadful thing of me tosay!" (And Mr. and Miss Cooper seconded the propositioninarticulately.) "What must you have thought? I am so sorry: youmust really forgive me."

"Not at all, Mrs. Cooper, I assure you. I can't honestly assert thatmy uncle's death was a great grief to me, for I had never seen him.All I meant was that I supposed I shouldn't be expected to take partfor some little time in festivities of that kind."

"Now, really it's very kind of you to take it in that way, Mr.Humphreys, isn't it, George? And you do forgive me? But only fancy!You never saw poor old Mr. Wilson!"

"Never in my life; nor did I ever have a letter from him. But, by theway, you have something to forgive me for. I've never thanked you,except by letter, for all the trouble you've taken to find people tolook after me at the Hall."

"Oh, I'm sure that was nothing, Mr. Humphreys; but I really do thinkthat you'll find them give satisfaction. The man and his wife whomwe've got for the butler and housekeeper we've known for a number ofyears: such a nice respectable couple, and Mr. Cooper, I'm sure, cananswer for the men in the stables and gardens."

"Yes, Mr. Humphreys, they're a good lot. The head gardener's the onlyone who's stopped on from Mr. Wilson's time. The major part of theemployees, as you no doubt saw by the will, received legacies from theold gentleman and retired from their posts, and as the wife says, yourhousekeeper and butler are calculated to render you everysatisfaction."

"So everything, Mr. Humphreys, is ready for you to step in this veryday, according to what I understood you to wish," said Mrs. Cooper."Everything, that is, except company, and there I'm afraid you'll findyourself quite at a standstill. Only we did understand it was yourintention to move in at once. If not, I'm sure you know we should havebeen only too pleased for you to stay here."

"I'm quite sure you would, Mrs. Cooper, and I'm very grateful to you.But I thought I had really better make the plunge at once. I'maccustomed to living alone, and there will be quite enough to occupymy evenings—looking over papers and books and so on—for some time tocome. I thought if Mr. Cooper could spare the time this afternoon togo over the house and grounds with me——"

"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Humphreys. My time is your own, up to anyhour you please."

"Till dinner-time, father, you mean," said Miss Cooper. "Don't forgetwe're going over to the Brasnetts'. And have you got all the gardenkeys?"

"Are you a great gardener, Miss Cooper?" said Mr. Humphreys. "I wishyou would tell me what I'm to expect at the Hall."

"Oh, I don't know about a great gardener, Mr. Humphreys: I'm veryfond of flowers—but the Hall garden might be made quite lovely, Ioften say. It's very old-fashioned as it is: and a great deal ofshrubbery. There's an old temple, besides, and a maze."

"Really? Have you explored it ever?"

"No-o," said Miss Cooper, drawing in her lips and shaking her head."I've often longed to try, but old Mr. Wilson always kept it locked.He wouldn't even let Lady Wardrop into it. (She lives near here, atBentley, you know, and she's a great gardener, if you like.) That'swhy I asked father if he had all the keys."

"I see. Well, I must evidently look into that, and show you over itwhen I've learnt the way."

"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Humphreys! Now I shall have the laugh ofMiss Foster (that's our rector's daughter, you know; they're away ontheir holiday now—such nice people). We always had a joke between uswhich should be the first to get into the maze."

"I think the garden keys must be up at the house," said Mr. Cooper,who had been looking over a large bunch. "There is a number there inthe library. Now, Mr. Humphreys, if you're prepared, we might bidgood-bye to these ladies and set forward on our little tour ofexploration."

As they came out of Mr. Cooper's front gate, Humphreys had to run thegauntlet—not of an organized demonstration, but of a good deal oftouching of hats and careful contemplation from the men and women whohad gathered in somewhat unusual numbers in the village street. Hehad, further, to exchange some remarks with the wife of thelodge-keeper as they passed the park gates, and with the lodge-keeperhimself, who was attending to the park road. I cannot, however, sparethe time to report the progress fully. As they traversed the half-mileor so between the lodge and the house, Humphreys took occasion to askhis companion some question which brought up the topic of his lateuncle, and it did not take long before Mr. Cooper was embarked upon adisquisition.

"It is singular to think, as the wife was saying just now, that youshould never have seen the old gentleman. And yet—you won'tmisunderstand me, Mr. Humphreys, I feel confident, when I say that inmy opinion there would have been but little congeniality betwixtyourself and him. Not that I have a word to say in deprecation—not asingle word. I can tell you what he was," said Mr. Cooper, pulling upsuddenly and fixing Humphreys with his eye. "Can tell you what he wasin a nutshell, as the saying goes. He was a complete, thoroughvalentudinarian. That describes him to a T. That's what he was, sir, acomplete valentudinarian. No participation in what went on around him.I did venture, I think, to send you a few words of cutting from ourlocal paper, which I took the occasion to contribute on his decease.If I recollect myself aright, such is very much the ghist of them. Butdon't, Mr. Humphreys," continued Cooper, tapping him impressively onthe chest,—"don't you run away with the impression that I wish to sayaught but what is most creditable—most creditable—of yourrespected uncle and my late employer. Upright, Mr. Humphreys—open asthe day; liberal to all in his dealings. He had the heart to feel andthe hand to accommodate. But there it was: there was thestumbling-block—his unfortunate health—or, as I might more trulyphrase it, his want of health."

"Yes, poor man. Did he suffer from any special disorder before hislast illness—which, I take it, was little more than old age?"

"Just that, Mr. Humphreys—just that. The flash flickering slowly awayin the pan," said Cooper, with what he considered an appropriategesture,—"the golden bowl gradually ceasing to vibrate. But as toyour other question I should return a negative answer. General absenceof vitality? yes: special complaint? no, unless you reckon a nastycough he had with him. Why, here we are pretty much at the house. Ahandsome mansion, Mr. Humphreys, don't you consider?"

It deserved the epithet, on the whole: but it was oddlyproportioned—a very tall red-brick house, with a plain parapetconcealing the roof almost entirely. It gave the impression of a townhouse set down in the country; there was a basement, and a ratherimposing flight of steps leading up to the front door. It seemed also,owing to its height, to desiderate wings, but there were none. Thestables and other offices were concealed by trees. Humphreys guessedits probable date as 1770 or thereabouts.

The mature couple who had been engaged to act as butler andcook-housekeeper were waiting inside the front door, and opened it astheir new master approached. Their name, Humphreys already knew, wasCalton; of their appearance and manner he formed a favourableimpression in the few minutes' talk he had with them. It was agreedthat he should go through the plate and the cellar next day with Mr.Calton, and that Mrs. C. should have a talk with him about linen,bedding, and so on—what there was, and what there ought to be. Thenhe and Cooper, dismissing the Caltons for the present, began theirview of the house. Its topography is not of importance to this story.The large rooms on the ground floor were satisfactory, especially thelibrary, which was as large as the dining-room, and had three tallwindows facing east. The bedroom prepared for Humphreys wasimmediately above it. There were many pleasant, and a few reallyinteresting, old pictures. None of the furniture was new, and hardlyany of the books were later than the seventies. After hearing of andseeing the few changes his uncle had made in the house, andcontemplating a shiny portrait of him which adorned the drawing-room,Humphreys was forced to agree with Cooper that in all probabilitythere would have been little to attract him in his predecessor. Itmade him rather sad that he could not be sorry—dolebat se dolere nonposse—for the man who, whether with or without some feeling ofkindliness towards his unknown nephew, had contributed so much to hiswell-being; for he felt that Wilsthorpe was a place in which he couldbe happy, and especially happy, it might be, in its library.

And now it was time to go over the garden: the empty stables couldwait, and so could the laundry. So to the garden they addressedthemselves, and it was soon evident that Miss Cooper had been right inthinking that there were possibilities. Also that Mr. Cooper had donewell in keeping on the gardener. The deceased Mr. Wilson might nothave, indeed plainly had not, been imbued with the latest views ongardening, but whatever had been done here had been done under the eyeof a knowledgeable man, and the equipment and stock were excellent.Cooper was delighted with the pleasure Humphreys showed, and with thesuggestions he let fall from time to time. "I can see," he said, "thatyou've found your meatear here, Mr. Humphreys: you'll make this placea regular signosier before very many seasons have passed over ourheads. I wish Clutterham had been here—that's the head gardener—andhere he would have been of course, as I told you, but for his son'sbeing horse doover with a fever, poor fellow! I should like him tohave heard how the place strikes you."

"Yes, you told me he couldn't be here to-day, and I was very sorry tohear the reason, but it will be time enough to-morrow. What is thatwhite building on the mound at the end of the grass ride? Is it thetemple Miss Cooper mentioned?"

"That it is, Mr. Humphreys—the Temple of Friendship. Constructed ofmarble brought out of Italy for the purpose, by your late uncle'sgrandfather. Would it interest you perhaps to take a turn there? Youget a very sweet prospect of the park."

The general lines of the temple were those of the Sibyl's Temple atTivoli, helped out by a dome, only the whole was a good deal smaller.Some ancient sepulchral reliefs were built into the wall, and aboutit all was a pleasant flavour of the grand tour. Cooper produced thekey, and with some difficulty opened the heavy door. Inside there wasa handsome ceiling, but little furniture. Most of the floor wasoccupied by a pile of thick circular blocks of stone, each of whichhad a single letter deeply cut on its slightly convex upper surface."What is the meaning of these?" Humphreys inquired.

"Meaning? Well, all things, we're told, have their purpose, Mr.Humphreys, and I suppose these blocks have had theirs as well asanother. But what that purpose is or was (Mr. Cooper assumed adidactic attitude here), I, for one, should be at a loss to point outto you, sir. All I know of them—and it's summed up in a very fewwords—is just this: that they're stated to have been removed by yourlate uncle, at a period before I entered on the scene, from the maze.That, Mr. Humphreys, is——"

"Oh, the maze!" exclaimed Humphreys. "I'd forgotten that: we must havea look at it. Where is it?"

Cooper drew him to the door of the temple, and pointed with his stick."Guide your eye," he said (somewhat in the manner of the Second Elderin Handel's "Susanna"—

"Guide your eye by my stick here, and follow out the line directlyopposite to the spot where we're standing now, and I'll engage, Mr.Humphreys, that you'll catch the archway over the entrance. You'llsee it just at the end of the walk answering to the one that leads upto this very building. Did you think of going there at once? becauseif that be the case, I must go to the house and procure the key. Ifyou would walk on there, I'll rejoin you in a few moments' time."

Accordingly Humphreys strolled down the ride leading to the temple,past the garden-front of the house, and up the turfy approach to thearchway which Cooper had pointed out to him. He was surprised to findthat the whole maze was surrounded by a high wall, and that thearchway was provided with a padlocked iron gate; but then heremembered that Miss Cooper had spoken of his uncle's objection toletting anyone enter this part of the garden. He was now at the gate,and still Cooper came not. For a few minutes he occupied himself inreading the motto cut over the entrance, "Secretum meum mihi etfiliis domus meae," and in trying to recollect the source of it. Thenhe became impatient and considered the possibility of scaling thewall. This was clearly not worth while; it might have been done if hehad been wearing an older suit: or could the padlock—a very oldone—be forced? No, apparently not: and yet, as he gave a finalirritated kick at the gate, something gave way, and the lock fell athis feet. He pushed the gate open, inconveniencing a number of nettlesas he did so, and stepped into the enclosure.

It was a yew maze, of circular form, and the hedges, long untrimmed,had grown out and upwards to a most unorthodox breadth and height. Thewalks, too, were next door to impassable. Only by entirelydisregarding scratches, nettle-stings, and wet, could Humphreys forcehis way along them; but at any rate this condition of things, hereflected, would make it easier for him to find his way out again, forhe left a very visible track. So far as he could remember, he hadnever been in a maze before, nor did it seem to him now that he hadmissed much. The dankness and darkness, and smell of crushedgoosegrass and nettles were anything but cheerful. Still, it did notseem to be a very intricate specimen of its kind. Here he was (by theway, was that Cooper arrived at last? No!) very nearly at the heart ofit, without having taken much thought as to what path he wasfollowing. Ah! there at last was the centre, easily gained. And therewas something to reward him. His first impression was that the centralornament was a sundial; but when he had switched away some portion ofthe thick growth of brambles and bindweed that had formed over it, hesaw that it was a less ordinary decoration. A stone column about fourfeet high, and on the top of it a metal globe—copper, to judge by thegreen patina—engraved, and finely engraved too, with figures inoutline, and letters. That was what Humphreys saw, and a brief glanceat the figures convinced him that it was one of those mysteriousthings called celestial globes, from which, one would suppose, no oneever yet derived any information about the heavens. However, it wastoo dark—at least in the maze—for him to examine this curiosity atall closely, and besides, he now heard Cooper's voice, and sounds asof an elephant in the jungle. Humphreys called to him to follow thetrack he had beaten out, and soon Cooper emerged panting into thecentral circle. He was full of apologies for his delay; he had notbeen able, after all, to find the key. "But there!" he said, "you'vepenetrated into the heart of the mystery unaided and unannealed, asthe saying goes. Well! I suppose it's a matter of thirty to fortyyears since any human foot has trod these precincts. Certain it isthat I've never set foot in them before. Well, well! what's the oldproverb about angels fearing to tread? It's proved true once again inthis case." Humphreys' acquaintance with Cooper, though it had beenshort, was sufficient to assure him that there was no guile in thisallusion, and he forbore the obvious remark, merely suggesting that itwas fully time to get back to the house for a late cup of tea, and torelease Cooper for his evening engagement. They left the mazeaccordingly, experiencing wellnigh the same ease in retracing theirpath as they had in coming in.

"Have you any idea," Humphreys asked, as they went towards the house,"why my uncle kept that place so carefully locked?"

Cooper pulled up, and Humphreys felt that he must be on the brink of arevelation.

"I should merely be deceiving you, Mr. Humphreys, and that to no goodpurpose, if I laid claim to possess any information whatsoever on thattopic. When I first entered upon my duties here, some eighteen yearsback, that maze was word for word in the condition you see it now, andthe one and only occasion on which the question ever arose within myknowledge was that of which my girl made mention in your hearing. LadyWardrop—I've not a word to say against her—wrote applying foradmission to the maze. Your uncle showed me the note—a most civilnote—everything that could be expected from such a quarter. 'Cooper,'he said, 'I wish you'd reply to that note on my behalf.' 'Certainly,Mr. Wilson,' I said, for I was quite inured to acting as hissecretary, 'what answer shall I return to it?' 'Well,' he said, 'giveLady Wardrop my compliments, and tell her that if ever that portion ofthe grounds is taken in hand I shall be happy to give her the firstopportunity of viewing it, but that it has been shut up now for anumber of years, and I shall be grateful to her if she kindly won'tpress the matter.' That, Mr. Humphreys, was your good uncle's lastword on the subject, and I don't think I can add anything to it.Unless," added Cooper, after a pause, "it might be just this: that, sofar as I could form a judgment, he had a dislike (as people often willfor one reason or another) to the memory of his grandfather, who, as Imentioned to you, had that maze laid out. A man of peculiar teenets,Mr. Humphreys, and a great traveller. You'll have the opportunity, onthe coming Sabbath, of seeing the tablet to him in our little parishchurch; put up it was some long time after his death."

"Oh! I should have expected a man who had such a taste for building tohave designed a mausoleum for himself."

"Well, I've never noticed anything of the kind you mention; and, infact, come to think of it, I'm not at all sure that his resting-placeis within our boundaries at all: that he lays in the vault I'm prettyconfident is not the case. Curious now that I shouldn't be in aposition to inform you on that heading! Still, after all, we can'tsay, can we, Mr. Humphreys, that it's a point of crucial importancewhere the pore mortal coils are bestowed?"

At this point they entered the house, and Cooper's speculations wereinterrupted.

Tea was laid in the library, where Mr. Cooper fell upon subjectsappropriate to the scene. "A fine collection of books! One of thefinest, I've understood from connoisseurs, in this part of thecountry; splendid plates, too, in some of these works. I recollectyour uncle showing me one with views of foreign towns—most absorbingit was: got up in first-rate style. And another all done by hand, withthe ink as fresh as if it had been laid on yesterday, and yet, he toldme, it was the work of some old monk hundreds of years back. I'vealways taken a keen interest in literature myself. Hardly anything tomy mind can compare with a good hour's reading after a hard day'swork; far better than wasting the whole evening at a friend'shouse—and that reminds me, to be sure. I shall be getting intotrouble with the wife if I don't make the best of my way home and getready to squander away one of these same evenings! I must be off, Mr.Humphreys."

"And that reminds me," said Humphreys, "if I'm to show Miss Cooperthe maze to-morrow we must have it cleared out a bit. Could you say aword about that to the proper person?"

"Why, to be sure. A couple of men with scythes could cut out a trackto-morrow morning. I'll leave word as I pass the lodge, and I'll tellthem, what'll save you the trouble, perhaps, Mr. Humphreys, of havingto go up and extract them yourself: that they'd better have somesticks or a tape to mark out their way with as they go on."

"A very good idea! Yes, do that; and I'll expect Mrs. and Miss Cooperin the afternoon, and yourself about half-past ten in the morning."

"It'll be a pleasure, I'm sure, both to them and to myself, Mr.Humphreys. Good night!"

Humphreys dined at eight. But for the fact that it was his firstevening, and that Calton was evidently inclined for occasionalconversation, he would have finished the novel he had bought for hisjourney. As it was, he had to listen and reply to some of Calton'simpressions of the neighbourhood and the season: the latter, itappeared, was seasonable, and the former had changed considerably—andnot altogether for the worse—since Calton's boyhood (which had beenspent there). The village shop in particular had greatly improvedsince the year 1870. It was now possible to procure there pretty muchanything you liked in reason: which was a conveniency, because supposeanythink was required of a suddent (and he had known such thingsbefore now), he (Calton) could step down there (supposing the shop tobe still open), and order it in, without he borrered it of theRectory, whereas in earlier days it would have been useless to pursuesuch a course in respect of anything but candles, or soap, or treacle,or perhaps a penny child's picture-book, and nine times out of tenit'd be something more in the nature of a bottle of whisky you'd berequiring; leastways——On the whole Humphreys thought he would beprepared with a book in future.

The library was the obvious place for the after-dinner hours. Candlein hand and pipe in mouth, he moved round the room for some time,taking stock of the titles of the books. He had all the predispositionto take interest in an old library, and there was every opportunityfor him here to make systematic acquaintance with one, for he hadlearned from Cooper that there was no catalogue save the verysuperficial one made for purposes of probate. The drawing up of acatalogue raisonné would be a delicious occupation for winter. Therewere probably treasures to be found, too: even manuscripts, if Coopermight be trusted.

As he pursued his round the sense came upon him (as it does upon mostof us in similar places) of the extreme unreadableness of a greatportion of the collection. "Editions of Classics and Fathers, andPicart's Religious Ceremonies, and the Harleian Miscellany, Isuppose are all very well, but who is ever going to read TostatusAbulensis, or Pineda on Job, or a book like this?" He picked out asmall quarto, loose in the binding, and from which the lettered labelhad fallen off; and observing that coffee was waiting for him, retiredto a chair. Eventually he opened the book. It will be observed thathis condemnation of it rested wholly on external grounds. For all heknew it might have been a collection of unique plays, but undeniablythe outside was blank and forbidding. As a matter of fact, it was acollection of sermons or meditations, and mutilated at that, for thefirst sheet was gone. It seemed to belong to the latter end of theseventeenth century. He turned over the pages till his eye was caughtby a marginal note: "A Parable of this Unhappy Condition," and hethought he would see what aptitudes the author might have forimaginative composition. "I have heard or read," so ran the passage,"whether in the way of Parable or true Relation I leave my Readerto judge, of a Man who, like Theseus, in the Attick Tale, shouldadventure himself, into a Labyrinth or Maze: and such an oneindeed as was not laid out in the Fashion of our Topiary artists ofthis Age, but of a wide compass, in which, moreover, such unknownPitfalls and Snares, nay, such ill omened Inhabitants were commonlythought to lurk as could only be encountered at the Hazard of one'svery life. Now you may be sure that in such a Case the Disswasions ofFriends were not wanting. 'Consider of such-an-one' says a Brother'how he went the way you wot of, and was never seen more.' 'Or of suchanother' says the Mother 'that adventured himself but a little way in,and from that day forth is so troubled in his Wits that he cannot tellwhat he saw, nor hath passed one good Night.' 'And have you neverheard' cries a Neighbour 'of what Faces have been seen to look outover the Palisadoes and betwixt the Bars of the Gate?' But all wouldnot do: the Man was set upon his Purpose: for it seems it was thecommon fireside Talk of that Country that at the Heart and Centre ofthis Labyrinth there was a Jewel of such Price and Rarity that wouldenrich the Finder thereof for his life: and this should be his byright that could persever to come at it. What then? Quid multa? TheAdventurer pass'd the Gates, and for a whole day's space his Friendswithout had no news of him, except it might be by some indistinctCries heard afar off in the Night, such as made them turn in theirrestless Beds and sweat for very Fear, not doubting but that their Sonand Brother had put one more to the Catalogue of those unfortunatesthat had suffer'd shipwreck on that Voyage. So the next day they wentwith weeping Tears to the Clark of the Parish to order the Bell to betoll'd. And their Way took them hard by the gate of the Labyrinth:which they would have hastened by, from the Horrour they had of it,but that they caught sight of a sudden of a Man's Body lying in theRoadway, and going up to it (with what Anticipations may be easilyfigured) found it to be him whom they reckoned as lost: and not dead,though he were in a Swound most like Death. They then, who had goneforth as Mourners came back rejoycing, and set to by all means torevive their Prodigal. Who, being come to himself, and hearing oftheir Anxieties and their Errand of that Morning, 'Ay' says he 'youmay as well finish what you were about: for, for all I have broughtback the Jewel (which he shew'd them, and 'twas indeed a rare Piece) Ihave brought back that with it that will leave me neither Rest atNight nor Pleasure by Day.' Whereupon they were instant with him tolearn his Meaning, and where his Company should be that went so soreagainst his Stomach. 'O' says he ''tis here in my Breast: I cannotflee from it, do what I may.' So it needed no Wizard to help them to aguess that it was the Recollection of what he had seen that troubledhim so wonderfully. But they could get no more of him for a long Timebut by Fits and Starts. However at long and at last they made shift tocollect somewhat of this kind: that at first, while the Sun wasbright, he went merrily on, and without any Difficulty reached theHeart of the Labyrinth and got the Jewel, and so set out on his wayback rejoycing: but as the Night fell, wherein all the Beasts of theForest do move, he begun to be sensible of some Creature keeping Pacewith him and, as he thought, peering and looking upon him from thenext Alley to that he was in; and that when he should stop, thisCompanion should stop also, which put him in some Disorder of hisSpirits. And, indeed, as the Darkness increas'd, it seemed to him thatthere was more than one, and, it might be, even a whole Band of suchFollowers: at least so he judg'd by the Rustling and Cracking thatthey kept among the Thickets; besides that there would be at a Time aSound of Whispering, which seem'd to import a Conference among them.But in regard of who they were or what Form they were of, he would notbe persuaded to say what he thought. Upon his Hearers asking him whatthe Cries were which they heard in the Night (as was observ'd above)he gave them this Account: That about Midnight (so far as he couldjudge) he heard his Name call'd from a long way off, and he would havebeen sworn it was his Brother that so call'd him. So he stood stilland hilloo'd at the Pitch of his Voice, and he suppos'd that theEcho, or the Noyse of his Shouting, disguis'd for the Moment anylesser sound; because, when there fell a Stillness again, hedistinguish'd a Trampling (not loud) of running Feet coming very closebehind him, wherewith he was so daunted that himself set off to run,and that he continued till the Dawn broke. Sometimes when his Breathfail'd him, he would cast himself flat on his Face, and hope that hisPursuers might over-run him in the Darkness, but at such a Time theywould regularly make a Pause, and he could hear them pant and snuff asit had been a Hound at Fault: which wrought in him so extream anHorrour of mind, that he would be forc'd to betake himself again toturning and doubling, if by any Means he might throw them off theScent. And, as if this Exertion was in itself not terrible enough, hehad before him the constant Fear of falling into some Pit or Trap, ofwhich he had heard, and indeed seen with his own Eyes that there wereseveral, some at the sides and other in the Midst of the Alleys. Sothat in fine (he said) a more dreadful Night was never spent by MortalCreature than that he had endur'd in that Labyrinth; and not thatJewel which he had in his Wallet, nor the richest that was everbrought out of the Indies, could be a sufficient Recompence to himfor the Pains he had suffered.

"I will spare to set down the further Recital of this Man's Troubles,inasmuch as I am confident my Reader's Intelligence will hit theParallel I desire to draw. For is not this Jewel a just Emblem ofthe Satisfaction which a Man may bring back with him from a Course ofthis World's Pleasures? and will not the Labyrinth serve for anImage of the World itself wherein such a Treasure (if we may believethe common Voice) is stored up?"

At about this point Humphreys thought that a little Patience would bean agreeable change, and that the writer's "improvement" of hisParable might be left to itself. So he put the book back in its formerplace, wondering as he did so whether his uncle had ever stumbledacross that passage; and if so, whether it had worked on his fancy somuch as to make him dislike the idea of a maze, and determine to shutup the one in the garden. Not long afterwards he went to bed.

The next day brought a morning's hard work with Mr. Cooper, who, ifexuberant in language, had the business of the estate at his fingers'ends. He was very breezy this morning, Mr. Cooper was: had notforgotten the order to clear out the maze—the work was going on atthat moment: his girl was on the tentacles of expectation about it. Healso hoped that Humphreys had slept the sleep of the just, and that weshould be favoured with a continuance of this congenial weather. Atluncheon he enlarged on the pictures in the dining-room, and pointedout the portrait of the constructor of the temple and the maze.Humphreys examined this with considerable interest. It was the work ofan Italian, and had been painted when old Mr. Wilson was visiting Romeas a young man. (There was, indeed, a view of the Colosseum in thebackground.) A pale thin face and large eyes were the characteristicfeatures. In the hand was a partially unfolded roll of paper, onwhich could be distinguished the plan of a circular building, veryprobably the temple, and also part of that of a labyrinth. Humphreysgot up on a chair to examine it, but it was not painted withsufficient clearness to be worth copying. It suggested to him,however, that he might as well make a plan of his own maze and hang itin the hall for the use of visitors.

This determination of his was confirmed that same afternoon; for whenMrs. and Miss Cooper arrived, eager to be inducted into the maze, hefound that he was wholly unable to lead them to the centre. Thegardeners had removed the guide-marks they had been using, and evenClutterham, when summoned to assist, was as helpless as the rest. "Thepoint is, you see, Mr. Wilson—I should say 'Umphreys—these mazes ispurposely constructed so much alike, with a view to mislead. Still, ifyou'll foller me, I think I can put you right. I'll just put my 'atdown 'ere as a starting-point." He stumped off, and after five minutesbrought the party safe to the hat again. "Now that's a very peculiarthing," he said, with a sheepish laugh. "I made sure I'd left that 'atjust over against a bramble-bush, and you can see for yourself thereain't no bramble-bush not in this walk at all. If you'll allow me, Mr.Humphreys—that's the name, ain't it, sir?—I'll just call one of themen in to mark the place like."

William Crack arrived, in answer to repeated shouts. He had somedifficulty in making his way to the party. First he was seen or heardin an inside alley, then, almost at the same moment, in an outer one.However, he joined them at last, and was first consulted withouteffect and then stationed by the hat, which Clutterham stillconsidered it necessary to leave on the ground. In spite of thisstrategy, they spent the best part of three-quarters of an hour inquite fruitless wanderings, and Humphreys was obliged at last, seeinghow tired Mrs. Cooper was becoming, to suggest a retreat to tea, withprofuse apologies to Miss Cooper. "At any rate you've won your betwith Miss Foster," he said; "you have been inside the maze; and Ipromise you the first thing I do shall be to make a proper plan of itwith the lines marked out for you to go by." "That's what's wanted,sir," said Clutterham, "someone to draw out a plan and keep it bythem. It might be very awkward, you see, anyone getting into thatplace and a shower of rain come on, and them not able to find theirway out again; it might be hours before they could be got out, withoutyou'd permit of me makin' a short cut to the middle: what my meanin'is, takin' down a couple of trees in each 'edge in a straight line soas you could git a clear view right through. Of course that'd do awaywith it as a maze, but I don't know as you'd approve of that."

"No, I won't have that done yet: I'll make a plan first, and let youhave a copy. Later on, if we find occasion, I'll think of what yousay."

Humphreys was vexed and ashamed at the fiasco of the afternoon, andcould not be satisfied without making another effort that evening toreach the centre of the maze. His irritation was increased by findingit without a single false step. He had thoughts of beginning his planat once; but the light was fading, and he felt that by the time he hadgot the necessary materials together, work would be impossible.

Next morning accordingly, carrying a drawing-board, pencils,compasses, cartridge paper, and so forth (some of which had beenborrowed from the Coopers and some found in the library cupboards), hewent to the middle of the maze (again without any hesitation), and setout his materials. He was, however, delayed in making a start. Thebrambles and weeds that had obscured the column and globe were now allcleared away, and it was for the first time possible to see clearlywhat these were like. The column was featureless, resembling those onwhich sundials are usually placed. Not so the globe. I have said thatit was finely engraved with figures and inscriptions, and that on afirst glance Humphreys had taken it for a celestial globe: but he soonfound that it did not answer to his recollection of such things. Onefeature seemed familiar; a winged serpent—Draco—encircled it aboutthe place which, on a terrestrial globe, is occupied by the equator:but on the other hand, a good part of the upper hemisphere was coveredby the outspread wings of a large figure whose head was concealed by aring at the pole or summit of the whole. Around the place of the headthe words princeps tenebrarum could be deciphered. In the lowerhemisphere there was a space hatched all over with cross-lines andmarked as umbra mortis. Near it was a range of mountains, and amongthem a valley with flames rising from it. This was lettered (will yoube surprised to learn it?) vallis filiorum Hinnom. Above and belowDraco were outlined various figures not unlike the pictures of theordinary constellations, but not the same. Thus, a nude man with araised club was described, not as Hercules but as Cain. Another,plunged up to his middle in earth and stretching out despairing arms,was Chore, not Ophiuchus, and a third, hung by his hair to a snakytree, was Absolon. Near the last, a man in long robes and high cap,standing in a circle and addressing two shaggy demons who hoveredoutside, was described as Hostanes magus (a character unfamiliar toHumphreys). The scheme of the whole, indeed, seemed to be anassemblage of the patriarchs of evil, perhaps not uninfluenced by astudy of Dante. Humphreys thought it an unusual exhibition of hisgreat-grandfather's taste, but reflected that he had probably pickedit up in Italy and had never taken the trouble to examine it closely:certainly, had he set much store by it, he would not have exposed itto wind and weather. He tapped the metal—it seemed hollow and notvery thick—and, turning from it, addressed himself to his plan. Afterhalf an hour's work he found it was impossible to get on without usinga clue: so he procured a roll of twine from Clutterham, and laid itout along the alleys from the entrance to the centre, tying the end tothe ring at the top of the globe. This expedient helped him to set outa rough plan before luncheon, and in the afternoon he was able to drawit in more neatly. Towards tea-time Mr. Cooper joined him, and wasmuch interested in his progress. "Now this——" said Mr. Cooper,laying his hand on the globe, and then drawing it away hastily. "Whew!Holds the heat, doesn't it, to a surprising degree, Mr. Humphreys. Isuppose this metal—copper, isn't it?—would be an insulator orconductor, or whatever they call it."

"The sun has been pretty strong this afternoon," said Humphreys,evading the scientific point, "but I didn't notice the globe had gothot. No—it doesn't seem very hot to me," he added.

"Odd!" said Mr. Cooper. "Now I can't hardly bear my hand on it.Something in the difference of temperament between us, I suppose. Idare say you're a chilly subject, Mr. Humphreys: I'm not: and there'swhere the distinction lies. All this summer I've slept, if you'llbelieve me, practically in statu quo, and had my morning tub as coldas I could get it. Day out and day in—let me assist you with thatstring."

"It's all right, thanks; but if you'll collect some of these pencilsand things that are lying about I shall be much obliged. Now I thinkwe've got everything, and we might get back to the house."

They left the maze, Humphreys rolling up the clue as they went.

The night was rainy.

Most unfortunately it turned out that, whether by Cooper's fault ornot, the plan had been the one thing forgotten the evening before. Aswas to be expected, it was ruined by the wet. There was nothing for itbut to begin again (the job would not be a long one this time). Theclue therefore was put in place once more and a fresh start made. ButHumphreys had not done much before an interruption came in the shapeof Calton with a telegram. His late chief in London wanted to consulthim. Only a brief interview was wanted, but the summons was urgent.This was annoying, yet it was not really upsetting; there was a trainavailable in half an hour, and, unless things went very cross, hecould be back, possibly by five o'clock, certainly by eight. He gavethe plan to Calton to take to the house, but it was not worth while toremove the clue.

All went as he had hoped. He spent a rather exciting evening in thelibrary, for he lighted to-night upon a cupboard where some of therarer books were kept. When he went up to bed he was glad to find thatthe servant had remembered to leave his curtains undrawn and hiswindows open. He put down his light, and went to the window whichcommanded a view of the garden and the park. It was a brilliantmoonlight night. In a few weeks' time the sonorous winds of autumnwould break up all this calm. But now the distant woods were in adeep stillness; the slopes of the lawns were shining with dew; thecolours of some of the flowers could almost be guessed. The light ofthe moon just caught the cornice of the temple and the curve of itsleaden dome, and Humphreys had to own that, so seen, these conceits ofa past age have a real beauty. In short, the light, the perfume of thewoods, and the absolute quiet called up such kind old associations inhis mind that he went on ruminating them for a long, long time. As heturned from the window he felt he had never seen anything morecomplete of its sort. The one feature that struck him with a sense ofincongruity was a small Irish yew, thin and black, which stood outlike an outpost of the shrubbery, through which the maze wasapproached. That, he thought, might as well be away: the wonder wasthat anyone should have thought it would look well in that position.

However, next morning, in the press of answering letters and goingover books with Mr. Cooper, the Irish yew was forgotten. One letter,by the way, arrived this day which has to be mentioned. It was fromthat Lady Wardrop whom Miss Cooper had mentioned, and it renewed theapplication which she had addressed to Mr. Wilson. She pleaded, in thefirst place, that she was about to publish a Book of Mazes, andearnestly desired to include the plan of the Wilsthorpe Maze, and alsothat it would be a great kindness if Mr. Humphreys could let her seeit (if at all) at an early date, since she would soon have to goabroad for the winter months. Her house at Bentley was not fardistant, so Humphreys was able to send a note by hand to hersuggesting the very next day or the day after for her visit; it may besaid at once that the messenger brought back a most grateful answer,to the effect that the morrow would suit her admirably.

The only other event of the day was that the plan of the maze wassuccessfully finished.

This night again was fair and brilliant and calm, and Humphreyslingered almost as long at his window. The Irish yew came to his mindagain as he was on the point of drawing his curtains: but either hehad been misled by a shadow the night before, or else the shrub wasnot really so obtrusive as he had fancied. Anyhow, he saw no reasonfor interfering with it. What he would do away with, however, was aclump of dark growth which had usurped a place against the house wall,and was threatening to obscure one of the lower range of windows. Itdid not look as if it could possibly be worth keeping; he fancied itdank and unhealthy, little as he could see of it.

Next day (it was a Friday—he had arrived at Wilsthorpe on a Monday)Lady Wardrop came over in her car soon after luncheon. She was a stoutelderly person, very full of talk of all sorts and particularlyinclined to make herself agreeable to Humphreys, who had gratified hervery much by his ready granting of her request. They made a thoroughexploration of the place together; and Lady Wardrop's opinion of herhost obviously rose sky-high when she found that he really knewsomething of gardening. She entered enthusiastically into all hisplans for improvement, but agreed that it would be a vandalism tointerfere with the characteristic laying-out of the ground near thehouse. With the temple she was particularly delighted, and, said she,"Do you know, Mr. Humphreys, I think your bailiff must be right aboutthose lettered blocks of stone. One of my mazes—I'm sorry to say thestupid people have destroyed it now—it was at a place inHampshire—had the track marked out in that way. They were tilesthere, but lettered just like yours, and the letters, taken in theright order, formed an inscription—what it was I forget—somethingabout Theseus and Ariadne. I have a copy of it, as well as the plan ofthe maze where it was. How people can do such things! I shall neverforgive you if you injure your maze. Do you know, they're becomingvery uncommon? Almost every year I hear of one being grubbed up. Now,do let's get straight to it: or, if you're too busy, I know my waythere perfectly, and I'm not afraid of getting lost in it; I know toomuch about mazes for that. Though I remember missing my lunch—not sovery long ago either—through getting entangled in the one at Busbury.Well, of course, if you can manage to come with me, that will be allthe nicer."

After this confident prelude justice would seem to require that LadyWardrop should have been hopelessly muddled by the Wilsthorpe maze.Nothing of that kind happened: yet it is to be doubted whether she gotall the enjoyment from her new specimen that she expected. She wasinterested—keenly interested—to be sure, and pointed out toHumphreys a series of little depressions in the ground which, shethought, marked the places of the lettered blocks. She told him, too,what other mazes resembled his most closely in arrangement, andexplained how it was usually possible to date a maze to within twentyyears by means of its plan. This one, she already knew, must be aboutas old as 1780, and its features were just what might be expected. Theglobe, furthermore, completely absorbed her. It was unique in herexperience, and she pored over it for long. "I should like a rubbingof that," she said, "if it could possibly be made. Yes, I am sure youwould be most kind about it, Mr. Humphreys, but I trust you won'tattempt it on my account, I do indeed; I shouldn't like to take anyliberties here. I have the feeling that it might be resented. Now,confess," she went on, turning and facing Humphreys, "don't youfeel—haven't you felt ever since you came in here—that a watch isbeing kept on us, and that if we over-stepped the mark in any waythere would be a—well, a pounce? No? I do; and I don't care howsoon we are outside the gate.

"After all," she said, when they were once more on their way to thehouse, "it may have been only the airlessness and the dull heat ofthat place that pressed on my brain. Still, I'll take back one thing Isaid. I'm not sure that I shan't forgive you after all, if I find nextspring that that maze has been grubbed up."

"Whether or no that's done, you shall have the plan, Lady Wardrop. Ihave made one, and no later than to-night I can trace you a copy."

"Admirable: a pencil tracing will be all I want, with an indication ofthe scale. I can easily have it brought into line with the rest of myplates. Many, many thanks."

"Very well, you shall have that to-morrow. I wish you could help me toa solution of my block-puzzle."

"What, those stones in the summer-house? That is a puzzle; they arein no sort of order? Of course not. But the men who put them down musthave had some directions—perhaps you'll find a paper about it amongyour uncle's things. If not, you'll have to call in somebody who's anexpert in cyphers."

"Advise me about something else, please," said Humphreys. "Thatbush-thing under the library window: you would have that away,wouldn't you?"

"Which? That? Oh, I think not," said Lady Wardrop. "I can't see itvery well from this distance, but it's not unsightly."

"Perhaps you're right; only, looking out of my window, just above it,last night, I thought it took up too much room. It doesn't seem to, asone sees it from here, certainly. Very well, I'll leave it alone for abit."

Tea was the next business, soon after which Lady Wardrop drove off;but, half-way down the drive, she stopped the car and beckoned toHumphreys, who was still on the front-door steps. He ran to glean herparting words, which were: "It just occurs to me, it might be worthyour while to look at the underside of those stones. They must havebeen numbered, mustn't they? Good-bye again. Home, please."

The main occupation of this evening at any rate was settled. Thetracing of the plan for Lady Wardrop and the careful collation of itwith the original meant a couple of hours' work at least. Accordingly,soon after nine Humphreys had his materials put out in the library andbegan. It was a still, stuffy evening; windows had to stand open, andhe had more than one grisly encounter with a bat. These unnervingepisodes made him keep the tail of his eye on the window. Once ortwice it was a question whether there was—not a bat, but somethingmore considerable—that had a mind to join him. How unpleasant itwould be if someone had slipped noiselessly over the sill and wascrouching on the floor!

The tracing of the plan was done: it remained to compare it with theoriginal, and to see whether any paths had been wrongly closed or leftopen. With one finger on each paper, he traced out the course thatmust be followed from the entrance. There were one or two slightmistakes, but here, near the centre, was a bad confusion, probably dueto the entry of the Second or Third Bar. Before correcting the copy hefollowed out carefully the last turnings of the path on the original.These, at least, were right; they led without a hitch to the middlespace. Here was a feature which need not be repeated on the copy—anugly black spot about the size of a shilling. Ink? No. It resembled ahole, but how should a hole be there? He stared at it with tired eyes:the work of tracing had been very laborious, and he was drowsy andoppressed.... But surely this was a very odd hole. It seemed to gonot only through the paper, but through the table on which it lay.Yes, and through the floor below that, down, and still down, even intoinfinite depths. He craned over it, utterly bewildered. Just as, whenyou were a child, you may have pored over a square inch of counterpaneuntil it became a landscape with wooded hills, and perhaps evenchurches and houses, and you lost all thought of the true size ofyourself and it, so this hole seemed to Humphreys for the moment theonly thing in the world. For some reason it was hateful to him fromthe first, but he had gazed at it for some moments before any feelingof anxiety came upon him; and then it did come, stronger andstronger—a horror lest something might emerge from it, and a reallyagonizing conviction that a terror was on its way, from the sight ofwhich he would not be able to escape. Oh yes, far, far down there wasa movement, and the movement was upwards—towards the surface. Nearerand nearer it came, and it was of a blackish-grey colour with morethan one dark hole. It took shape as a face—a human face—a burnthuman face: and with the odious writhings of a wasp creeping out of arotten apple there clambered forth an appearance of a form, wavingblack arms prepared to clasp the head that was bending over them. Witha convulsion of despair Humphreys threw himself back, struck his headagainst a hanging lamp, and fell.

There was concussion of the brain, shock to the system, and a longconfinement to bed. The doctor was badly puzzled, not by the symptoms,but by a request which Humphreys made to him as soon as he was able tosay anything. "I wish you would open the ball in the maze." "Hardlyroom enough there, I should have thought," was the best answer hecould summon up; "but it's more in your way than mine; my dancing daysare over." At which Humphreys muttered and turned over to sleep, andthe doctor intimated to the nurses that the patient was not out of thewood yet. When he was better able to express his views, Humphreys madehis meaning clear, and received a promise that the thing should bedone at once. He was so anxious to learn the result that the doctor,who seemed a little pensive next morning, saw that more harm than goodwould be done by saving up his report. "Well," he said, "I am afraidthe ball is done for; the metal must have worn thin, I suppose.Anyhow, it went all to bits with the first blow of the chisel." "Well?go on, do!" said Humphreys impatiently. "Oh! you want to know what wefound in it, of course. Well, it was half full of stuff like ashes.""Ashes? What did you make of them?" "I haven't thoroughly examinedthem yet; there's hardly been time: but Cooper's made up his mind—Idare say from something I said—that it's a case of cremation....Now don't excite yourself, my good sir: yes, I must allow I think he'sprobably right."

The maze is gone, and Lady Wardrop has forgiven Humphreys; in fact, Ibelieve he married her niece. She was right, too, in her conjecturethat the stones in the temple were numbered. There had been a numeralpainted on the bottom of each. Some few of these had rubbed off, butenough remained to enable Humphreys to reconstruct the inscription. Itran thus:

Grateful as Humphreys was to the memory of his uncle, he could notquite forgive him for having burnt the journals and letters of theJames Wilson who had gifted Wilsthorpe with the maze and the temple.As to the circumstances of that ancestor's death and burial notradition survived; but his will, which was almost the only record ofhim accessible, assigned an unusually generous legacy to a servant whobore an Italian name.

Mr. Cooper's view is that, humanly speaking, all these many solemnevents have a meaning for us, if our limited intelligence permitted ofour disintegrating it, while Mr. Calton has been reminded of an auntnow gone from us, who, about the year 1866, had been lost for upwardsof an hour and a half in the maze at Covent Gardens, or it might beHampton Court.

One of the oddest things in the whole series of transactions is thatthe book which contained the Parable has entirely disappeared.Humphreys has never been able to find it since he copied out thepassage to send to Lady Wardrop.

THE RESIDENCE AT WHITMINSTER

Dr. Ashton—Thomas Ashton, Doctor of Divinity—sat in his study,habited in a dressing-gown, and with a silk cap on his shavenhead—his wig being for the time taken off and placed on its block ona side table. He was a man of some fifty-five years, strongly made, ofa sanguine complexion, an angry eye, and a long upper lip. Face andeye were lighted up at the moment when I picture him by the level rayof an afternoon sun that shone in upon him through a tall sash window,giving on the west. The room into which it shone was also tall, linedwith book-cases, and, where the wall showed between them, panelled. Onthe table near the doctor's elbow was a green cloth, and upon it whathe would have called a silver standish—a tray with inkstands—quillpens, a calf-bound book or two, some papers, a church-warden pipe andbrass tobacco-box, a flask cased in plaited straw, and a liqueurglass. The year was 1730, the month December, the hour somewhat pastthree in the afternoon.

I have described in these lines pretty much all that a superficialobserver would have noted when he looked into the room. What met Dr.Ashton's eye when he looked out of it, sitting in his leatherarm-chair? Little more than the tops of the shrubs and fruit-trees ofhis garden could be seen from that point, but the red-brick wall of itwas visible in almost all the length of its western side. In themiddle of that was a gate—a double gate of rather elaborate ironscroll-work, which allowed something of a view beyond. Through it hecould see that the ground sloped away almost at once to a bottom,along which a stream must run, and rose steeply from it on the otherside, up to a field that was park-like in character, and thicklystudded with oaks, now, of course, leafless. They did not stand sothick together but that some glimpse of sky and horizon could be seenbetween their stems. The sky was now golden and the horizon, a horizonof distant woods, it seemed, was purple.

But all that Dr. Ashton could find to say, after contemplating thisprospect for many minutes, was: "Abominable!"

A listener would have been aware, immediately upon this, of the soundof footsteps coming somewhat hurriedly in the direction of the study:by the resonance he could have told that they were traversing a muchlarger room. Dr. Ashton turned round in his chair as the door opened,and looked expectant. The incomer was a lady—a stout lady in thedress of the time: though I have made some attempt at indicating thedoctor's costume, I will not enterprise that of his wife—for it wasMrs. Ashton who now entered. She had an anxious, even a sorelydistracted, look, and it was in a very disturbed voice that shealmost whispered to Dr. Ashton, putting her head close to his, "He'sin a very sad way, love, worse, I'm afraid." "Tt—tt, is he really?"and he leaned back and looked in her face. She nodded. Two solemnbells, high up, and not far away, rang out the half-hour at thismoment. Mrs. Ashton started. "Oh, do you think you can give order thatthe minster clock be stopped chiming to-night? 'Tis just over hischamber, and will keep him from sleeping, and to sleep is the onlychance for him, that's certain." "Why, to be sure, if there were need,real need, it could be done, but not upon any light occasion. ThisFrank, now, do you assure me that his recovery stands upon it?" saidDr. Ashton: his voice was loud and rather hard. "I do verily believeit," said his wife. "Then, if it must be, bid Molly run across toSimpkins and say on my authority that he is to stop the clock chimesat sunset: and—yes—she is after that to say to my lord Saul that Iwish to see him presently in this room." Mrs. Ashton hurried off.

Before any other visitor enters, it will be well to explain thesituation.

Dr. Ashton was the holder, among other preferments, of a prebend inthe rich collegiate church of Whitminster, one of the foundationswhich, though not a cathedral, survived Dissolution and Reformation,and retained its constitution and endowments for a hundred years afterthe time of which I write. The great church, the residences of thedean and the two prebendaries, the choir and its appurtenances, wereall intact and in working order. A dean who flourished soon after 1500had been a great builder, and had erected a spacious quadrangle of redbrick adjoining the church for the residence of the officials. Some ofthese persons were no longer required: their offices had dwindled downto mere titles, borne by clergy or lawyers in the town andneighbourhood; and so the houses that had been meant to accommodateeight or ten people were now shared among three—the dean and the twoprebendaries. Dr. Ashton's included what had been the common parlourand the dining-hall of the whole body. It occupied a whole side of thecourt, and at one end had a private door into the minster. The otherend, as we have seen, looked out over the country.

So much for the house. As for the inmates, Dr. Ashton was a wealthyman and childless, and he had adopted, or rather undertaken to bringup, the orphan son of his wife's sister. Frank Sydall was the lad'sname: he had been a good many months in the house. Then one day came aletter from an Irish peer, the Earl of Kildonan (who had known Dr.Ashton at college), putting it to the doctor whether he would considertaking into his family the Viscount Saul, the Earl's heir, and actingin some sort as his tutor. Lord Kildonan was shortly to take up a postin the Lisbon Embassy, and the boy was unfit to make the voyage: "notthat he is sickly," the Earl wrote, "though you'll find himwhimsical, or of late I've thought him so, and to confirm this, 'twasonly to-day his old nurse came expressly to tell me he was possess'd:but let that pass; I'll warrant you can find a spell to make allstraight. Your arm was stout enough in old days, and I give youplenary authority to use it as you see fit. The truth is, he has hereno boys of his age or quality to consort with, and is given to mopingabout in our raths and graveyards: and he brings home romances thatfright my servants out of their wits. So there are you and your ladyfore-warned." It was perhaps with half an eye open to the possibilityof an Irish bishopric (at which another sentence in the Earl's letterseemed to hint) that Dr. Ashton accepted the charge of my LordViscount Saul and of the 200 guineas a year that were to come withhim.

So he came, one night in September. When he got out of the chaise thatbrought him, he went first and spoke to the postboy and gave him somemoney, and patted the neck of his horse. Whether he made some movementthat scared it or not, there was very nearly a nasty accident, for thebeast started violently, and the postilion being unready was thrownand lost his fee, as he found afterwards, and the chaise lost somepaint on the gateposts, and the wheel went over the man's foot who wastaking out the baggage. When Lord Saul came up the steps into thelight of the lamp in the porch to be greeted by Dr. Ashton, he wasseen to be a thin youth of, say, sixteen years old, with straightblack hair and the pale colouring that is common to such a figure. Hetook the accident and commotion calmly enough, and expressed a properanxiety for the people who had been, or might have been, hurt: hisvoice was smooth and pleasant, and without any trace, curiously, of anIrish brogue.

Frank Sydall was a younger boy, perhaps of eleven or twelve, but LordSaul did not for that reject his company. Frank was able to teach himvarious games he had not known in Ireland, and he was apt at learningthem; apt, too, at his books, though he had had little or no regularteaching at home. It was not long before he was making a shift topuzzle out the inscriptions on the tombs in the minster, and he wouldoften put a question to the doctor about the old books in the librarythat required some thought to answer. It is to be supposed that hemade himself very agreeable to the servants, for within ten days ofhis coming they were almost falling over each other in their effortsto oblige him. At the same time, Mrs. Ashton was rather put to it tofind new maidservants; for there were several changes, and some of thefamilies in the town from which she had been accustomed to draw seemedto have no one available. She was forced to go farther afield than wasusual.

These generalities I gather from the doctor's notes in his diary andfrom letters. They are generalities, and we should like, in view ofwhat has to be told, something sharper and more detailed. We get itin entries which begin late in the year, and, I think, were posted upall together after the final incident; but they cover so few days inall that there is no need to doubt that the writer could remember thecourse of things accurately.

On a Friday morning it was that a fox, or perhaps a cat, made awaywith Mrs. Ashton's most prized black cockerel, a bird without a singlewhite feather on its body. Her husband had told her often enough thatit would make a suitable sacrifice to Æsculapius; that had discomfitedher much, and now she would hardly be consoled. The boys lookedeverywhere for traces of it: Lord Saul brought in a few feathers,which seemed to have been partially burnt on the garden rubbish-heap.It was on the same day that Dr. Ashton, looking out of an upperwindow, saw the two boys playing in the corner of the garden at a gamehe did not understand. Frank was looking earnestly at something in thepalm of his hand. Saul stood behind him and seemed to be listening.After some minutes he very gently laid his hand on Frank's head, andalmost instantly thereupon, Frank suddenly dropped whatever it wasthat he was holding, clapped his hands to his eyes, and sank down onthe grass. Saul, whose face expressed great anger, hastily picked theobject up, of which it could only be seen that it was glittering, putit in his pocket, and turned away, leaving Frank huddled up on thegrass. Dr. Ashton rapped on the window to attract their attention,and Saul looked up as if in alarm, and then springing to Frank,pulled him up by the arm and led him away. When they came in todinner, Saul explained that they had been acting a part of the tragedyof Radamistus, in which the heroine reads the future fate of herfather's kingdom by means of a glass ball held in her hand, and isovercome by the terrible events she has seen. During this explanationFrank said nothing, only looked rather bewilderedly at Saul. He must,Mrs. Ashton thought, have contracted a chill from the wet of thegrass, for that evening he was certainly feverish and disordered; andthe disorder was of the mind as well as the body, for he seemed tohave something he wished to say to Mrs. Ashton, only a press ofhousehold affairs prevented her from paying attention to him; and whenshe went, according to her habit, to see that the light in the boys'chamber had been taken away, and to bid them good night, he seemed tobe sleeping, though his face was unnaturally flushed, to her thinking:Lord Saul, however, was pale and quiet, and smiling in his slumber.

Next morning it happened that Dr. Ashton was occupied in church andother business, and unable to take the boys' lessons. He therefore setthem tasks to be written and brought to him. Three times, if notoftener, Frank knocked at the study door, and each time the doctorchanced to be engaged with some visitor, and sent the boy off ratherroughly, which he later regretted. Two clergymen were at dinner thisday, and both remarked—being fathers of families—that the lad seemedsickening for a fever, in which they were too near the truth, and ithad been better if he had been put to bed forthwith: for a couple ofhours later in the afternoon he came running into the house, cryingout in a way that was really terrifying, and rushing to Mrs. Ashton,clung about her, begging her to protect him, and saying, "Keep themoff! keep them off!" without intermission. And it was now evident thatsome sickness had taken strong hold of him. He was therefore got tobed in another chamber from that in which he commonly lay, and thephysician brought to him: who pronounced the disorder to be grave andaffecting the lad's brain, and prognosticated a fatal end to it ifstrict quiet were not observed, and those sedative remedies used whichhe should prescribe.

We are now come by another way to the point we had reached before. Theminster clock has been stopped from striking, and Lord Saul is on thethreshold of the study.

"What account can you give of this poor lad's state?" was Dr. Ashton'sfirst question. "Why, sir, little more than you know already, I fancy.I must blame myself, though, for giving him a fright yesterday when wewere acting that silly play you saw. =I= fear I made him take it moreto heart than I meant." "How so?" "Well, by telling him foolish tales=I= had picked up in Ireland of what we call the second sight.""Second sight! What kind of sight might that be?" "Why, you knowour ignorant people pretend that some are able to foresee what is tocome—sometimes in a glass, or in the air, maybe, and at Kildonan wehad an old woman that pretended to such a power. And I dare say Icoloured the matter more highly than I should: but I never dreamedFrank would take it so near as he did." "You were wrong, my lord, verywrong, in meddling with such superstitious matters at all, and youshould have considered whose house you were in, and how littlebecoming such actions are to my character and person or to your own:but pray how came it that you, acting, as you say, a play, should fallupon anything that could so alarm Frank?" "That is what I can hardlytell, sir: he passed all in a moment from rant about battles andlovers and Cleodora and Antigenes to something I could not follow atall, and then dropped down as you saw." "Yes: was that at the momentwhen you laid your hand on the top of his head?" Lord Saul gave aquick look at his questioner—quick and spiteful—and for the firsttime seemed unready with an answer. "About that time it may havebeen," he said. "I have tried to recollect myself, but I am not sure.There was, at any rate, no significance in what I did then." "Ah!"said Dr. Ashton, "well, my lord, I should do wrong were I not to tellyou that this fright of my poor nephew may have very ill consequencesto him. The doctor speaks very despondingly of his state." Lord Saulpressed his hands together and looked earnestly upon Dr. Ashton. "Iam willing to believe you had no bad intention, as assuredly you couldhave no reason to bear the poor boy malice: but I cannot wholly freeyou from blame in the affair." As he spoke, the hurrying steps wereheard again, and Mrs. Ashton came quickly into the room, carrying acandle, for the evening had by this time closed in. She was greatlyagitated. "O come!" she cried, "come directly. I'm sure he is going.""Going? Frank? Is it possible? Already?" With some such incoherentwords the doctor caught up a book of prayers from the table and ranout after his wife. Lord Saul stopped for a moment where he was.Molly, the maid, saw him bend over and put both hands to his face. Ifit were the last words she had to speak, she said afterwards, he wasstriving to keep back a fit of laughing. Then he went out softly,following the others.

Mrs. Ashton was sadly right in her forecast. I have no inclination toimagine the last scene in detail. What Dr. Ashton records is, or maybe taken to be, important to the story. They asked Frank if he wouldlike to see his companion, Lord Saul, once again. The boy was quitecollected, it appears, in these moments. "No," he said, "I do not wantto see him; but you should tell him I am afraid he will be very cold.""What do you mean, my dear?" said Mrs. Ashton. "Only that," saidFrank; "but say to him besides that I am free of them now, but heshould take care. And I am sorry about your black cockerel, AuntAshton; but he said we must use it so, if we were to see all thatcould be seen."

Not many minutes after, he was gone. Both the Ashtons were grieved,she naturally most; but the doctor, though not an emotional man, feltthe pathos of the early death: and, besides, there was the growingsuspicion that all had not been told him by Saul, and that there wassomething here which was out of his beaten track. When he left thechamber of death, it was to walk across the quadrangle of theresidence to the sexton's house. A passing bell, the greatest of theminster bells, must be rung, a grave must be dug in the minster yard,and there was now no need to silence the chiming of the minster clock.As he came slowly back in the dark, he thought he must see Lord Saulagain. That matter of the black cockerel—trifling as it mightseem—would have to be cleared up. It might be merely a fancy of thesick boy, but if not, was there not a witch-trial he had read, inwhich some grim little rite of sacrifice had played a part? Yes, hemust see Saul.

I rather guess these thoughts of his than find written authority forthem. That there was another interview is certain: certain also thatSaul would (or, as he said, could) throw no light on Frank's words:though the message, or some part of it, appeared to affect himhorribly. But there is no record of the talk in detail. It is onlysaid that Saul sat all that evening in the study, and when he bid goodnight, which he did most reluctantly, asked for the doctor's prayers.

The month of January was near its end when Lord Kildonan, in theEmbassy at Lisbon, received a letter that for once gravely disturbedthat vain man and neglectful father. Saul was dead. The scene atFrank's burial had been very distressing. The day was awful inblackness and wind: the bearers, staggering blindly along under theflapping black pall, found it a hard job, when they emerged from theporch of the minster, to make their way to the grave. Mrs. Ashton wasin her room—women did not then go to their kinsfolk's funerals—butSaul was there, draped in the mourning cloak of the time, and his facewas white and fixed as that of one dead, except when, as was noticedthree or four times, he suddenly turned his head to the left andlooked over his shoulder. It was then alive with a terrible expressionof listening fear. No one saw him go away: and no one could find himthat evening. All night the gale buffeted the high windows of thechurch, and howled over the upland and roared through the woodland. Itwas useless to search in the open: no voice of shouting or cry forhelp could possibly be heard. All that Dr. Ashton could do was to warnthe people about the college, and the town constables, and to sit up,on the alert for any news, and this he did. News came early nextmorning, brought by the sexton, whose business it was to open thechurch for early prayers at seven, and who sent the maid rushingupstairs with wild eyes and flying hair to summon her master. The twomen dashed across to the south door of the minster, there to findLord Saul clinging desperately to the great ring of the door, his headsunk between his shoulders, his stockings in rags, his shoes gone, hislegs torn and bloody.

This was what had to be told to Lord Kildonan, and this really endsthe first part of the story. The tomb of Frank Sydall and of the LordViscount Saul, only child and heir to William Earl of Kildonan, isone: a stone altar tomb in Whitminster churchyard.

Dr. Ashton lived on for over thirty years in his prebendal house, I donot know how quietly, but without visible disturbance. His successorpreferred a house he already owned in the town, and left that of thesenior prebendary vacant. Between them these two men saw theeighteenth century out and the nineteenth in; for Mr. Hindes, thesuccessor of Ashton, became prebendary at nine-and-twenty and died atnine-and-eighty. So that it was not till 1823 or 1824 that anyonesucceeded to the post who intended to make the house his home. The manwho did so was Dr. Henry Oldys, whose name may be known to some of myreaders as that of the author of a row of volumes labelled Oldys'sWorks, which occupy a place that must be honoured, since it is sorarely touched, upon the shelves of many a substantial library.

Dr. Oldys, his niece, and his servants took some months to transferfurniture and books from his Dorsetshire parsonage to the quadrangleof Whitminster, and to get everything into place. But eventually thework was done, and the house (which, though untenanted, had alwaysbeen kept sound and weather-tight) woke up, and like Monte Cristo'smansion at Auteuil, lived, sang, and bloomed once more. On a certainmorning in June it looked especially fair, as Dr. Oldys strolled inhis garden before breakfast and gazed over the red roof at the minstertower with its four gold vanes, backed by a very blue sky, and verywhite little clouds.

"Mary," he said, as he seated himself at the breakfast-table and laiddown something hard and shiny on the cloth, "here's a find which theboy made just now. You'll be sharper than I if you can guess what it'smeant for." It was a round and perfectly smooth tablet—as much as aninch thick—of what seemed clear glass. "It is rather attractive, atall events," said Mary: she was a fair woman, with light hair andlarge eyes, rather a devotee of literature. "Yes," said her uncle, "Ithought you'd be pleased with it. I presume it came from the house: itturned up in the rubbish-heap in the corner." "I'm not sure that I dolike it, after all," said Mary, some minutes later. "Why in the worldnot, my dear?" "I don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps it's only fancy.""Yes, only fancy and romance, of course. What's that book, now—thename of that book, I mean, that you had your head in all yesterday?""The Talisman, Uncle. Oh, if this should turn out to be a talisman,how enchanting it would be!" "Yes, The Talisman: ah, well, you'rewelcome to it, whatever it is: I must be off about my business. Isall well in the house? Does it suit you? Any complaints from theservants' hall?" "No, indeed, nothing could be more charming. The onlysoupçon of a complaint besides the lock of the linen closet, which Itold you of, is that Mrs. Maple says she cannot get rid of thesawflies out of that room you pass through at the other end of thehall. By the way, are you sure you like your bedroom? It is a long wayoff from anyone else, you know." "Like it? To be sure I do; thefarther off from you, my dear, the better. There, don't think itnecessary to beat me; accept my apologies. But what are sawflies? Willthey eat my coats? If not, they may have the room to themselves forwhat I care. We are not likely to be using it." "No, of course not.Well, what she calls sawflies are those reddish things like adaddy-long-legs, but smaller,[10] and there are a great many of themperching about that room, certainly. I don't like them, but I don'tfancy they are mischievous." "There seem to be several things youdon't like this fine morning," said her uncle, as he closed the door.Miss Oldys remained in her chair looking at the tablet, which she washolding in the palm of her hand. The smile that had been on her facefaded slowly from it and gave place to an expression of curiosity andalmost strained attention. Her reverie was broken by the entrance ofMrs. Maple, and her invariable opening, "Oh, Miss, could I speak toyou a minute?"

A letter from Miss Oldys to a friend in Lichfield, begun a day or twobefore, is the next source for this story. It is not devoid of tracesof the influence of that leader of female thought in her day, MissAnna Seward, known to some as the Swan of Lichfield.

"My sweetest Emily will be rejoiced to hear that we are at length—mybeloved uncle and myself—settled in the house that now calls usmaster—nay, master and mistress—as in past ages it has called somany others. Here we taste a mingling of modern elegance and hoaryantiquity, such as has never ere now graced life for either of us. Thetown, small as it is, affords us some reflection, pale indeed, butveritable, of the sweets of polite intercourse: the adjacent countrynumbers amid the occupants of its scattered mansions some whose polishis annually refreshed by contact with metropolitan splendour, andothers whose robust and homely geniality is, at times, and by way ofcontrast, not less cheering and acceptable. Tired of the parlours anddrawing-rooms of our friends, we have ready to hand a refuge from theclash of wits or the small talk of the day amid the solemn beauties ofour venerable minster, whose silver chimes daily 'knoll us to prayer,'and in the shady walks of whose tranquil graveyard we muse withsoftened heart, and ever and anon with moistened eye, upon thememorials of the young, the beautiful, the aged, the wise, and thegood."

Here there is an abrupt break both in the writing and the style.

"But my dearest Emily, =I= can no longer write with the care which youdeserve, and in which we both take pleasure. What I have to tell youis wholly foreign to what has gone before. This morning my unclebrought in to breakfast an object which had been found in the garden;it was a glass or crystal tablet of this shape (a little sketch isgiven), which he handed to me, and which, after he left the room,remained on the table by me. I gazed at it, I know not why, for someminutes, till called away by the day's duties; and you will smileincredulously when I say that =I= seemed to myself to begin to descryreflected in it objects and scenes which were not in the room where Iwas. You will not, however, think it strange that after such anexperience I took the first opportunity to seclude myself in my roomwith what I now half believed to be a talisman of mickle might. I wasnot disappointed. I assure you, Emily, by that memory which is dearestto both of us, that what I went through this afternoon transcends thelimits of what I had before deemed credible. In brief, what I saw,seated in my bedroom, in the broad daylight of summer, and lookinginto the crystal depth of that small round tablet, was this. First, aprospect, strange to me, of an enclosure of rough and hillocky grass,with a grey stone ruin in the midst, and a wall of rough stones aboutit. In this stood an old, and very ugly, woman in a red cloak andragged skirt, talking to a boy dressed in the fashion of maybe ahundred years ago. She put something which glittered into his hand,and he something into hers, which I saw to be money, for a single coinfell from her trembling hand into the grass. The scene passed: Ishould have remarked, by the way, that on the rough walls of theenclosure I could distinguish bones, and even a skull, lying in adisorderly fashion. Next, I was looking upon two boys; one the figureof the former vision, the other younger. They were in a plot ofgarden, walled round, and this garden, in spite of the difference inarrangement, and the small size of the trees, I could clearlyrecognize as being that upon which I now look from my window. The boyswere engaged in some curious play, it seemed. Something wassmouldering on the ground. The elder placed his hands upon it, andthen raised them in what I took to be an attitude of prayer: and Isaw, and started at seeing, that on them were deep stains of blood.The sky above was overcast. The same boy now turned his face towardsthe wall of the garden, and beckoned with both his raised hands, andas he did so I was conscious that some moving objects were becomingvisible over the top of the wall—whether heads or other parts of someanimal or human forms I could not tell. Upon the instant the elder boyturned sharply, seized the arm of the younger (who all this time hadbeen poring over what lay on the ground), and both hurried off. I thensaw blood upon the grass, a little pile of bricks, and what I thoughtwere black feathers scattered about. That scene closed, and the nextwas so dark that perhaps the full meaning of it escaped me. But what Iseemed to see was a form, at first crouching low among trees or bushesthat were being threshed by a violent wind, then running very swiftly,and constantly turning a pale face to look behind him, as if he feareda pursuer: and, indeed, pursuers were following hard after him. Theirshapes were but dimly seen, their number—three or four, perhaps—onlyguessed. I suppose they were on the whole more like dogs than anythingelse, but dogs such as we have seen they assuredly were not. Could Ihave closed my eyes to this horror, I would have done so at once, butI was helpless. The last I saw was the victim darting beneath an archand clutching at some object to which he clung: and those that werepursuing him overtook him, and I seemed to hear the echo of a cry ofdespair. It may be that I became unconscious: certainly I had thesensation of awaking to the light of day after an interval ofdarkness. Such, in literal truth, Emily, was my vision—I can call itby no other name—of this afternoon. Tell me, have I not been theunwilling witness of some episode of a tragedy connected with thisvery house?"

The letter is continued next day. "The tale of yesterday was notcompleted when I laid down my pen. I said nothing of my experiences tomy uncle—you know, yourself, how little his robust common sense wouldbe prepared to allow of them, and how in his eyes the specific remedywould be a black draught or a glass of port. After a silent evening,then—silent, not sullen—I retired to rest. Judge of my terror, when,not yet in bed, I heard what I can only describe as a distant bellow,and knew it for my uncle's voice, though never in my hearing soexerted before. His sleeping-room is at the farther extremity of thislarge house, and to gain access to it one must traverse an antiquehall some eighty feet long, a lofty panelled chamber, and twounoccupied bedrooms. In the second of these—a room almost devoid offurniture—I found him, in the dark, his candle lying smashed on thefloor. As I ran in, bearing a light, he clasped me in arms thattrembled for the first time since I have known him, thanked God, andhurried me out of the room. He would say nothing of what had alarmedhim. 'To-morrow, to-morrow,' was all I could get from him. A bed washastily improvised for him in the room next to my own. I doubt if hisnight was more restful than mine. I could only get to sleep in thesmall hours, when daylight was already strong, and then my dreams wereof the grimmest—particularly one which stamped itself on my brain,and which I must set down on the chance of dispersing the impressionit has made. It was that I came up to my room with a heavy forebodingof evil oppressing me, and went with a hesitation and reluctance Icould not explain to my chest of drawers. I opened the top drawer, inwhich was nothing but ribbons and handkerchiefs, and then the second,where was as little to alarm, and then, O heavens, the third andlast: and there was a mass of linen neatly folded: upon which, as Ilooked with a curiosity that began to be tinged with horror, Iperceived a movement in it, and a pink hand was thrust out of thefolds and began to grope feebly in the air. I could bear it no more,and rushed from the room, clapping the door after me, and strove withall my force to lock it. But the key would not turn in the wards, andfrom within the room came a sound of rustling and bumping, drawingnearer and nearer to the door. Why I did not flee down the stairs Iknow not. I continued grasping the handle, and mercifully, as the doorwas plucked from my hand with an irresistible force, I awoke. You maynot think this very alarming, but I assure you it was so to me.

"At breakfast to-day my uncle was very uncommunicative, and I thinkashamed of the fright he had given us; but afterwards he inquired ofme whether Mr. Spearman was still in town, adding that he thought thatwas a young man who had some sense left in his head. I think you know,my dear Emily, that I am not inclined to disagree with him there, andalso that I was not unlikely to be able to answer his question. To Mr.Spearman he accordingly went, and I have not seen him since. I mustsend this strange budget of news to you now, or it may have to waitover more than one post."

The reader will not be far out if he guesses that Miss Mary and Mr.Spearman made a match of it not very long after this month of June.Mr. Spearman was a young spark, who had a good property in theneighbourhood of Whitminster, and not unfrequently about this timespent a few days at the "King's Head," ostensibly on business. But hemust have had some leisure, for his diary is copious, especially forthe days of which I am telling the story. It is probable to me that hewrote this episode as fully as he could at the bidding of Miss Mary.

"Uncle Oldys (how I hope I may have the right to call him so beforelong!) called this morning. After throwing out a good many shortremarks on indifferent topics, he said, 'I wish, Spearman, you'dlisten to an odd story and keep a close tongue about it just for abit, till I get more light on it.' 'To be sure,' said I, 'you maycount on me.' 'I don't know what to make of it,' he said. 'You know mybedroom. It is well away from everyone else's, and I pass through thegreat hall and two or three other rooms to get to it.' 'Is it at theend next the minster, then?' I asked. 'Yes, it is: well, now,yesterday morning my Mary told me that the room next before it wasinfested with some sort of fly that the housekeeper couldn't get ridof. That may be the explanation, or it may not. What do you think?''Why,' said I, 'you've not yet told me what has to be explained.''True enough, I don't believe I have; but by the by, what are thesesaw flies? What's the size of them?' I began to wonder if he wastouched in the head. 'What I call a sawfly,' I said very patiently,'is a red animal, like a daddy-long-legs, but not so big, perhaps aninch long, perhaps less. It is very hard in the body, and to me'—Iwas going to say 'particularly offensive,' but he broke in, 'Come,come; an inch or less. That won't do.' 'I can only tell you,' I said,'what I know. Would it not be better if you told me from first to lastwhat it is that has puzzled you, and then I may be able to give yousome kind of an opinion.' He gazed at me meditatively. 'Perhaps itwould,' he said. 'I told Mary only to-day that I thought you had somevestiges of sense in your head.' (I bowed my acknowledgments.) 'Thething is, I've an odd kind of shyness about talking of it. Nothing ofthe sort has happened to me before. Well, about eleven o'clock lastnight, or after, I took my candle and set out for my room. I had abook in my other hand—I always read something for a few minutesbefore I drop off to sleep. A dangerous habit: I don't recommend it:but I know how to manage my light and my bed curtains. Now then,first, as I stepped out of my study into the great hall that's next toit, and shut the door, my candle went out. I supposed I had clappedthe door behind me too quick, and made a draught, and I was annoyed,for I'd no tinder-box nearer than my bedroom. But I knew my way wellenough, and went on. The next thing was that my book was struck out ofmy hand in the dark: if I said twitched out of my hand it would betterexpress the sensation. It fell on the floor. I picked it up, and wenton, more annoyed than before, and a little startled. But as you know,that hall has many windows without curtains, and in summer nights likethese it's easy to see not only where the furniture is, but whetherthere's anyone or anything moving: and there was no one—nothing ofthe kind. So on I went through the hall and through the audit chambernext to it, which also has big windows, and then into the bedroomswhich lead to my own, where the curtains were drawn, and I had to goslower because of steps here and there. It was in the second of thoserooms that I nearly got my quietus. The moment I opened the door ofit I felt there was something wrong. I thought twice, I confess,whether I shouldn't turn back and find another way there is to my roomrather than go through that one. Then I was ashamed of myself, andthought what people call better of it, though I don't know about"better" in this case. If I was to describe my experience exactly, Ishould say this: there was a dry, light, rustling sound all over theroom as I went in, and then (you remember it was perfectly dark)something seemed to rush at me, and there was—I don't know how to putit—a sensation of long thin arms, or legs, or feelers, all about myface, and neck, and body. Very little strength in them, there seemedto be, but, Spearman, I don't think I was ever more horrified ordisgusted in all my life, that I remember: and it does take somethingto put me out. I roared out as loud as I could, and flung away mycandle at random, and, knowing I was near the window, I tore at thecurtain and somehow let in enough light to be able to see somethingwaving which I knew was an insect's leg, by the shape of it: but,Lord, what a size! Why, the beast must have been as tall as I am. Andnow you tell me sawflies are an inch long or less. What do you make ofit, Spearman?'

"'For goodness' sake finish your story first,' I said. 'I never heardanything like it.' 'Oh,' said he, 'there's no more to tell. Mary ranin with a light, and there was nothing there. I didn't tell her whatwas the matter. I changed my room for last night, and I expect forgood.' 'Have you searched this odd room of yours?' I said. 'What doyou keep in it?' 'We don't use it,' he answered. 'There's an old pressthere, and some little other furniture.' 'And in the press?' said I.'I don't know; I never saw it opened, but I do know that it's locked.''Well, I should have it looked into, and, if you had time, I own tohaving some curiosity to see the place myself.' 'I didn't exactly liketo ask you, but that's rather what I hoped you'd say. Name your timeand I'll take you there.' 'No time like the present,' I said at once,for I saw he would never settle down to anything while this affair wasin suspense. He got up with great alacrity, and looked at me, I amtempted to think, with marked approval. 'Come along,' was all he said,however; and was pretty silent all the way to his house. My Mary (ashe calls her in public, and I in private) was summoned, and weproceeded to the room. The Doctor had gone so far as to tell her thathe had had something of a fright there last night, of what nature hehad not yet divulged; but now he pointed out and described, verybriefly, the incidents of his progress. When we were near theimportant spot, he pulled up, and allowed me to pass on. 'There's theroom,' he said. 'Go in, Spearman, and tell us what you find.' WhateverI might have felt at midnight, noonday I was sure would keep backanything sinister, and I flung the door open with an air and steppedin. It was a well-lighted room, with its large window on the right,though not, I thought, a very airy one. The principal piece offurniture was the gaunt old press of dark wood. There was, too, afour-post bedstead, a mere skeleton which could hide nothing, andthere was a chest of drawers. On the window-sill and the floor near itwere the dead bodies of many hundred sawflies, and one torpid onewhich I had some satisfaction in killing. I tried the door of thepress, but could not open it: the drawers, too, were locked.Somewhere, I was conscious, there was a faint rustling sound, but Icould not locate it, and when I made my report to those outside, Isaid nothing of it. But, I said, clearly the next thing was to seewhat was in those locked receptacles. Uncle Oldys turned to Mary.'Mrs. Maple,' he said, and Mary ran off—no one, I am sure, steps likeher—and soon came back at a soberer pace, with an elderly lady ofdiscreet aspect.

"'Have you the keys of these things, Mrs. Maple?' said Uncle Oldys.His simple words let loose a torrent (not violent, but copious) ofspeech: had she been a shade or two higher in the social scale, Mrs.Maple might have stood as the model for Miss Bates.

"'Oh, Doctor, and Miss, and you too, sir,' she said, acknowledging mypresence with a bend, 'them keys! who was that again that come whenfirst we took over things in this house—a gentleman in business itwas, and I gave him his luncheon in the small parlour on account of usnot having everything as we should like to see it in the largeone—chicken, and apple-pie, and a glass of madeira—dear, dear,you'll say I'm running on, Miss Mary; but I only mention it to bringback my recollection; and there it comes—Gardner, just the same as itdid last week with the artichokes and the text of the sermon. Now thatMr. Gardner, every key I got from him were labelled to itself, andeach and every one was a key of some door or another in this house,and sometimes two; and when I say door, my meaning is door of a room,not like such a press as this is. Yes, Miss Mary, I know full well,and I'm just making it clear to your uncle and you too, sir. But nowthere was a box which this same gentleman he give over into mycharge, and thinking no harm after he was gone I took the liberty,knowing it was your uncle's property, to rattle it: and unless I'mmost surprisingly deceived, in that box there was keys, but what keys,that, Doctor, is known Elsewhere, for open the box, no that I wouldnot do.'

"I wondered that Uncle Oldys remained as quiet as he did under thisaddress. Mary, I knew, was amused by it, and he probably had beentaught by experience that it was useless to break in upon it. At anyrate he did not, but merely said at the end, 'Have you that box handy,Mrs. Maple? If so, you might bring it here.' Mrs. Maple pointed herfinger at him, either in accusation or in gloomy triumph. 'There,' shesaid, 'was I to choose out the very words out of your mouth, Doctor,them would be the ones. And if I've took it to my own rebuke one halfa dozen times, it's been nearer fifty. Laid awake I have in my bed,sat down in my chair I have, the same you and Miss Mary gave me theday I was twenty year in your service, and no person could desire abetter—yes, Miss Mary, but it is the truth, and well we know who itis would have it different if he could. "All very well," says I tomyself, "but pray, when the Doctor calls you to account for that box,what are you going to say?" No, Doctor, if you was some masters I'veheard of and I was some servants I could name, I should have an easytask before me, but things being, humanly speaking, what they are, theone course open to me is just to say to you that without Miss Marycomes to my room and helps me to my recollection, which her wits maymanage what's slipped beyond mine, no such box as that, small thoughit be, will cross your eyes this many a day to come.'

"'Why, dear Mrs. Maple, why didn't you tell me before that you wantedme to help you to find it?' said my Mary. 'No, never mind telling mewhy it was: let us come at once and look for it.' They hastened offtogether. I could hear Mrs. Maple beginning an explanation which, Idoubt not, lasted into the farthest recesses of the housekeeper'sdepartment. Uncle Oldys and I were left alone. 'A valuable servant,'he said, nodding towards the door. 'Nothing goes wrong under her: thespeeches are seldom over three minutes.' 'How will Miss Oldys manageto make her remember about the box?' I asked.

"'Mary? Oh, she'll make her sit down and ask her about her aunt's lastillness, or who gave her the china dog on the mantelpiece—somethingquite off the point. Then, as Maple says, one thing brings up another,and the right one will come round sooner than you could suppose.There! I believe I hear them coming back already.'

"It was indeed so, and Mrs. Maple was hurrying on ahead of Mary withthe box in her outstretched hand, and a beaming face. 'What was it,'she cried as she drew near, 'what was it as I said, before ever I comeout of Dorsetshire to this place? Not that I'm a Dorset woman myself,nor had need to be. "Safe bind, safe find," and there it was in theplace where I'd put it—what?—two months back, I dare say.' Shehanded it to Uncle Oldys, and he and I examined it with some interest,so that I ceased to pay attention to Mrs. Ann Maple for the moment,though I know that she went on to expound exactly where the box hadbeen, and in what way Mary had helped to refresh her memory on thesubject.

"It was an oldish box, tied with pink tape and sealed, and on the lidwas pasted a label inscribed in old ink, 'The Senior Prebendary'sHouse, Whitminster.' On being opened it was found to contain two keysof moderate size, and a paper, on which, in the same hand as thelabel, was 'Keys of the Press and Box of Drawers standing in thedisused Chamber.' Also this: 'The Effects in this Press and Box areheld by me, and to be held by my successors in the Residence, in trustfor the noble Family of Kildonan, if claim be made by any survivor ofit. I having made all the Enquiry possible to myself am of the opinionthat that noble House is wholly extinct: the last Earl having been, asis notorious, cast away at sea, and his only Child and Heire deceas'din my House (the Papers as to which melancholy Casualty were by merepos'd in the same Press in this year of our Lord 1753, 21 March). Iam further of opinion that unless grave discomfort arise, suchpersons, not being of the Family of Kildonan, as shall becomepossess'd of these keys, will be well advised to leave matters as theyare: which opinion I do not express without weighty and sufficientreason; and am Happy to have my Judgment confirm'd by the otherMembers of this College and Church who are conversant with the Eventsreferr'd to in this Paper. Tho. Ashton, S.T.P., Præb. senr. Will.Blake, S.T.P., Decanus. Hen. Goodman, S.T.B., Præb. junr.'

"'Ah!' said Uncle Oldys, 'grave discomfort! So he thought there mightbe something. I suspect it was that young man,' he went on, pointingwith the key to the line about the 'only Child and Heire.' 'Eh, Mary?The viscounty of Kildonan was Saul.' 'How do you know that, Uncle?'said Mary. 'Oh, why not? it's all in Debrett—two little fat books.But I meant the tomb by the lime walk. He's there. What's the story, Iwonder? Do you know it, Mrs. Maple? and, by the way, look at yoursawflies by the window there.'

"Mrs. Maple, thus confronted with two subjects at once, was a littleput to it to do justice to both. It was no doubt rash in Uncle Oldysto give her the opportunity. I could only guess that he had someslight hesitation about using the key he held in his hand.

"'Oh them flies, how bad they was, Doctor and Miss, this three or fourdays: and you, too, sir, you wouldn't guess, none of you! And how theycome, too! First we took the room in hand, the shutters was up, andhad been, I dare say, years upon years, and not a fly to be seen. Thenwe got the shutter bars down with a deal of trouble and left it so forthe day, and next day I sent Susan in with the broom to sweep about,and not two minutes hadn't passed when out she come into the hall likea blind thing, and we had regular to beat them off her. Why, her capand her hair, you couldn't see the colour of it, I do assure you, andall clustering round her eyes, too. Fortunate enough she's not a girlwith fancies, else if it had been me, why only the tickling of thenasty things would have drove me out of my wits. And now there theylay like so many dead things. Well, they was lively enough on theMonday, and now here's Thursday, is it, or no, Friday. Only to comenear the door and you'd hear them pattering up against it, and onceyou opened it, dash at you, they would, as if they'd eat you. Icouldn't help thinking to myself, "If you was bats, where should we bethis night?" Nor you can't cresh 'em, not like a usual kind of a fly.Well, there's something to be thankful for, if we could but learn byit. And then this tomb, too,' she said, hastening on to her secondpoint to elude any chance of interruption, 'of them two poor younglads. I say poor, and yet when I recollect myself, I was at tea withMrs. Simpkins, the sexton's wife, before you come, Doctor and MissMary, and that's a family has been in the place, what? I dare say ahundred years in that very house, and could put their hand on any tombor yet grave in all the yard and give you name and age. And hisaccount of that young man, Mr. Simpkins's I mean to say—well!" Shecompressed her lips and nodded several times. 'Tell us, Mrs. Maple,'said Mary. 'Go on,' said Uncle Oldys. 'What about him?' said I. 'Neverwas such a thing seen in this place, not since Queen Mary's times andthe Pope and all,' said Mrs. Maple. 'Why, do you know he lived in thisvery house, him and them that was with him, and for all I can tell inthis identical room' (she shifted her feet uneasily on the floor).'Who was with him? Do you mean the people of the house?' said UncleOldys suspiciously. 'Not to call people, Doctor, dear no,' was theanswer; 'more what he brought with him from Ireland, I believe it was.No, the people in the house was the last to hear anything of hisgoings-on. But in the town not a family but knew how he stopped out atnight: and them that was with him, why, they were such as would stripthe skin from the child in its grave; and a withered heart makes anugly thin ghost, says Mr. Simpkins. But they turned on him at thelast, he says, and there's the mark still to be seen on the minsterdoor where they run him down. And that's no more than the truth, for Igot him to show it to myself, and that's what he said. A lord he was,with a Bible name of a wicked king, whatever his god-fathers couldhave been thinking of.' 'Saul was the name,' said Uncle Oldys. 'To besure it was Saul, Doctor, and thank you; and now isn't it King Saulthat we read of raising up the dead ghost that was slumbering in itstomb till he disturbed it, and isn't that a strange thing, this younglord to have such a name, and Mr. Simpkins's grandfather to see himout of his window of a dark night going about from one grave toanother in the yard with a candle, and them that was with himfollowing through the grass at his heels: and one night him to comeright up to old Mr. Simpkins's window that gives on the yard and presshis face up against it to find out if there was anyone in the roomthat could see him: and only just time there was for old Mr. Simpkinsto drop down like, quiet, just under the window and hold his breath,and not stir till he heard him stepping away again, and thisrustling-like in the grass after him as he went, and then when helooked out of his window in the morning there was treadings in thegrass and a dead man's bone. Oh, he was a cruel child for certain, buthe had to pay in the end, and after.' 'After?' said Uncle Oldys, witha frown. 'Oh yes, Doctor, night after night in old Mr. Simpkins'stime, and his son, that's our Mr. Simpkins's father, yes, and our ownMr. Simpkins too. Up against that same window, particular when they'vehad a fire of a chilly evening, with his face right on the panes, andhis hands fluttering out, and his mouth open and shut, open and shut,for a minute or more, and then gone off in the dark yard. But open thewindow at such times, no, that they dare not do, though they couldfind it in their heart to pity the poor thing, that pinched up withthe cold, and seemingly fading away to a nothink as the years passedon. Well, indeed, I believe it is no more than the truth what our Mr.Simpkins says on his own grandfather's word, "A withered heart makesan ugly thin ghost."' 'I dare say,' said Uncle Oldys suddenly: sosuddenly that Mrs. Maple stopped short. 'Thank you. Come away, all ofyou.' 'Why, Uncle,' said Mary, 'are you not going to open the pressafter all?' Uncle Oldys blushed, actually blushed. 'My dear,' he said,'you are at liberty to call me a coward, or applaud me as a prudentman, whichever you please. But I am neither going to open that pressnor that chest of drawers myself, nor am I going to hand over the keysto you or to any other person. Mrs. Maple, will you kindly see aboutgetting a man or two to move those pieces of furniture into thegarret?' 'And when they do it, Mrs. Maple,' said Mary, who seemed tome—I did not then know why—more relieved than disappointed by heruncle's decision, 'I have something that I want put with the rest;only quite a small packet.'

"We left that curious room not unwillingly, I think. Uncle Oldys'sorders were carried out that same day. And so," concludes Mr.Spearman, "Whitminster has a Bluebeard's chamber, and, I am ratherinclined to suspect, a Jack-in-the-box, awaiting some future occupantof the residence of the senior prebendary."

Footnotes

[10] Apparently the ichneumon fly (Ophion obscurum), and notthe true sawfly, is meant.

THE DIARY OF MR. POYNTER

The sale-room of an old and famous firm of book auctioneers in Londonis, of course, a great meeting-place for collectors, librarians, anddealers: not only when an auction is in progress, but perhaps evenmore notably when books that are coming on for sale are upon view. Itwas in such a sale-room that the remarkable series of events beganwhich were detailed to me not many months ago by the person whom theyprincipally affected—namely, Mr. James Denton, M.A., F.S.A., etc.,etc., sometime of Trinity Hall, now, or lately, of Rendcomb Manor inthe county of Warwick.

He, on a certain spring day in a recent year, was in London for a fewdays upon business connected principally with the furnishing of thehouse which he had just finished building at Rendcomb. It may be adisappointment to you to learn that Rendcomb Manor was new; that Icannot help. There had, no doubt, been an old house; but it was notremarkable for beauty or interest. Even had it been, neither beautynor interest would have enabled it to resist the disastrous fire whichabout a couple of years before the date of my story had razed it tothe ground. I am glad to say that all that was most valuable in ithad been saved, and that it was fully insured. So that it was with acomparatively light heart that Mr. Denton was able to face the task ofbuilding a new and considerably more convenient dwelling for himselfand his aunt who constituted his whole ménage.

Being in London, with time on his hands, and not far from thesale-room at which I have obscurely hinted, Mr. Denton thought that hewould spend an hour there upon the chance of finding, among thatportion of the famous Thomas collection of MSS., which he knew to bethen on view, something bearing upon the history or topography of hispart of Warwickshire.

He turned in accordingly, purchased a catalogue and ascended to thesale-room, where, as usual, the books were disposed in cases and somelaid out upon the long tables. At the shelves, or sitting about at thetables, were figures, many of whom were familiar to him. He exchangednods and greetings with several, and then settled down to examine hiscatalogue and note likely items. He had made good progress throughabout two hundred of the five hundred lots—every now and then risingto take a volume from the shelf and give it a cursory glance—when ahand was laid on his shoulder, and he looked up. His interrupter wasone of those intelligent men with a pointed beard and a flannel shirt,of whom the last quarter of the nineteenth century was, it seems tome, very prolific.

It is no part of my plan to repeat the whole conversation which ensuedbetween the two. I must content myself with stating that it largelyreferred to common acquaintances, e.g., to the nephew of Mr. Denton'sfriend who had recently married and settled in Chelsea, to thesister-in-law of Mr. Denton's friend who had been seriouslyindisposed, but was now better, and to a piece of china which Mr.Denton's friend had purchased some months before at a price much belowits true value. From which you will rightly infer that theconversation was rather in the nature of a monologue. In due time,however, the friend bethought himself that Mr. Denton was there for apurpose, and said he, "What are you looking out for in particular? Idon't think there's much in this lot." "Why, I thought there might besome Warwickshire collections, but I don't see anything under Warwickin the catalogue." "No, apparently not," said the friend. "All thesame, I believe I noticed something like a Warwickshire diary. Whatwas the name again? Drayton? Potter? Painter—either a P or a D, Ifeel sure." He turned over the leaves quickly. "Yes, here it is.Poynter. Lot 486. That might interest you. There are the books, Ithink: out on the table. Someone has been looking at them. Well, Imust be getting on. Good-bye—you'll look us up, won't you? Couldn'tyou come this afternoon? we've got a little music about four. Well,then, when you're next in town." He went off. Mr. Denton looked athis watch and found to his confusion that he could spare no more thana moment before retrieving his luggage and going for the train. Themoment was just enough to show him that there were four largishvolumes of the diary—that it concerned the years about 1710, and thatthere seemed to be a good many insertions in it of various kinds. Itseemed quite worth while to leave a commission of five and twentypounds for it, and this he was able to do, for his usual agent enteredthe room as he was on the point of leaving it.

That evening he rejoined his aunt at their temporary abode, which wasa small dower-house not many hundred yards from the Manor. On thefollowing morning the two resumed a discussion that had now lasted forsome weeks as to the equipment of the new house. Mr. Denton laidbefore his relative a statement of the results of his visit totown—particulars of carpets, of chairs, of wardrobes, and of bedroomchina. "Yes, dear," said his aunt, "but I don't see any chintzes here.Did you go to——?" Mr. Denton stamped on the floor (where else,indeed, could he have stamped?). "Oh dear, oh dear," he said, "the onething I missed. I am sorry. The fact is I was on my way there and Ihappened to be passing Robins's." His aunt threw up her hands."Robins's! Then the next thing will be another parcel of horrible oldbooks at some outrageous price. I do think, James, when I am takingall this trouble for you, you might contrive to remember the one ortwo things which I specially begged you to see after. It's not as if Iwas asking it for myself. I don't know whether you think I get anypleasure out of it, but if so I can assure you it's very much thereverse. The thought and worry and trouble I have over it you have noidea of, and you have simply to go to the shops and order thethings." Mr. Denton interposed a moan of penitence. "Oh, aunt——""Yes, that's all very well, dear, and I don't want to speak sharply,but you must know how very annoying it is: particularly as it delaysthe whole of our business for I can't tell how long: here isWednesday—the Simpsons come to-morrow, and you can't leave them. Thenon Saturday we have friends, as you know, coming for tennis. Yes,indeed, you spoke of asking them yourself, but, of course, I had towrite the notes, and it is ridiculous, James, to look like that. Wemust occasionally be civil to our neighbours: you wouldn't like tohave it said we were perfect bears. What was I saying? Well, anyhow itcomes to this, that it must be Thursday in next week at least, beforeyou can go to town again, and until we have decided upon the chintzesit is impossible to settle upon one single other thing."

Mr. Denton ventured to suggest that as the paint and wallpapers hadbeen dealt with, this was too severe a view: but this his aunt was notprepared to admit at the moment. Nor, indeed, was there anyproposition he could have advanced which she would have found herselfable to accept. However, as the day went on, she receded a littlefrom this position: examined with lessening disfavour the samples andprice lists submitted by her nephew, and even in some cases gave aqualified approval to his choice.

As for him, he was naturally somewhat dashed by the consciousness ofduty unfulfilled, but more so by the prospect of a lawn-tennis party,which, though an inevitable evil in August, he had thought there wasno occasion to fear in May. But he was to some extent cheered by thearrival on the Friday morning of an intimation that he had secured atthe price of £12 10s. the four volumes of Poynter's manuscriptdiary, and still more by the arrival on the next morning of the diaryitself.

The necessity of taking Mr. and Mrs. Simpson for a drive in the car onSaturday morning and of attending to his neighbours and guests thatafternoon prevented him from doing more than open the parcel until theparty had retired to bed on the Saturday night. It was then that hemade certain of the fact, which he had before only suspected, that hehad indeed acquired the diary of Mr. William Poynter, Squire ofAcrington (about four miles from his own parish)—that same Poynterwho was for a time a member of the circle of Oxford antiquaries, thecentre of which was Thomas Hearne, and with whom Hearne seemsultimately to have quarrelled—a not uncommon episode in the career ofthat excellent man. As is the case with Hearne's own collections, thediary of Poynter contained a good many notes from printed books,descriptions of coins and other antiquities that had been brought tohis notice, and drafts of letters on these subjects, besides thechronicle of everyday events. The description in the sale-cataloguehad given Mr. Denton no idea of the amount of interest which seemed tolie in the book, and he sat up reading in the first of the fourvolumes until a reprehensibly late hour.

On the Sunday morning, after church, his aunt came into the study andwas diverted from what she had been going to say to him by the sightof the four brown leather quartos on the table. "What are these?" shesaid suspiciously. "New, aren't they? Oh! are these the things thatmade you forget my chintzes? I thought so. Disgusting. What did yougive for them, I should like to know? Over Ten Pounds? James, it isreally sinful. Well, if you have money to throw away on this kind ofthing, there can be no reason why you should not subscribe—andsubscribe handsomely—to my anti-Vivisection League. There is not,indeed, James, and I shall be very seriously annoyed if——. Who didyou say wrote them? Old Mr. Poynter, of Acrington? Well, of course,there is some interest in getting together old papers about thisneighbourhood. But Ten Pounds!" She picked up one of the volumes—notthat which her nephew had been reading—and opened it at random,dashing it to the floor the next instant with a cry of disgust as anearwig fell from between the pages. Mr. Denton picked it up with asmothered expletive and said, "Poor book! I think you're rather hardon Mr. Poynter." "Was I, my dear? I beg his pardon, but you know Icannot abide those horrid creatures. Let me see if I've done anymischief." "No, I think all's well: but look here what you've openedhim on." "Dear me, yes, to be sure! how very interesting. Do unpin it,James, and let me look at it."

It was a piece of patterned stuff about the size of the quarto page,to which it was fastened by an old-fashioned pin. James detached itand handed it to his aunt, carefully replacing the pin in the paper.

Now, I do not know exactly what the fabric was; but it had a designprinted upon it, which completely fascinated Miss Denton. She wentinto raptures over it, held it against the wall, made James do thesame, that she might retire to contemplate it from a distance: thenpored over it at close quarters, and ended her examination byexpressing in the warmest terms her appreciation of the taste of theancient Mr. Poynter who had had the happy idea of preserving thissample in his diary. "It is a most charming pattern," she said, "andremarkable too. Look, James, how delightfully the lines ripple. Itreminds one of hair, very much, doesn't it? And then these knots ofribbon at intervals. They give just the relief of colour that iswanted. I wonder——" "I was going to say," said James withdeference, "I wonder if it would cost much to have it copied for ourcurtains." "Copied? how could you have it copied, James?" "Well, Idon't know the details, but I suppose that is a printed pattern, andthat you could have a block cut from it in wood or metal." "Now,really, that is a capital idea, James. I am almost inclined to be gladthat you were so—that you forgot the chintzes on Wednesday. At anyrate, I'll promise to forgive and forget if you get this lovely oldthing copied. No one will have anything in the least like it, andmind, James, we won't allow it to be sold. Now I must go, and I'vetotally forgotten what it was I came in to say: never mind, it'llkeep."

After his aunt had gone James Denton devoted a few minutes toexamining the pattern more closely than he had yet had a chance ofdoing. He was puzzled to think why it should have struck Miss Dentonso forcibly. It seemed to him not specially remarkable or pretty. Nodoubt it was suitable enough for a curtain pattern: it ran in verticalbands, and there was some indication that these were intended toconverge at the top. She was right, too, in thinking that these mainbands resembled rippling—almost curling—tresses of hair. Well, themain thing was to find out by means of trade directories, orotherwise, what firm would undertake the reproduction of an oldpattern of this kind. Not to delay the reader over this portion of thestory, a list of likely names was made out, and Mr. Denton fixed aday for calling on them, or some of them, with his sample.

The first two visits which he paid were unsuccessful: but there isluck in odd numbers. The firm in Bermondsey which was third on hislist was accustomed to handling this line. The evidence they were ableto produce justified their being entrusted with the job. "Our Mr.Cattell" took a fervent personal interest in it. "It's 'eartrending,isn't it, sir," he said, "to picture the quantity of reelly lovelymedeevial stuff of this kind that lays wellnigh unnoticed in many ofour residential country 'ouses: much of it in peril, I take it, ofbeing cast aside as so much rubbish. What is it Shakespearesays—unconsidered trifles. Ah, I often say he 'as a word for us all,sir. I say Shakespeare, but I'm well aware all don't 'old with methere—I 'ad something of an upset the other day when a gentleman camein—a titled man, too, he was, and I think he told me he'd wrote onthe topic, and I 'appened to cite out something about 'Ercules and thepainted cloth. Dear me, you never see such a pother. But as to this,what you've kindly confided to us, it's a piece of work we shall takea reel enthusiasm in achieving it out to the very best of our ability.What man 'as done, as I was observing only a few weeks back to anotheresteemed client, man can do, and in three to four weeks' time, allbeing well, we shall 'ope to lay before you evidence to that effect,sir. Take the address, Mr. 'Iggins, if you please."

Such was the general drift of Mr. Cattell's observations on theoccasion of his first interview with Mr. Denton. About a month later,being advised that some samples were ready for his inspection, Mr.Denton met him again, and had, it seems, reason to be satisfied withthe faithfulness of the reproduction of the design. It had beenfinished off at the top in accordance with the indication I mentioned,so that the vertical bands joined. But something still needed to bedone in the way of matching the colour of the original. Mr. Cattellhad suggestions of a technical kind to offer, with which I need nottrouble you. He had also views as to the general desirability of thepattern which were vaguely adverse. "You say you don't wish this to besupplied excepting to personal friends equipped with a authorizationfrom yourself, sir. It shall be done. I quite understand your wish tokeep it exclusive: lends a catchit, does it not, to the suite? What'severy man's, it's been said, is no man's."

"Do you think it would be popular if it were generally obtainable?"asked Mr. Denton.

"I 'ardly think it, sir," said Cattell, pensively clasping his beard."I 'ardly think it. Not popular: it wasn't popular with the man thatcut the block, was it, Mr. 'Iggins?"

"Did he find it a difficult job?"

"He'd no call to do so, sir; but the fact is that the artistictemperament—and our men are artists, sir, every one of them—trueartists as much as many that the world styles by that term—it's aptto take some strange 'ardly accountable likes or dislikes, and herewas an example. The twice or thrice that I went to inspect hisprogress: language I could understand, for that's 'abitual to him, butreel distaste for what I should call a dainty enough thing, I did not,nor am I now able to fathom. It seemed," said Mr. Cattell, lookingnarrowly upon Mr. Denton, "as if the man scented something almostHevil in the design."

"Indeed? did he tell you so? I can't say I see anything sinister in itmyself."

"Neether can I, sir. In fact I said as much. 'Come, Gatwick,' I said,'what's to do here? What's the reason of your prejudice—for I cancall it no more than that?' But, no! no explanation was forthcoming.And I was merely reduced, as I am now, to a shrug of the shoulders,and a cui bono. However, here it is," and with that the technicalside of the question came to the front again.

The matching of the colours for the background, the hem, and the knotsof ribbon was by far the longest part of the business, andnecessitated many sendings to and fro of the original pattern and ofnew samples. During part of August and September, too, the Dentonswere away from the Manor. So that it was not until October was well inthat a sufficient quantity of the stuff had been manufactured tofurnish curtains for the three or four bedrooms which were to befitted up with it.

On the feast of Simon and Jude the aunt and nephew returned from ashort visit to find all completed, and their satisfaction at thegeneral effect was great. The new curtains, in particular, agreed toadmiration with their surroundings. When Mr. Denton was dressing fordinner, and took stock of his room, in which there was a large amountof the chintz displayed, he congratulated himself over and over againon the luck which had first made him forget his aunt's commission andhad then put into his hands this extremely effective means ofremedying his mistake. The pattern was, as he said at dinner, sorestful and yet so far from being dull. And Miss Denton—who, by theway, had none of the stuff in her own room—was much disposed to agreewith him.

At breakfast next morning he was induced to qualify his satisfactionto some extent—but very slightly. "There is one thing I ratherregret," he said, "that we allowed them to join up the vertical bandsof the pattern at the top. I think it would have been better to leavethat alone."

"Oh?" said his aunt interrogatively.

"Yes: as I was reading in bed last night they kept catching my eyerather. That is, I found myself looking across at them every now andthen. There was an effect as if someone kept peeping out between thecurtains in one place or another, where there was no edge, and I thinkthat was due to the joining up of the bands at the top. The only otherthing that troubled me was the wind."

"Why, I thought it was a perfectly still night."

"Perhaps it was only on my side of the house, but there was enough tosway my curtains and rustle them more than I wanted."

That night a bachelor friend of James Denton's came to stay, and waslodged in a room on the same floor as his host, but at the end of along passage, half-way down which was a red baize door, put there tocut off the draught and intercept noise.

The party of three had separated. Miss Denton a good first, the twomen at about eleven. James Denton, not yet inclined for bed, sat himdown in an arm-chair and read for a time. Then he dozed, and then hewoke, and bethought himself that his brown spaniel, which ordinarilyslept in his room, had not come upstairs with him. Then he thought hewas mistaken: for happening to move his hand which hung down over thearm of the chair within a few inches of the floor, he felt on the backof it just the slightest touch of a surface of hair, and stretching itout in that direction he stroked and patted a rounded something. Butthe feel of it, and still more the fact that instead of a responsivemovement, absolute stillness greeted his touch, made him look over thearm. What he had been touching rose to meet him. It was in theattitude of one that had crept along the floor on its belly, and itwas, so far as could be recollected, a human figure. But of the facewhich was now rising to within a few inches of his own no feature wasdiscernible, only hair. Shapeless as it was, there was about it sohorrible an air of menace that as he bounded from his chair and rushedfrom the room he heard himself moaning with fear: and doubtless he didright to fly. As he dashed into the baize door that cut the passage intwo, and—forgetting that it opened towards him—beat against it withall the force in him, he felt a soft ineffectual tearing at his backwhich, all the same, seemed to be growing in power, as if the hand, orwhatever worse than a hand was there, were becoming more material asthe pursuer's rage was more concentrated. Then he remembered the trickof the door—he got it open—he shut it behind him—he gained hisfriend's room, and that is all we need know.

It seems curious that, during all the time that had elapsed since thepurchase of Poynter's diary, James Denton should not have sought anexplanation of the presence of the pattern that had been pinned intoit. Well, he had read the diary through without finding it mentioned,and had concluded that there was nothing to be said. But, on leavingRendcomb Manor (he did not know whether for good), as he naturallyinsisted upon doing on the day after experiencing the horror I havetried to put into words, he took the diary with him. And at hisseaside lodgings he examined more narrowly the portion whence thepattern had been taken. What he remembered having suspected about itturned out to be correct. Two or three leaves were pasted together,but written upon, as was patent when they were held up to the light.They yielded easily to steaming, for the paste had lost much of itsstrength and they contained something relevant to the pattern.

The entry was made in 1707.

"Old Mr. Casbury, of Acrington, told me this day much of young SirEverard Charlett, whom he remember'd Commoner of University College,and thought was of the same Family as Dr. Arthur Charlett, now masterof y^e Coll. This Charlett was a personable young gent., but a looseatheistical companion, and a great Lifter, as they then call'd thehard drinkers, and for what I know do so now. He was noted, andsubject to severall censures at different times for hisextravagancies: and if the full history of his debaucheries had binknown, no doubt would have been expell'd y^e Coll., supposing that nointerest had been imploy'd on his behalf, of which Mr. Casbury hadsome suspicion. He was a very beautiful person, and constantly worehis own Hair, which was very abundant, from which, and his loose wayof living, the cant name for him was Absalom, and he was accustom'd tosay that indeed he believ'd he had shortened old David's days, meaninghis father, Sir Job Charlett, an old worthy cavalier.

"Note that Mr. Casbury said that he remembers not the year of SirEverard Charlett's death, but it was 1692 or 3. He died suddenly inOctober. [Several lines describing his unpleasant habits and reputeddelinquencies are omitted.] Having seen him in such topping spiritsthe night before, Mr. Casbury was amaz'd when he learn'd the death.He was found in the town ditch, the hair as was said pluck'd clean offhis head. Most bells in Oxford rung out for him, being a nobleman, andhe was buried next night in St. Peter's in the East. But two yearsafter, being to be moved to his country estate by his successor, itwas said the coffin, breaking by mischance, proved quite full of Hair:which sounds fabulous, but yet I believe precedents are upon record,as in Dr. Plot's History of Staffordshire.

"His chambers being afterwards stripp'd, Mr. Casbury came by part ofthe hangings of it, which 'twas said this Charlett had design'dexpressly for a memoriall of his Hair, giving the Fellow that drew ita lock to work by, and the piece which I have fasten'd in here wasparcel of the same, which Mr. Casbury gave to me. He said he believ'dthere was a subtlety in the drawing, but had never discover'd ithimself, nor much liked to pore upon it."

The money spent upon the curtains might as well have been thrown intothe fire, as they were. Mr. Cattell's comment upon what he heard ofthe story took the form of a quotation from Shakespeare. You may guessit without difficulty. It began with the words "There are morethings."

AN EPISODE OF CATHEDRAL HISTORY

There was once a learned gentleman who was deputed to examine andreport upon the archives of the Cathedral of Southminster. Theexamination of these records demanded a very considerable expenditureof time: hence it became advisable for him to engage lodgings in thecity: for though the Cathedral body were profuse in their offers ofhospitality, Mr. Lake felt that he would prefer to be master of hisday. This was recognized as reasonable. The Dean eventually wroteadvising Mr. Lake, if he were not already suited, to communicate withMr. Worby, the principal Verger, who occupied a house convenient tothe church and was prepared to take in a quiet lodger for three orfour weeks. Such an arrangement was precisely what Mr. Lake desired.Terms were easily agreed upon, and early in December, like another Mr.Datchery (as he remarked to himself), the investigator found himselfin the occupation of a very comfortable room in an ancient and"cathedraly" house.

One so familiar with the customs of Cathedral churches, and treatedwith such obvious consideration by the Dean and Chapter of thisCathedral in particular, could not fail to command the respect of theHead Verger. Mr. Worby even acquiesced in certain modifications ofstatements he had been accustomed to offer for years to parties ofvisitors. Mr. Lake, on his part, found the Verger a very cheerycompanion, and took advantage of any occasion that presented itselffor enjoying his conversation when the day's work was over.

One evening, about nine o'clock, Mr. Worby knocked at his lodger'sdoor. "I've occasion," he said, "to go across to the Cathedral, Mr.Lake, and I think I made you a promise when I did so next I would giveyou the opportunity to see what it looks like at night time. It'squite fine and dry outside, if you care to come."

"To be sure I will; very much obliged to you, Mr. Worby, for thinkingof it, but let me get my coat."

"Here it is, sir, and I've another lantern here that you'll findadvisable for the steps, as there's no moon."

"Anyone might think we were Jasper and Durdles, over again, mightn'tthey?" said Lake, as they crossed the close, for he had ascertainedthat the Verger had read Edwin Drood.

"Well, so they might," said Mr. Worby, with a short laugh, "though Idon't know whether we ought to take it as a compliment. Odd ways, Ioften think, they had at that Cathedral, don't it seem so to you, sir?Full choral matins at seven o'clock in the morning all the year round.Wouldn't suit our boys' voices nowadays, and I think there's one ortwo of the men would be applying for a rise if the Chapter was tobring it in—particular the alltoes."

They were now at the south-west door. As Mr. Worby was unlocking it,Lake said, "Did you ever find anybody locked in here by accident?"

"Twice I did. One was a drunk sailor; however he got in I don't know.I s'pose he went to sleep in the service, but by the time I got to himhe was praying fit to bring the roof in. Lor'! what a noise that mandid make! said it was the first time he'd been inside a church for tenyears, and blest if ever he'd try it again. The other was an oldsheep: them boys it was, up to their games. That was the last timethey tried it on, though. There, sir, now you see what we look like;our late Dean used now and again to bring parties in, but he preferreda moonlight night, and there was a piece of verse he'd coat to 'em,relating to a Scotch cathedral, I understand; but I don't know; Ialmost think the effect's better when it's all dark-like. Seems to addto the size and height. Now if you won't mind stopping somewherein the nave while I go up into the choir where my business lays,you'll see what I mean."

Accordingly Lake waited, leaning against a pillar, and watched thelight wavering along the length of the church, and up the steps intothe choir, until it was intercepted by some screen or other furniture,which only allowed the reflection to be seen on the piers and roof.Not many minutes had passed before Worby reappeared at the door ofthe choir and by waving his lantern signalled to Lake to rejoin him.

"I suppose it is Worby, and not a substitute," thought Lake tohimself, as he walked up the nave. There was, in fact, nothinguntoward. Worby showed him the papers which he had come to fetch outof the Dean's stall, and asked him what he thought of the spectacle:Lake agreed that it was well worth seeing. "I suppose," he said, asthey walked towards the altar-steps together, "that you're too muchused to going about here at night to feel nervous—but you must get astart every now and then, don't you, when a book falls down or a doorswings to?"

"No, Mr. Lake, I can't say I think much about noises, not nowadays:I'm much more afraid of finding an escape of gas or a burst in thestove pipes than anything else. Still there have been times, yearsago. Did you notice that plain altar-tomb there—fifteenth century wesay it is, I don't know if you agree to that? Well, if you didn't lookat it, just come back and give it a glance, if you'd be so good." Itwas on the north side of the choir, and rather awkwardly placed: onlyabout three feet from the enclosing stone screen. Quite plain, as theVerger had said, but for some ordinary stone panelling. A metal crossof some size on the northern side (that next to the screen) was thesolitary feature of any interest.

Lake agreed that it was not earlier than the Perpendicular period:"but," he said, "unless it's the tomb of some remarkable person,you'll forgive me for saying that I don't think it's particularlynoteworthy."

"Well, I can't say as it is the tomb of anybody noted in 'istory,"said Worby, who had a dry smile on his face, "for we don't own anyrecord whatsoever of who it was put up to. For all that, if you'vehalf an hour to spare, sir, when we get back to the house, Mr. Lake, Icould tell you a tale about that tomb. I won't begin on it now; itstrikes cold here, and we don't want to be dawdling about all night."

"Of course I should like to hear it immensely."

"Very well, sir, you shall. Now if I might put a question to you," hewent on, as they passed down the choir aisle, "in our little localguide—and not only there, but in the little book on our Cathedral inthe series—you'll find it stated that this portion of the buildingwas erected previous to the twelfth century. Now of course I should beglad enough to take that view, but—mind the step, sir—but, I put itto you—does the lay of the stone 'ere in this portion of the wall(which he tapped with his key), does it to your eye carry the flavourof what you might call Saxon masonry? No, I thought not; no more itdoes to me: now, if you'll believe me, I've said as much to thosemen—one's the librarian of our Free Libry here, and the other camedown from London on purpose—fifty times, if I have once, but I mightjust as well have talked to that bit of stonework. But there it is, Isuppose every one's got their opinions."

The discussion of this peculiar trait of human nature occupied Mr.Worby almost up to the moment when he and Lake re-entered the former'shouse. The condition of the fire in Lake's sitting-room led to asuggestion from Mr. Worby that they should finish the evening in hisown parlour. We find them accordingly settled there some short timeafterwards.

Mr. Worby made his story a long one, and I will not undertake to tellit wholly in his own words, or in his own order. Lake committed thesubstance of it to paper immediately after hearing it, together withsome few passages of the narrative which had fixed themselvesverbatim in his mind; I shall probably find it expedient to condenseLake's record to some extent.

Mr. Worby was born, it appeared, about the year 1828. His fatherbefore him had been connected with the Cathedral, and likewise hisgrandfather. One or both had been choristers, and in later life bothhad done work as mason and carpenter respectively about the fabric.Worby himself, though possessed, as he frankly acknowledged, of anindifferent voice, had been drafted into the choir at about ten yearsof age.

It was in 1840 that the wave of the Gothic revival smote the Cathedralof Southminster. "There was a lot of lovely stuff went then, sir,"said Worby, with a sigh. "My father couldn't hardly believe it whenhe got his orders to clear out the choir. There was a new dean justcome in—Dean Burscough it was—and my father had been 'prenticed to agood firm of joiners in the city, and knew what good work was when hesaw it. Crool it was, he used to say: all that beautiful wainscot oak,as good as the day it was put up, and garlands-like of foliage andfruit, and lovely old gilding work on the coats of arms and the organpipes. All went to the timber yard—every bit except some littlepieces worked up in the Lady Chapel, and 'ere in this overmantel.Well—I may be mistook, but I say our choir never looked as wellsince. Still there was a lot found out about the history of thechurch, and no doubt but what it did stand in need of repair. Therewas very few winters passed but what we'd lose a pinnicle." Mr. Lakeexpressed his concurrence with Worby's views of restoration, but ownsto a fear about this point lest the story proper should never bereached. Possibly this was perceptible in his manner.

Worby hastened to reassure him, "Not but what I could carry on aboutthat topic for hours at a time, and do when I see my opportunity.But Dean Burscough he was very set on the Gothic period, and nothingwould serve him but everything must be made agreeable to that. And onemorning after service he appointed for my father to meet him in thechoir, and he came back after he'd taken off his robes in the vestry,and he'd got a roll of paper with him, and the verger that was thenbrought in a table, and they begun spreading it out on the table withprayer books to keep it down, and my father helped 'em, and he saw itwas a picture of the inside of a choir in a Cathedral; and theDean—he was a quick-spoken gentleman—he says, 'Well, Worby, what doyou think of that?' 'Why,' says my father, 'I don't think I 'ave thepleasure of knowing that view. Would that be Hereford Cathedral, Mr.Dean?' 'No, Worby,' says the Dean, 'that's Southminster Cathedral aswe hope to see it before many years.' 'In-deed, sir,' says my father,and that was all he did say—leastways to the Dean—but he used totell me he felt reelly faint in himself when he looked round our choiras I can remember it, all comfortable and furnished-like, and then seethis nasty little dry picter, as he called it, drawn out by someLondon architect. Well, there I am again. But you'll see what I meanif you look at this old view."

Worby reached down a framed print from the wall. "Well, the long andthe short of it was that the Dean he handed over to my father a copyof an order of the Chapter that he was to clear out every bit of thechoir—make a clean sweep—ready for the new work that was beingdesigned up in town, and he was to put it in hand as soon as ever hecould get the breakers together. Now then, sir, if you look at thatview, you'll see where the pulpit used to stand: that's what I wantyou to notice, if you please." It was, indeed, easily seen; anunusually large structure of timber with a domed sounding-board,standing at the east end of the stalls on the north side of the choir,facing the bishop's throne. Worby proceeded to explain that during thealterations, services were held in the nave, the members of the choirbeing thereby disappointed of an anticipated holiday, and the organistin particular incurring the suspicion of having wilfully damaged themechanism of the temporary organ that was hired at considerableexpense from London.

The work of demolition began with the choir screen and organ loft, andproceeded gradually eastwards, disclosing, as Worby said, manyinteresting features of older work. While this was going on, themembers of the Chapter were, naturally, in and about the choir a greatdeal, and it soon became apparent to the elder Worby—who could nothelp overhearing some of their talk—that, on the part of the seniorCanons especially, there must have been a good deal of disagreementbefore the policy now being carried out had been adopted. Some were ofopinion that they should catch their deaths of cold in thereturn-stalls, unprotected by a screen from the draughts in the nave:others objected to being exposed to the view of persons in the choiraisles, especially, they said, during the sermons, when they found ithelpful to listen in a posture which was liable to misconstruction.The strongest opposition, however, came from the oldest of the body,who up to the last moment objected to the removal of the pulpit. "Youought not to touch it, Mr. Dean," he said with great emphasis onemorning, when the two were standing before it: "you don't know whatmischief you may do." "Mischief? it's not a work of any particularmerit, Canon." "Don't call me Canon," said the old man with greatasperity, "that is, for thirty years I've been known as Dr. Ayloff,and I shall be obliged, Mr. Dean, if you would kindly humour me inthat matter. And as to the pulpit (which I've preached from for thirtyyears, though I don't insist on that), all I'll say is, I knowyou're doing wrong in moving it." "But what sense could there be, mydear Doctor, in leaving it where it is, when we're fitting up the restof the choir in a totally different style? What reason could begiven—apart from the look of the thing?" "Reason! reason!" said oldDr. Ayloff; "if you young men—if I may say so without any disrespect,Mr. Dean—if you'd only listen to reason a little, and not be alwaysasking for it, we should get on better. But there, I've said my say."The old gentleman hobbled off, and as it proved, never entered theCathedral again. The season—it was a hot summer—turned sickly on asudden. Dr. Ayloff was one of the first to go, with some affection ofthe muscles of the thorax, which took him painfully at night. And atmany services the number of choirmen and boys was very thin.

Meanwhile the pulpit had been done away with. In fact, thesounding-board (part of which still exists as a table in asummer-house in the palace garden) was taken down within an hour ortwo of Dr. Ayloff's protest. The removal of the base—not effectedwithout considerable trouble—disclosed to view, greatly to theexultation of the restoring party, an altar-tomb—the tomb, of course,to which Worby had attracted Lake's attention that same evening. Muchfruitless research was expended in attempts to identify the occupant;from that day to this he has never had a name put to him. Thestructure had been most carefully boxed in under the pulpit-base, sothat such slight ornament as it possessed was not defaced; only on thenorth side of it there was what looked like an injury; a gap betweentwo of the slabs composing the side. It might be two or three inchesacross. Palmer, the mason, was directed to fill it up in a week'stime, when he came to do some other small jobs near that part of thechoir.

The season was undoubtedly a very trying one. Whether the church wasbuilt on a site that had once been a marsh, as was suggested, or forwhatever reason, the residents in its immediate neighbourhood had,many of them, but little enjoyment of the exquisite sunny days and thecalm nights of August and September. To several of the olderpeople—Dr. Ayloff, among others, as we have seen—the summer proveddownright fatal, but even among the younger, few escaped either asojourn in bed for a matter of weeks, or at the least, a broodingsense of oppression, accompanied by hateful nightmares. Graduallythere formulated itself a suspicion—which grew into aconviction—that the alterations in the Cathedral had something to sayin the matter. The widow of a former old verger, a pensioner of theChapter of Southminster, was visited by dreams, which she retailed toher friends, of a shape that slipped out of the little door of thesouth transept as the dark fell in, and flitted—taking a freshdirection every night—about the Close, disappearing for a while inhouse after house, and finally emerging again when the night sky waspaling. She could see nothing of it, she said, but that it was amoving form: only she had an impression that when it returned to thechurch, as it seemed to do in the end of the dream, it turned itshead: and then, she could not tell why, but she thought it had redeyes. Worby remembered hearing the old lady tell this dream at atea-party in the house of the chapter clerk. Its recurrence might,perhaps, he said, be taken as a symptom of approaching illness; at anyrate before the end of September the old lady was in her grave.

The interest excited by the restoration of this great church was notconfined to its own county. One day that summer an F.S.A., of somecelebrity, visited the place. His business was to write an account ofthe discoveries that had been made, for the Society of Antiquaries,and his wife, who accompanied him, was to make a series ofillustrative drawings for his report. In the morning she employedherself in making a general sketch of the choir; in the afternoon shedevoted herself to details. She first drew the newly-exposedaltar-tomb, and when that was finished, she called her husband'sattention to a beautiful piece of diaper-ornament on the screen justbehind it, which had, like the tomb itself, been completely concealedby the pulpit. Of course, he said, an illustration of that must bemade; so she seated herself on the tomb and began a careful drawingwhich occupied her till dusk.

Her husband had by this time finished his work of measuring anddescription, and they agreed that it was time to be getting back totheir hotel. "You may as well brush my skirt, Frank," said the lady,"it must have got covered with dust, I'm sure." He obeyed dutifully;but, after a moment, he said, "I don't know whether you value thisdress particularly, my dear, but I'm inclined to think it's seen itsbest days. There's a great bit of it gone." "Gone? Where?" said she."I don't know where it's gone, but it's off at the bottom edge behindhere." She pulled it hastily into sight, and was horrified to find ajagged tear extending some way into the substance of the stuff; verymuch, she said, as if a dog had rent it away. The dress was, in anycase, hopelessly spoilt, to her great vexation, and though they lookedeverywhere, the missing piece could not be found. There were manyways, they concluded, in which the injury might have come about, forthe choir was full of old bits of woodwork with nails sticking out ofthem. Finally, they could only suppose that one of these had causedthe mischief, and that the workmen, who had been about all day, hadcarried off the particular piece with the fragment of dress stillattached to it.

It was about this time, Worby thought, that his little dog began towear an anxious expression when the hour for it to be put into theshed in the back yard approached. (For his mother had ordained that itmust not sleep in the house.) One evening, he said, when he was justgoing to pick it up and carry it out, it looked at him "like aChristian, and waved its 'and, I was going to say—well, you know 'owthey do carry on sometimes, and the end of it was I put it under mycoat, and 'uddled it upstairs—and I'm afraid I as good as deceived mypoor mother on the subject. After that the dog acted very artful with'iding itself under the bed for half an hour or more before bed-timecame, and we worked it so as my mother never found out what we'ddone." Of course Worby was glad of its company anyhow, but moreparticularly when the nuisance that is still remembered inSouthminster as "the crying" set in.

"Night after night," said Worby, "that dog seemed to know it wascoming; he'd creep out, he would, and snuggle into the bed and cuddleright up to me shivering, and when the crying come he'd be like a wildthing, shoving his head under my arm, and I was fully near as bad. Sixor seven times we'd hear it, not more, and when he'd dror out his 'edagain I'd know it was over for that night. What was it like, sir?Well, I never heard but one thing that seemed to hit it off. Ihappened to be playing about in the Close, and there was two of theCanons met and said 'Good morning' one to another. 'Sleep well lastnight?' says one—it was Mr. Henslow that one, and Mr. Lyall was theother. 'Can't say I did,' says Mr. Lyall, 'rather too much of Isaiahxxxiv. 14 for me.' 'xxxiv. 14,' says Mr. Henslow, 'what's that?' 'Youcall yourself a Bible reader!' says Mr. Lyall. (Mr. Henslow, you mustknow, he was one of what used to be termed Simeon's lot—pretty muchwhat we should call the Evangelical party.) 'You go and look it up.' Iwanted to know what he was getting at myself, and so off I ran homeand got out my own Bible, and there it was: 'the satyr shall cry tohis fellow.' Well, I thought, is that what we've been listening tothese past nights? and I tell you it made me look over my shoulder atime or two. Of course I'd asked my father and mother about what itcould be before that, but they both said it was most likely cats: butthey spoke very short, and I could see they was troubled. My word!that was a noise—'ungry-like, as if it was calling after someone thatwouldn't come. If ever you felt you wanted company, it would be whenyou was waiting for it to begin again. I believe two or three nightsthere was men put on to watch in different parts of the Close; butthey all used to get together in one corner, the nearest they could tothe High Street, and nothing came of it.

"Well, the next thing was this. Me and another of the boys—he's inbusiness in the city now as a grocer, like his father before him—we'dgone up in the choir after morning service was over, and we heard oldPalmer the mason bellowing to some of his men. So we went up nearer,because we knew he was a rusty old chap and there might be some fungoing. It appears Palmer 'd told this man to stop up the chink in thatold tomb. Well, there was this man keeping on saying he'd done it thebest he could, and there was Palmer carrying on like all possessedabout it. 'Call that making a job of it?' he says. 'If you had yourrights you'd get the sack for this. What do you suppose I pay you yourwages for? What do you suppose I'm going to say to the Dean andChapter when they come round, as come they may do any time, and seewhere you've been bungling about covering the 'ole place with mess andplaster and Lord knows what?' 'Well, master, I done the best I could,'says the man; 'I don't know no more than what you do 'ow it come tofall out this way. I tamped it right in the 'ole,' he says, 'and nowit's fell out,' he says, 'I never see.'

"'Fell out?' says old Palmer, 'why it's nowhere near the place. Blowedout, you mean'; and he picked up a bit of plaster, and so did I, thatwas laying up against the screen, three or four feet off, and not dryyet; and old Palmer he looked at it curious-like, and then he turnedround on me and he says, 'Now then, you boys, have you been up tosome of your games here?' 'No,' I says, 'I haven't, Mr. Palmer;there's none of us been about here till just this minute'; and while Iwas talking the other boy, Evans, he got looking in through the chink,and I heard him draw in his breath, and he came away sharp and up tous, and says he, 'I believe there's something in there. I sawsomething shiny.' 'What! I dare say!' says old Palmer; 'well, I ain'tgot time to stop about there. You, William, you go off and get somemore stuff and make a job of it this time; if not, there'll be troublein my yard,' he says.

"So the man he went off, and Palmer too, and us boys stopped behind,and I says to Evans, 'Did you really see anything in there?' 'Yes,' hesays, 'I did indeed.' So then I says, 'Let's shove something in andstir it up.' And we tried several of the bits of wood that was layingabout, but they were all too big. Then Evans he had a sheet of musiche'd brought with him, an anthem or a service, I forget which it wasnow, and he rolled it up small and shoved it in the chink; two orthree times he did it, and nothing happened. 'Give it me, boy,' Isaid, and I had a try. No, nothing happened. Then, I don't know why Ithought of it, I'm sure, but I stooped down just opposite the chinkand put my two fingers in my mouth and whistled—you know the way—andat that I seemed to think I heard something stirring, and I says toEvans, 'Come away,' I says; 'I don't like this.' 'Oh, rot,' he says,'give me that roll,' and he took it and shoved it in. And I don'tthink ever I see anyone go so pale as he did. 'I say, Worby,' he says,'it's caught, or else someone's got hold of it.' 'Pull it out or leaveit,' I says. 'Come and let's get off.' So he gave a good pull, and itcame away. Leastways most of it did, but the end was gone. Torn off itwas, and Evans looked at it for a second and then he gave a sort of acroak and let it drop, and we both made off out of there as quick asever we could. When we got outside Evans says to me, 'Did you see theend of that paper?' 'No,' I says, 'only it was torn.' 'Yes, it was,'he says, 'but it was wet too, and black!' Well, partly because of thefright we had, and partly because that music was wanted in a day ortwo, and we knew there'd be a set-out about it with the organist, wedidn't say nothing to anyone else, and I suppose the workmen theyswept up the bit that was left along with the rest of the rubbish. ButEvans, if you were to ask him this very day about it, he'd stick to ithe saw that paper wet and black at the end where it was torn."

After that the boys gave the choir a wide berth, so that Worby was notsure what was the result of the mason's renewed mending of the tomb.Only he made out from fragments of conversation dropped by the workmenpassing through the choir that some difficulty had been met with, andthat the governor—Mr. Palmer to wit—had tried his own hand at thejob. A little later, he happened to see Mr. Palmer himself knockingat the door of the Deanery and being admitted by the butler. A day orso after that, he gathered from a remark his father let fall atbreakfast that something a little out of the common was to be done inthe Cathedral after morning service on the morrow. "And I'd just assoon it was to-day," his father added; "I don't see the use of runningrisks." "'Father,' I says, 'what are you going to do in the Cathedralto-morrow?' And he turned on me as savage as I ever see him—he was awonderful good-tempered man as a general thing, my poor father was.'My lad,' he says, 'I'll trouble you not to go picking up your elders'and betters' talk: it's not manners and it's not straight. What I'mgoing to do or not going to do in the Cathedral to-morrow is none ofyour business: and if I catch sight of you hanging about the placeto-morrow after your work's done, I'll send you home with a flea inyour ear. Now you mind that.' Of course I said I was very sorry andthat, and equally of course I went off and laid my plans with Evans.We knew there was a stair up in the corner of the transept which youcan get up to the triforium, and in them days the door to it waspretty well always open, and even if it wasn't we knew the key usuallylaid under a bit of matting hard by. So we made up our minds we'd beputting away music and that, next morning while the rest of the boyswas clearing off, and then slip up the stairs and watch from thetriforium if there was any signs of work going on.

"Well, that same night I dropped off asleep as sound as a boy does,and all of a sudden the dog woke me up, coming into the bed, andthought I, now we're going to get it sharp, for he seemed morefrightened than usual. After about five minutes sure enough came thiscry. I can't give you no idea what it was like; and so neartoo—nearer than I'd heard it yet—and a funny thing, Mr. Lake, youknow what a place this Close is for an echo, and particular if youstand this side of it. Well, this crying never made no sign of an echoat all. But, as I said, it was dreadful near this night; and on thetop of the start I got with hearing it, I got another fright; for Iheard something rustling outside in the passage. Now to be sure Ithought I was done; but I noticed the dog seemed to perk up a bit, andnext there was someone whispered outside the door, and I very nearlaughed out loud, for I knew it was my father and mother that had gotout of bed with the noise. 'Whatever is it?' says my mother. 'Hush! Idon't know,' says my father, excited-like, 'don't disturb the boy. Ihope he didn't hear nothing.'

"So, me knowing they were just outside, it made me bolder, and Islipped out of bed across to my little window—giving on theClose—but the dog he bored right down to the bottom of the bed—and Ilooked out. First go off I couldn't see anything. Then right down inthe shadow under a buttress I made out what I shall always say was twospots of red—a dull red it was—nothing like a lamp or a fire, butjust so as you could pick 'em out of the black shadow. I hadn't butjust sighted 'em when it seemed we wasn't the only people that hadbeen disturbed, because I see a window in a house on the left-handside become lighted up, and the light moving. I just turned my head tomake sure of it, and then looked back into the shadow for those twored things, and they were gone, and for all I peered about and stared,there was not a sign more of them. Then come my last fright thatnight—something come against my bare leg—but that was all right:that was my little dog had come out of bed, and prancing about makinga great to-do, only holding his tongue, and me seeing he was quite inspirits again, I took him back to bed and we slept the night out!

"Next morning I made out to tell my mother I'd had the dog in my room,and I was surprised, after all she'd said about it before, how quietshe took it. 'Did you?' she says. 'Well, by good rights you ought togo without your breakfast for doing such a thing behind my back: but Idon't know as there's any great harm done, only another time you askmy permission, do you hear?' A bit after that I said something to myfather about having heard the cats again. 'Cats?' he says; and helooked over at my poor mother, and she coughed and he says, 'Oh! ah!yes, cats. I believe I heard 'em myself.'

"That was a funny morning altogether: nothing seemed to go right. Theorganist he stopped in bed, and the minor Canon he forgot it was the19th day and waited for the Venite; and after a bit the deputy heset off playing the chant for evensong, which was a minor; and thenthe Decani boys were laughing so much they couldn't sing, and when itcame to the anthem the solo boy he got took with the giggles, and madeout his nose was bleeding, and shoved the book at me what hadn'tpractised the verse and wasn't much of a singer if I had known it.Well, things was rougher, you see, fifty years ago, and I got a nipfrom the counter-tenor behind me that I remembered.

"So we got through somehow, and neither the men nor the boys weren'tby way of waiting to see whether the Canon in residence—Mr. Henslowit was—would come to the vestries and fine 'em, but I don't believehe did: for one thing I fancy he'd read the wrong lesson for the firsttime in his life, and knew it. Anyhow, Evans and me didn't find nodifficulty in slipping up the stairs as I told you, and when we got upwe laid ourselves down flat on our stomachs where we could juststretch our heads out over the old tomb, and we hadn't but just doneso when we heard the verger that was then, first shutting the ironporch-gates and locking the south-west door, and then the transeptdoor, so we knew there was something up, and they meant to keep thepublic out for a bit.

"Next thing was, the Dean and the Canon come in by their door on thenorth, and then I see my father, and old Palmer, and a couple of theirbest men, and Palmer stood a talking for a bit with the Dean in themiddle of the choir. He had a coil of rope and the men had crows. Allof 'em looked a bit nervous. So there they stood talking, and at lastI heard the Dean say, 'Well, I've no time to waste, Palmer. If youthink this'll satisfy Southminster people, I'll permit it to be done;but I must say this, that never in the whole course of my life have Iheard such arrant nonsense from a practical man as I have from you.Don't you agree with me, Henslow?' As far as I could hear Mr. Henslowsaid something like 'Oh well! we're told, aren't we, Mr. Dean, not tojudge others?' And the Dean he gave a kind of sniff, and walkedstraight up to the tomb, and took his stand behind it with his back tothe screen, and the others they come edging up rather gingerly.Henslow, he stopped on the south side and scratched on his chin, hedid. Then the Dean spoke up: 'Palmer,' he says, 'which can you doeasiest, get the slab off the top, or shift one of the side slabs?'

"Old Palmer and his men they pottered about a bit looking round theedge of the top slab and sounding the sides on the south and east andwest and everywhere but the north. Henslow said something about itbeing better to have a try at the south side, because there was morelight and more room to move about in. Then my father, who'd beenwatching of them, went round to the north side, and knelt down andfelt of the slab by the chink, and he got up and dusted his knees andsays to the Dean: 'Beg pardon, Mr. Dean, but I think if Mr. Palmer'lltry this here slab he'll find it'll come out easy enough. Seems to meone of the men could prise it out with his crow by means of thischink.' 'Ah! thank you, Worby,' says the Dean; 'that's a goodsuggestion. Palmer, let one of your men do that, will you?'

"So the man come round, and put his bar in and bore on it, and justthat minute when they were all bending over, and we boys got our headswell over the edge of the triforium, there come a most fearful crashdown at the west end of the choir, as if a whole stack of big timberhad fallen down a flight of stairs. Well, you can't expect me to tellyou everything that happened all in a minute. Of course there was aterrible commotion. I heard the slab fall out, and the crowbar on thefloor, and I heard the Dean say, 'Good God!'

"When I looked down again I saw the Dean tumbled over on the floor,the men was making off down the choir, Henslow was just going to helpthe Dean up, Palmer was going to stop the men (as he said afterwards)and my father was sitting on the altar step with his face in hishands. The Dean he was very cross. 'I wish to goodness you'd lookwhere you're coming to, Henslow,' he says. 'Why you should all take toyour heels when a stick of wood tumbles down I cannot imagine'; andall Henslow could do, explaining he was right away on the other sideof the tomb, would not satisfy him.

"Then Palmer came back and reported there was nothing to account forthis noise and nothing seemingly fallen down, and when the Deanfinished feeling of himself they gathered round—except my father, hesat where he was—and someone lighted up a bit of candle and theylooked into the tomb. 'Nothing there,' says the Dean, 'what did I tellyou? Stay! here's something. What's this? a bit of music paper, and apiece of torn stuff—part of a dress it looks like. Both quitemodern—no interest whatever. Another time perhaps you'll take theadvice of an educated man'—or something like that, and off he went,limping a bit, and out through the north door, only as he went hecalled back angry to Palmer for leaving the door standing open. Palmercalled out 'Very sorry, sir,' but he shrugged his shoulders, andHenslow says, 'I fancy Mr. Dean's mistaken. I closed the door behindme, but he's a little upset.' Then Palmer says, 'Why, where's Worby?'and they saw him sitting on the step and went up to him. He wasrecovering himself, it seemed, and wiping his forehead, and Palmerhelped him up on to his legs, as I was glad to see.

"They were too far off for me to hear what they said, but my fatherpointed to the north door in the aisle, and Palmer and Henslow both ofthem looked very surprised and scared. After a bit, my father andHenslow went out of the church, and the others made what haste theycould to put the slab back and plaster it in. And about as the clockstruck twelve the Cathedral was opened again and us boys made the bestof our way home.

"I was in a great taking to know what it was had given my poor fathersuch a turn, and when I got in and found him sitting in his chairtaking a glass of spirits, and my mother standing looking anxious athim, I couldn't keep from bursting out and making confession where I'dbeen. But he didn't seem to take on, not in the way of losing histemper. 'You was there, was you? Well, did you see it?' 'I seeeverything, father,' I said, 'except when the noise came.' 'Did yousee what it was knocked the Dean over?' he says, 'that what come outof the monument? You didn't? Well, that's a mercy.' 'Why, what was it,father?' I said. 'Come, you must have seen it,' he says. 'Didn't yousee? A thing like a man, all over hair, and two great eyes to it?'

"Well, that was all I could get out of him that time, and later on heseemed as if he was ashamed of being so frightened, and he used to putme off when I asked him about it. But years after, when I was got tobe a grown man, we had more talk now and again on the matter, and healways said the same thing. 'Black it was,' he'd say, 'and a mass ofhair, and two legs, and the light caught on its eyes.'

"Well, that's the tale of that tomb, Mr. Lake; it's one we don't tellto our visitors, and I should be obliged to you not to make any use ofit till I'm out of the way. I doubt Mr. Evans'll feel the same as Ido, if you ask him."

This proved to be the case. But over twenty years have passed by, andthe grass is growing over both Worby and Evans; so Mr. Lake felt nodifficulty about communicating his notes—taken in 1890—to me. Heaccompanied them with a sketch of the tomb and a copy of the shortinscription on the metal cross which was affixed at the expense of Dr.Lyall to the centre of the northern side. It was from the Vulgate ofIsaiah xxxiv., and consisted merely of the three words—

IBI CUBAVIT LAMIA.

THE STORY OF A DISAPPEARANCE AND AN APPEARANCE

The letters which I now publish were sent to merecently by a person who knows me to be interestedin ghost stories. There is no doubt about theirauthenticity. The paper on which they are written,the ink, and the whole external aspect put their datebeyond the reach of question.

The only point which they do not make clear is theidentity of the writer. He signs with initials only,and as none of the envelopes of the letters are preserved,the surname of his correspondent—obviouslya married brother—is as obscure as his own. Nofurther preliminary explanation is needed, I think.Luckily the first letter supplies all that could beexpected.

LETTER I

My Dear Robert,—It is with great regret for theenjoyment I am losing, and for a reason which youwill deplore equally with myself, that I write to informyou that I am unable to join your circle for thisChristmas: but you will agree with me that it isunavoidable when I say that I have within these fewhours received a letter from Mrs. Hunt at B——, tothe effect that our Uncle Henry has suddenly andmysteriously disappeared, and begging me to godown there immediately and join the search that isbeing made for him. Little as I, or you either, Ithink, have ever seen of Uncle, I naturally feel thatthis is not a request that can be regarded lightly, andaccordingly I propose to go to B—— by this afternoon'smail, reaching it late in the evening. I shallnot go to the Rectory, but put up at the King's Head,and to which you may address letters. I enclose asmall draft, which you will please make use of forthe benefit of the young people. I shall write youdaily (supposing me to be detained more than a singleday) what goes on, and you may be sure, should thebusiness be cleared up in time to permit of my comingto the Manor after all, I shall present myself. I havebut a few minutes at disposal. With cordial greetingsto you all, and many regrets, believe me, youraffectionate Bro.,

W. R.

LETTER II

My Dear Robert,—In the first place, there is asyet no news of Uncle H., and I think you may finallydismiss any idea—I won't say hope—that I mightafter all "turn up" for Xmas. However, mythoughts will be with you, and you have my bestwishes for a really festive day. Mind that none ofmy nephews or nieces expend any fraction of theirguineas on presents for me.

Since I got here I have been blaming myself fortaking this affair of Uncle H. too easily. From whatpeople here say, I gather that there is very little hopethat he can still be alive; but whether it is accidentor design that carried him off I cannot judge. Thefacts are these. On Friday the 19th, he went as usualshortly before five o'clock to read evening prayersat the Church; and when they were over the clerkbrought him a message, in response to which he setoff to pay a visit to a sick person at an outlying cottagethe better part of two miles away. He paid the visit,and started on his return journey at about half-pastsix. This is the last that is known of him. Thepeople here are very much grieved at his loss; he hadbeen here many years, as you know, and though, asyou also know, he was not the most genial of men,and had more than a little of the martinet in his composition,he seems to have been active in good works,and unsparing of trouble to himself.

Poor Mrs. Hunt, who has been his housekeeperever since she left Woodley, is quite overcome: itseems like the end of the world to her. I am gladthat I did not entertain the idea of taking quarters atthe Rectory; and I have declined several kindly offersof hospitality from people in the place, preferring asI do to be independent, and finding myself verycomfortable here.

You will, of course, wish to know what has beendone in the way of inquiry and search. First, nothingwas to be expected from investigation at the Rectory;and to be brief, nothing has transpired. I asked Mrs.Hunt—as others had done before—whether there waseither any unfavourable symptom in her master suchas might portend a sudden stroke, or attack of illness,or whether he had ever had reason to apprehend anysuch thing: but both she, and also his medical man,were clear that this was not the case. He was quitein his usual health. In the second place, naturally,ponds and streams have been dragged, and fields inthe neighbourhood which he is known to have visitedlast, have been searched—without result. I havemyself talked to the parish clerk and—more important—havebeen to the house where he paid his visit.

There can be no question of any foul play on thesepeople's part. The one man in the house is ill inbed and very weak: the wife and the children ofcourse could do nothing themselves, nor is there theshadow of a probability that they or any of themshould have agreed to decoy poor Uncle H. out inorder that he might be attacked on the way back.They had told what they knew to several otherinquirers already, but the woman repeated it to me.The Rector was looking just as usual: he wasn't verylong with the sick man—"He ain't," she said, "likesome what has a gift in prayer; but there, if we wasall that way, 'owever would the chapel people gettheir living?" He left some money when he wentaway, and one of the children saw him cross the stileinto the next field. He was dressed as he alwayswas: wore his bands—I gather he is nearly the lastman remaining who does so—at any rate in thisdistrict.

You see I am putting down everything. The factis that I have nothing else to do, having brought nobusiness papers with me; and, moreover, it servesto clear my own mind, and may suggest points whichhave been overlooked. So I shall continue to writeall that passes, even to conversations if need be—youmay read or not as you please, but pray keep theletters. I have another reason for writing so fully,but it is not a very tangible one.

You may ask if I have myself made any search inthe fields near the cottage. Something—a good deal—hasbeen done by others, as I mentioned; but Ihope to go over the ground to-morrow. Bow Streethas now been informed, and will send down by to-night'scoach, but I do not think they will make muchof the job. There is no snow, which might havehelped us. The fields are all grass. Of course I wason the qui vive for any indication to-day both goingand returning; but there was a thick mist on theway back, and I was not in trim for wandering aboutunknown pastures, especially on an evening whenbushes looked like men, and a cow lowing in thedistance might have been the last trump. I assureyou, if Uncle Henry had stepped out from amongthe trees in a little copse which borders the path atone place, carrying his head under his arm, I shouldhave been very little more uncomfortable than I was.To tell you the truth, I was rather expecting somethingof the kind. But I must drop my pen for themoment: Mr. Lucas, the curate, is announced.

Later. Mr. Lucas has been, and gone, and thereis not much beyond the decencies of ordinary sentimentto be got from him. I can see that he has givenup any idea that the Rector can be alive, and that,so far as he can be, he is truly sorry. I can alsodiscern that even in a more emotional person thanMr. Lucas, Uncle Henry was not likely to inspirestrong attachment.

Besides Mr. Lucas, I have had another visitor inthe shape of my Boniface—mine host of the "King'sHead"—who came to see whether I had everythingI wished, and who really requires the pen of a Bozto do him justice. He was very solemn and weightyat first. "Well, sir," he said, "I suppose we mustbow our 'ead beneath the blow, as my poor wife hadused to say. So far as I can gather there's beenneither hide nor yet hair of our late respected incumbentscented out as yet; not that he was what theScripture terms a hairy man in any sense of the word."

I said—as well as I could—that I supposed not,but could not help adding that I had heard he wassometimes a little difficult to deal with. Mr. Bowmanlooked at me sharply for a moment, and thenpassed in a flash from solemn sympathy to impassioneddeclamation. "When I think," he said, "of thelanguage that man see fit to employ to me in this hereparlour over no more a matter than a cask of beer—sucha thing as I told him might happen any dayof the week to a man with a family—though as itturned out he was quite under a mistake, and that Iknew at the time, only I was that shocked to hear himI couldn't lay my tongue to the right expression."

He stopped abruptly and eyed me with some embarrassment.I only said, "Dear me, I'm sorry tohear you had any little differences: I suppose myuncle will be a good deal missed in the parish?"Mr. Bowman drew a long breath. "Ah, yes!" hesaid; "your uncle! You'll understand me when Isay that for the moment it had slipped my remembrancethat he was a relative; and natural enough,I must say, as it should, for as to you bearing anyresemblance to—to him, the notion of any such athing is clean ridiculous. All the same, 'ad I 'avebore it in my mind, you'll be among the first to feel,I'm sure, as I should have abstained my lips, or ratherI should not have abstained my lips with no suchreflections."

I assured him that I quite understood, and wasgoing to have asked him some further questions, buthe was called away to see after some business. Bythe way, you need not take it into your head that hehas anything to fear from the inquiry into poor UncleHenry's disappearance—though, no doubt, in thewatches of the night it will occur to him that I thinkhe has, and I may expect explanations to-morrow.

I must close this letter: it has to go by the late coach.

LETTER III

My Dear Robert,—This is a curious letter to bewriting on Christmas Day, and yet after all there isnothing much in it. Or there may be—you shall bethe judge. At least, nothing decisive. The BowStreet men practically say that they have no clue.The length of time and the weather conditions havemade all tracks so faint as to be quite useless: nothingthat belonged to the dead man—I'm afraid noother word will do—has been picked up.

As I expected, Mr. Bowman was uneasy in his mindthis morning; quite early I heard him holding forthin a very distinct voice—purposely so, I thought—tothe Bow Street officers in the bar, as to the lossthat the town had sustained in their Rector, and asto the necessity of leaving no stone unturned (he wasvery great on this phrase) in order to come at thetruth. I suspect him of being an orator of repute atconvivial meetings.

When I was at breakfast he came to wait on me,and took an opportunity when handing a muffin tosay in a low tone, "I 'ope, sir, you reconize as myfeelings towards your relative is not actuated by anytaint of what you may call melignity—you can leavethe room, Elizar, I will see the gentleman 'as all herequires with my own hands—I ask your pardon, sir,but you must be well aware a man is not alwaysmaster of himself: and when that man has been 'urtin his mind by the application of expressions whichI will go so far as to say 'ad not ought to have beenmade use of (his voice was rising all this time andhis face growing redder); no, sir; and 'ere, if youwill permit of it, I should like to explain to you ina very few words the exact state of the bone of contention.This cask—I might more truly call it afirkin—of beer——"

I felt it was time to interpose, and said that I didnot see that it would help us very much to go intothat matter in detail. Mr. Bowman acquiesced, andresumed more calmly:

"Well, sir, I bow to your ruling, and as you say,be that here or be it there, it don't contribute a greatdeal, perhaps, to the present question. All I wishyou to understand is that I am as prepared as you areyourself to lend every hand to the business we haveafore us, and—as I took the opportunity to say asmuch to the Orficers not three-quarters of an hourago—to leave no stone unturned as may throw evena spark of light on this painful matter."

In fact, Mr. Bowman did accompany us on ourexploration, but though I am sure his genuine wishwas to be helpful, I am afraid he did not contributeto the serious side of it. He appeared to be underthe impression that we were likely to meet eitherUncle Henry or the person responsible for his disappearance,walking about the fields, and did a greatdeal of shading his eyes with his hand and calling ourattention, by pointing with his stick, to distant cattleand labourers. He held several long conversationswith old women whom we met, and was very strictand severe in his manner, but on each occasionreturned to our party saying, "Well, I find she don'tseem to 'ave no connexion with this sad affair. Ithink you may take it from me, sir, as there's littleor no light to be looked for from that quarter; notwithout she's keeping somethink back intentional."

We gained no appreciable result, as I told you atstarting; the Bow Street men have left the town,whether for London or not I am not sure.

This evening I had company in the shape of a bagman,a smartish fellow. He knew what was goingforward, but though he has been on the roads forsome days about here, he had nothing to tell ofsuspicious characters—tramps, wandering sailors orgipsies. He was very full of a capital Punch andJudy Show he had seen this same day at W——, andasked if it had been here yet, and advised me by nomeans to miss it if it does come. The best Punchand the best Toby dog, he said, he had ever comeacross. Toby dogs, you know, are the last new thingin the shows. I have only seen one myself, butbefore long all the men will have them.

Now why, you will want to know, do I trouble towrite all this to you? I am obliged to do it, becauseit has something to do with another absurd trifle (asyou will inevitably say), which in my present state ofrather unquiet fancy—nothing more, perhaps—I haveto put down. It is a dream, sir, which I am goingto record, and I must say it is one of the oddest Ihave had. Is there anything in it beyond what thebagman's talk and Uncle Henry's disappearance couldhave suggested? You, I repeat, shall judge: I amnot in a sufficiently cool and judicial frame to do so.

It began with what I can only describe as a pullingaside of curtains: and I found myself seated in aplace—I don't know whether indoors or out. Therewere people—only a few—on either side of me, butI did not recognize them, or indeed think much aboutthem. They never spoke, but, so far as I remember,were all grave and pale-faced and looked fixedly beforethem. Facing me there was a Punch and JudyShow, perhaps rather larger than the ordinary ones,painted with black figures on a reddish-yellow ground.Behind it and on each side was only darkness, but infront there was a sufficiency of light. I was "strungup" to a high degree of expectation and lookedevery moment to hear the pan-pipes and the Roo-too-too-it.Instead of that there came suddenly anenormous—I can use no other word—an enormoussingle toll of a bell, I don't know from how far off—somewherebehind. The little curtain flew up andthe drama began.

I believe someone once tried to re-write Punch asa serious tragedy; but whoever he may have been,this performance would have suited him exactly.There was something Satanic about the hero. Hevaried his methods of attack: for some of his victimshe lay in wait, and to see his horrible face—it wasyellowish white, I may remark—peering round thewings made me think of the Vampyre in Fuseli's foulsketch. To others he was polite and carneying—particularlyto the unfortunate alien who can only sayShallabalah—though what Punch said I never couldcatch. But with all of them I came to dread themoment of death. The crack of the stick on theirskulls, which in the ordinary way delights me, hadhere a crushing sound as if the bone was giving way,and the victims quivered and kicked as they lay. Thebaby—it sounds more ridiculous as I go on—thebaby, I am sure, was alive. Punch wrung its neck,and if the choke or squeak which it gave were notreal, I know nothing of reality.

The stage got perceptibly darker as each crime wasconsummated, and at last there was one murder whichwas done quite in the dark, so that I could see nothingof the victim, and took some time to effect. It wasaccompanied by hard breathing and horrid muffledsounds, and after it Punch came and sat on the footboardand fanned himself and looked at his shoes,which were bloody, and hung his head on one side,and sniggered in so deadly a fashion that I saw someof those beside me cover their faces, and I wouldgladly have done the same. But in the meantime thescene behind Punch was clearing, and showed, notthe usual house front, but something more ambitious—agrove of trees and the gentle slope of a hill, witha very natural—in fact, I should say a real—moonshining on it. Over this there rose slowly an objectwhich I soon perceived to be a human figure withsomething peculiar about the head—what, I wasunable at first to see. It did not stand on its feet,but began creeping or dragging itself across themiddle distance towards Punch, who still sat back toit; and by this time, I may remark (though it did notoccur to me at the moment) that all pretence of thisbeing a puppet show had vanished. Punch was stillPunch, it is true, but, like the others, was in somesense a live creature, and both moved themselves attheir own will.

When I next glanced at him he was sitting inmalignant reflection; but in another instant somethingseemed to attract his attention, and he first satup sharply and then turned round, and evidentlycaught sight of the person that was approaching himand was in fact now very near. Then, indeed, didhe show unmistakable signs of terror: catching uphis stick, he rushed towards the wood, only justeluding the arm of his pursuer, which was suddenlyflung out to intercept him. It was with a revulsionwhich I cannot easily express that I now saw moreor less clearly what this pursuer was like. He wasa sturdy figure clad in black, and, as I thought,wearing bands: his head was covered with a whitishbag.

The chase which now began lasted I do not knowhow long, now among the trees, now along the slopeof the field, sometimes both figures disappearingwholly for a few seconds, and only some uncertainsounds letting one know that they were still afoot.At length there came a moment when Punch, evidentlyexhausted, staggered in from the left and threw himselfdown among the trees. His pursuer was notlong after him, and came looking uncertainly fromside to side. Then, catching sight of the figure onthe ground, he too threw himself down—his backwas turned to the audience—with a swift motiontwitched the covering from his head, and thrust hisface into that of Punch. Everything on the instantgrew dark.

There was one long, loud, shuddering scream, andI awoke to find myself looking straight into the faceof—what in all the world do you think? but—a largeowl, which was seated on my window-sill immediatelyopposite my bed-foot, holding up its wings like twoshrouded arms. I caught the fierce glance of itsyellow eyes, and then it was gone. I heard the singleenormous bell again—very likely, as you are sayingto yourself, the church clock; but I do not think so—andthen I was broad awake.

All this, I may say, happened within the last half-hour.There was no probability of my getting tosleep again, so I got up, put on clothes enough tokeep me warm, and am writing this rigmarole in thefirst hours of Christmas Day. Have I left out anything?Yes; there was no Toby dog, and the namesover the front of the Punch and Judy booth wereKidman and Gallop, which were certainly not whatthe bagman told me to look out for.

By this time, I feel a little more as if I could sleep,so this shall be sealed and wafered.

LETTER IV

My Dear Robert,—All is over. The body hasbeen found. I do not make excuses for not havingsent off my news by last night's mail, for the simplereason that I was incapable of putting pen to paper.The events that attended the discovery bewilderedme so completely that I needed what I could get ofa night's rest to enable me to face the situation at all.Now I can give you my journal of the day, certainlythe strangest Christmas Day that ever I spent or amlikely to spend.

The first incident was not very serious. Mr. Bowmanhad, I think, been keeping Christmas Eve, andwas a little inclined to be captious: at least, he wasnot on foot very early, and to judge from what Icould hear, neither men or maids could do anythingto please him. The latter were certainly reduced totears; nor am I sure that Mr. Bowman succeeded inpreserving a manly composure. At any rate, whenI came downstairs, it was in a broken voice that hewished me the compliments of the season, and a littlelater on, when he paid his visit of ceremony at breakfast,he was far from cheerful: even Byronic, I mightalmost say, in his outlook on life.

"I don't know," he said, "if you think with me,sir; but every Christmas as comes round the worldseems a hollerer thing to me. Why, take an examplenow from what lays under my own eye. There's myservant Eliza—been with me now for going on fifteenyears. I thought I could have placed my confidencein Elizar, and yet this very morning—Christmasmorning too, of all the blessed days in the year—withthe bells a ringing and—and—all like that—Isay, this very morning, had it not have been forProvidence watching over us all, that girl would haveput—indeed I may go so far to say, 'ad put the cheeseon your breakfast-table——" He saw I was aboutto speak, and waved his hand at me. "It's all verywell for you to say, 'Yes, Mr. Bowman, but you tookaway the cheese and locked it up in the cupboard,'which I did, and have the key here, or if not theactual key, one very much about the same size. That'strue enough, sir, but what do you think is the effectof that action on me? Why, it's no exaggeration forme to say that the ground is cut from under my feet.And yet when I said as much to Eliza, not nasty,mind you, but just firm-like, what was my return?'Oh,' she says: 'well,' she says, 'there wasn't nobones broke, I suppose.' Well, sir, it 'urt me, that'sall I can say: it 'urt me, and I don't like to thinkof it now."

There was an ominous pause here, in which Iventured to say something like, "Yes, very trying,"and then asked at what hour the church service wasto be. "Eleven o'clock," Mr. Bowman said with aheavy sigh. "Ah, you won't have no such discoursefrom poor Mr. Lucas as what you would have donefrom our late Rector. Him and me may have hadour little differences, and did do, more's the pity."

I could see that a powerful effort was needed tokeep him off the vexed question of the cask of beer,but he made it. "But I will say this, that a betterpreacher, nor yet one to stand faster by his rights, orwhat he considered to be his rights—however, that'snot the question now—I for one, never set under.Some might say, 'Was he a eloquent man?' and tothat my answer would be: 'Well, there you've abetter right per'aps to speak of your own uncle thanwhat I have.' Others might ask, 'Did he keep a holdof his congregation?' and there again I should reply,'That depends.' But as I say—yes, Eliza, my girl,I'm coming—eleven o'clock, sir, and you inquire forthe King's Head pew." I believe Eliza had beenvery near the door, and shall consider it in my vail.

The next episode was church: I felt Mr. Lucashad a difficult task in doing justice to Christmassentiments, and also to the feeling of disquiet andregret which, whatever Mr. Bowman might say, wasclearly prevalent. I do not think he rose to theoccasion. I was uncomfortable. The organ wolved—youknow what I mean: the wind died—twice inthe Christmas Hymn, and the tenor bell, I supposeowing to some negligence on the part of the ringers,kept sounding faintly about once in a minute duringthe sermon. The clerk sent up a man to see to it,but he seemed unable to do much. I was glad whenit was over. There was an odd incident, too, beforethe service. I went in rather early, and came upontwo men carrying the parish bier back to its placeunder the tower. From what I overheard them saying,it appeared that it had been put out by mistake,by someone who was not there. I also saw the clerkbusy folding up a moth-eaten velvet pall—not a sightfor Christmas Day.

I dined soon after this, and then, feeling disinclinedto go out, took my seat by the fire in the parlour,with the last number of Pickwick, which I had beensaving up for some days. I thought I could be sureof keeping awake over this, but I turned out as badas our friend Smith. I suppose it was half-past twowhen I was roused by a piercing whistle and laughingand talking voices outside in the market-place. Itwas a Punch and Judy—I had no doubt the one thatmy bagman had seen at W——. I was half delighted,half not—the latter because my unpleasant dreamcame back to me so vividly; but, anyhow, I determinedto see it through, and I sent Eliza out with acrown-piece to the performers and a request that theywould face my window if they could manage it.

The show was a very smart new one; the namesof the proprietors, I need hardly tell you, were Italian,Foresta and Calpigi. The Toby dog was there, as Ihad been led to expect. All B—— turned out, butdid not obstruct my view, for I was at the large first-floorwindow and not ten yards away.

The play began on the stroke of a quarter to threeby the church clock. Certainly it was very good;and I was soon relieved to find that the disgust mydream had given me for Punch's onslaughts on hisill-starred visitors was only transient. I laughed atthe demise of the Turncock, the Foreigner, theBeadle, and even the baby. The only drawback wasthe Toby dog's developing a tendency to howl in thewrong place. Something had occurred, I suppose,to upset him, and something considerable: for, Iforget exactly at what point, he gave a most lamentablecry, leapt off the footboard, and shot away acrossthe market-place and down a side street. There wasa stage-wait, but only a brief one. I suppose the mendecided that it was no good going after him, and thathe was likely to turn up again at night.

We went on. Punch dealt faithfully with Judy,and in fact with all comers; and then came themoment when the gallows was erected, and the greatscene with Mr. Ketch was to be enacted. It was nowthat something happened of which I can certainly notyet see the import fully. You have witnessed anexecution, and know what the criminal's head lookslike with the cap on. If you are like me, you neverwish to think of it again, and I do not willinglyremind you of it. It was just such a head as that,that I, from my somewhat higher post, saw in theinside of the showbox; but at first the audience didnot see it. I expected it to emerge into their view,but instead of that there slowly rose for a few secondsan uncovered face, with an expression of terror uponit, of which I have never imagined the like. Itseemed as if the man, whoever he was, was beingforcibly lifted, with his arms somehow pinioned orheld back, towards the little gibbet on the stage. Icould just see the nightcapped head behind him.Then there was a cry and a crash. The whole showboxfell over backwards; kicking legs were seenamong the ruins, and then two figures—as some said;I can only answer for one—were visible running attop speed across the square and disappearing in a lanewhich leads to the fields.

Of course everybody gave chase. I followed; butthe pace was killing, and very few were in, literally,at the death. It happened in a chalk pit: the manwent over the edge quite blindly and broke his neck.They searched everywhere for the other, until itoccurred to me to ask whether he had ever left themarket-place. At first everyone was sure that hehad; but when we came to look, he was there, underthe showbox, dead too.

But in the chalk pit it was that poor Uncle Henry'sbody was found, with a sack over the head, the throathorribly mangled. It was a peaked corner of thesack sticking out of the soil that attracted attention.I cannot bring myself to write in greater detail.

I forgot to say the men's real names were Kidmanand Gallop. I feel sure I have heard them, but noone here seems to know anything about them.

I am coming to you as soon as I can after the funeral.I must tell you when we meet what I think of it all.

TWO DOCTORS

It is a very common thing, in my experience, to find papers shut up inold books; but one of the rarest things to come across any such thatare at all interesting. Still it does happen, and one should neverdestroy them unlooked at. Now it was a practice of mine before the waroccasionally to buy old ledgers of which the paper was good, and whichpossessed a good many blank leaves, and to extract these and use themfor my own notes and writings. One such I purchased for a small sum in1911. It was tightly clasped, and its boards were warped by having foryears been obliged to embrace a number of extraneous sheets.Three-quarters of this inserted matter had lost all vestige ofimportance for any living human being: one bundle had not. That itbelonged to a lawyer is certain, for it is endorsed: The strangestcase I have yet met, and bears initials, and an address in Gray'sInn. It is only materials for a case, and consists of statements bypossible witnesses. The man who would have been the defendant orprisoner seems never to have appeared. The dossier is not complete,but, such as it is, it furnishes a riddle in which the supernaturalappears to play a part. You must see what you can make of it.

The following is the setting and the tale as I elicit it.

The scene is Islington in 1718, and the time the month of June: acountrified place, therefore, and a pleasant season. Dr. Abell waswalking in his garden one afternoon waiting for his horse to bebrought round that he might set out on his visits for the day. To himentered his confidential servant, Luke Jennett, who had been with himtwenty years.

"I said I wished to speak to him, and what I had to say might takesome quarter of an hour. He accordingly bade me go into his study,which was a room opening on the terrace path where he was walking, andcame in himself and sat down. I told him that, much against my will, Imust look out for another place. He inquired what was my reason, inconsideration I had been so long with him. I said if he would excuseme he would do me a great kindness, because (this appears to have beencommon form even in 1718) I was one that always liked to haveeverything pleasant about me. As well as I can remember, he said thatwas his case likewise, but he would wish to know why I should changemy mind after so many years, and, says he, 'you know there can be notalk of a remembrance of you in my will if you leave my service now.'I said I had made my reckoning of that.

"'Then,' says he, 'you must have some complaint to make, and if Icould I would willingly set it right.' And at that I told him, notseeing how I could keep it back, the matter of my former affidavitand of the bedstaff in the dispensing-room, and said that a housewhere such things happened was no place for me. At which he, lookingvery black upon me, said no more, but called me fool, and said hewould pay what was owing me in the morning; and so, his horse beingwaiting, went out. So for that night I lodged with my sister's husbandnear Battle Bridge and came early next morning to my late master, whothen made a great matter that I had not lain in his house and stoppeda crown out of my wages owing.

"After that I took service here and there, not for long at a time, andsaw no more of him till I came to be Dr. Quinn's man at Dodds Hall inIslington."

There is one very obscure part in this statement—namely, thereference to the former affidavit and the matter of the bedstaff. Theformer affidavit is not in the bundle of papers. It is to be fearedthat it was taken out to be read because of its special oddity, andnot put back. Of what nature the story was may be guessed later, butas yet no clue has been put into our hands.

The Rector of Islington, Jonathan Pratt, is the next to step forward.He furnishes particulars of the standing and reputation of Dr. Abelland Dr. Quinn, both of whom lived and practised in his parish.

"It is not to be supposed," he says, "that a physician should be aregular attendant at morning and evening prayers, or at the Wednesdaylectures, but within the measure of their ability I would say thatboth these persons fulfilled their obligations as loyal members of theChurch of England. At the same time (as you desire my private mind) Imust say, in the language of the schools, distinguo. Dr. A. was tome a source of perplexity, Dr. Q. to my eye a plain, honest believer,not inquiring over closely into points of belief, but squaring hispractice to what lights he had. The other interested himself inquestions to which Providence, as I hold, designs no answer to begiven us in this state: he would ask me, for example, what place Ibelieved those beings now to hold in the scheme of creation which bysome are thought neither to have stood fast when the rebel angelsfell, nor to have joined with them to the full pitch of theirtransgression.

"As was suitable, my first answer to him was a question, What warranthe had for supposing any such beings to exist? for that there was nonein Scripture I took it he was aware. It appeared—for as I am on thesubject, the whole tale may be given—that he grounded himself on suchpassages as that of the satyr which Jerome tells us conversed withAntony; but thought too that some parts of Scripture might be cited insupport. 'And besides,' said he, 'you know 'tis the universal beliefamong those that spend their days and nights abroad, and I would addthat if your calling took you so continuously as it does me about thecountry lanes by night, you might not be so surprised as I see you tobe by my suggestion.' 'You are then of John Milton's mind,' I said,'and hold that

"'I do not know,' he said, 'why Milton should take upon himself to say"unseen"; though to be sure he was blind when he wrote that. But forthe rest, why, yes, I think he was in the right.' 'Well,' I said,'though not so often as you, I am not seldom called abroad prettylate; but I have no mind of meeting a satyr in our Islington lanes inall the years I have been here; and if you have had the better luck, Iam sure the Royal Society would be glad to know of it.'

"I am reminded of these trifling expressions because Dr. A. took themso ill, stamping out of the room in a huff with some such word as thatthese high and dry parsons had no eyes but for a prayer-book or a pintof wine.

"But this was not the only time that our conversation took aremarkable turn. There was an evening when he came in, at firstseeming gay and in good spirits, but afterwards as he sat and smokedby the fire falling into a musing way; out of which to rouse him Isaid pleasantly that I supposed he had had no meetings of late withhis odd friends. A question which did effectually arouse him, for helooked most wildly, and as if scared, upon me, and said, 'You werenever there? I did not see you. Who brought you?' And then in a morecollected tone, 'What was this about a meeting? I believe I must havebeen in a doze.' To which I answered that I was thinking of fauns andcentaurs in the dark lane, and not of a witches' Sabbath; but itseemed he took it differently.

"'Well,' said he, 'I can plead guilty to neither; but I find you verymuch more of a sceptic than becomes your cloth. If you care to knowabout the dark lane you might do worse than ask my housekeeper thatlived at the other end of it when she was a child.' 'Yes,' said I,'and the old women in the almshouse and the children in the kennel. IfI were you, I would send to your brother Quinn for a bolus to clearyour brain.' 'Damn Quinn,' says he; 'talk no more of him: he hasembezzled four of my best patients this month; I believe it is thatcursed man of his, Jennett, that used to be with me, his tongue isnever still; it should be nailed to the pillory if he had hisdeserts.' This, I may say, was the only time of his showing me that hehad any grudge against either Dr. Quinn or Jennett, and as was mybusiness, I did my best to persuade him he was mistaken in them. Yetit could not be denied that some respectable families in the parishhad given him the cold shoulder, and for no reason that they werewilling to allege. The end was that he said he had not done so ill atIslington but that he could afford to live at ease elsewhere when hechose, and anyhow he bore Dr. Quinn no malice. I think I now rememberwhat observation of mine drew him into the train of thought which henext pursued. It was, I believe, my mentioning some juggling trickswhich my brother in the East Indies had seen at the court of the Rajahof Mysore. 'A convenient thing enough,' said Dr. Abell to me, 'if bysome arrangement a man could get the power of communicating motion andenergy to inanimate objects.' 'As if the axe should move itselfagainst him that lifts it; something of that kind?' 'Well, I don'tknow that that was in my mind so much; but if you could summon such avolume from your shelf or even order it to open at the right page.'

"He was sitting by the fire—it was a cold evening—and stretched outhis hand that way, and just then the fire-irons, or at least thepoker, fell over towards him with a great clatter, and I did not hearwhat else he said. But I told him that I could not easily conceive ofan arrangement, as he called it, of such a kind that would not includeas one of its conditions a heavier payment than any Christian wouldcare to make; to which he assented. 'But,' he said, 'I have no doubtthese bargains can be made very tempting, very persuasive. Still, youwould not favour them, eh, Doctor? No, I suppose not.'

"This is as much as I know of Dr. Abell's mind, and the feelingbetween these men. Dr. Quinn, as I said, was a plain, honest creature,and a man to whom I would have gone—indeed I have before now gone tohim—for advice on matters of business. He was, however, every nowand again, and particularly of late, not exempt from troublesomefancies. There was certainly a time when he was so much harassed byhis dreams that he could not keep them to himself, but would tell themto his acquaintances and among them to me. I was at supper at hishouse, and he was not inclined to let me leave him at my usual time.'If you go,' he said, 'there will be nothing for it but I must go tobed and dream of the chrysalis.' 'You might be worse off,' said I. 'Ido not think it,' he said, and he shook himself like a man who isdispleased with the complexion of his thoughts. 'I only meant,' saidI, 'that a chrysalis is an innocent thing.' 'This one is not,' hesaid, 'and I do not care to think of it.'

"However, sooner than lose my company he was fain to tell me (for Ipressed him) that this was a dream which had come to him several timesof late, and even more than once in a night. It was to this effect,that he seemed to himself to wake under an extreme compulsion to riseand go out of doors. So he would dress himself and go down to hisgarden door. By the door there stood a spade which he must take, andgo out into the garden, and at a particular place in the shrubbery,somewhat clear, and upon which the moon shone (for there was always inhis dream a full moon), he would feel himself forced to dig. And aftersome time the spade would uncover something light-coloured, which hewould perceive to be a stuff, linen or woollen, and this he mustclear with his hands. It was always the same: of the size of a manand shaped like the chrysalis of a moth, with the folds showing apromise of an opening at one end.

"He could not describe how gladly he would have left all at this stageand run to the house, but he must not escape so easily. So with manygroans, and knowing only too well what to expect, he parted thesefolds of stuff, or, as it sometimes seemed to be, membrane, anddisclosed a head covered with a smooth pink skin, which breaking asthe creature stirred, showed him his own face in a state of death. Thetelling of this so much disturbed him that I was forced out of merecompassion to sit with him the greater part of the night and talk withhim upon indifferent subjects. He said that upon every recurrence ofthis dream he woke and found himself, as it were, fighting for hisbreath."

Another extract from Luke Jennett's long continuous statement comes inat this point.

"I never told tales of my master, Dr. Abell, to anybody in theneighbourhood. When I was in another service I remember to have spokento my fellow-servants about the matter of the bedstaff, but I am sureI never said either I or he were the persons concerned, and it metwith so little credit that I was affronted and thought best to keep itto myself. And when I came back to Islington and found Dr. Abell stillthere, who I was told had left the parish, I was clear that it behovedme to use great discretion, for indeed I was afraid of the man, andit is certain I was no party to spreading any ill report of him. Mymaster, Dr. Quinn, was a very just, honest man, and no maker ofmischief. I am sure he never stirred a finger nor said a word by wayof inducement to a soul to make them leave going to Dr. Abell and cometo him; nay, he would hardly be persuaded to attend them that came,until he was convinced that if he did not they would send into thetown for a physician rather than do as they had hitherto done.

"I believe it may be proved that Dr. Abell came into my master's housemore than once. We had a new chambermaid out of Hertfordshire, and sheasked me who was the gentleman that was looking after the master, thatis Dr. Quinn, when he was out, and seemed so disappointed that he wasout. She said whoever he was he knew the way of the house well,running at once into the study and then into the dispensing-room, andlast into the bedchamber. I made her tell me what he was like, andwhat she said was suitable enough to Dr. Abell; but besides she toldme she saw the same man at church, and someone told her that was theDoctor.

"It was just after this that my master began to have his bad nights,and complained to me and other persons, and in particular whatdiscomfort he suffered from his pillow and bed-clothes. He said he mustbuy some to suit him, and should do his own marketing. And accordinglybrought home a parcel which he said was of the right quality, butwhere he bought it we had then no knowledge, only they were marked inthread with a coronet and a bird. The women said they were of a sortnot commonly met with and very fine, and my master said they were thecomfortablest he ever used, and he slept now both soft and deep. Alsothe feather pillows were the best sorted and his head would sink intothem as if they were a cloud: which I have myself remarked severaltimes when I came to wake him of a morning, his face being almost hidby the pillow closing over it.

"I had never any communication with Dr. Abell after I came back toIslington, but one day when he passed me in the street and asked mewhether I was not looking for another service, to which I answered Iwas very well suited where I was, but he said I was a ticklemindedfellow and he doubted not he should soon hear I was on the worldagain, which indeed proved true."

Dr. Pratt is next taken up where he left off.

"On the 16th I was called up out of my bed soon after it waslight—that is about five—with a message that Dr. Quinn was dead ordying. Making my way to his house I found there was no doubt which wasthe truth. All the persons in the house except the one that let me inwere already in his chamber and standing about his bed, but nonetouching him. He was stretched in the midst of the bed, on his back,without any disorder, and indeed had the appearance of one ready laidout for burial. His hands, I think, were even crossed on his breast.The only thing not usual was that nothing was to be seen of his face,the two ends of the pillow or bolster appearing to be closed quiteover it. These I immediately pulled apart, at the same time rebukingthose present, and especially the man, for not at once coming to theassistance of his master. He, however, only looked at me and shook hishead, having evidently no more hope than myself that there wasanything but a corpse before us.

"Indeed it was plain to anyone possessed of the least experience thathe was not only dead, but had died of suffocation. Nor could it beconceived that his death was accidentally caused by the mere foldingof the pillow over his face. How should he not, feeling theoppression, have lifted his hands to put it away? whereas not a foldof the sheet which was closely gathered about him, as I now observed,was disordered. The next thing was to procure a physician. I hadbethought me of this on leaving my house, and sent on the messengerwho had come to me to Dr. Abell; but I now heard that he was away fromhome, and the nearest surgeon was got, who, however, could tell nomore, at least without opening the body, than we already knew.

"As to any person entering the room with evil purpose (which was thenext point to be cleared), it was visible that the bolts of the doorwere burst from their stanchions, and the stanchions broken away fromthe door-post by main force; and there was a sufficient body ofwitness, the smith among them, to testify that this had been done buta few minutes before I came. The chamber being, moreover, at the topof the house, the window was neither easy of access nor did it showany sign of an exit made that way, either by marks upon the sill orfootprints below upon soft mould."

The surgeon's evidence forms of course part of the report of theinquest, but since it has nothing but remarks upon the healthy stateof the larger organs and the coagulation of blood in various parts ofthe body, it need not be reproduced. The verdict was "Death by thevisitation of God."

Annexed to the other papers is one which I was at first inclined tosuppose had made its way among them by mistake. Upon furtherconsideration I think I can divine a reason for its presence.

It relates to the rifling of a mausoleum in Middlesex which stood in apark (now broken up), the property of a noble family which I will notname. The outrage was not that of an ordinary resurrection man. Theobject, it seemed likely, was theft. The account is blunt andterrible. I shall not quote it. A dealer in the North of Londonsuffered heavy penalties as a receiver of stolen goods in connexionwith the affair.

THE HAUNTED DOLLS' HOUSE

"I suppose you get stuff of that kind through your hands prettyoften?" said Mr. Dillet, as he pointed with his stick to an objectwhich shall be described when the time comes: and when he said it, helied in his throat, and knew that he lied. Not once in twentyyears—perhaps not once in a lifetime—could Mr. Chittenden, skilledas he was in ferreting out the forgotten treasures of half a dozencounties, expect to handle such a specimen. It was collectors'palaver, and Mr. Chittenden recognized it as such.

"Stuff of that kind, Mr. Dillet! It's a museum piece, that is."

"Well, I suppose there are museums that'll take anything."

"I've seen one, not as good as that, years back," said Mr. Chittendenthoughtfully. "But that's not likely to come into the market: and I'mtold they 'ave some fine ones of the period over the water. No: I'monly telling you the truth, Mr. Dillet, when I say that if you was toplace an unlimited order with me for the very best that could begot—and you know I 'ave facilities for getting to know of suchthings, and a reputation to maintain—well, all I can say is, I shouldlead you straight up to that one and say, 'I can't do no better foryou than that, sir.'"

"Hear, hear!" said Mr. Dillet, applauding ironically with the end ofhis stick on the floor of the shop. "How much are you sticking theinnocent American buyer for it, eh?"

"Oh, I shan't be over hard on the buyer, American or otherwise. Yousee, it stands this way, Mr. Dillet—if I knew just a bit more aboutthe pedigree——"

"Or just a bit less," Mr. Dillet put in.

"Ha, ha! you will have your joke, sir. No, but as I was saying, if Iknew just a little more than what I do about the piece—though anyonecan see for themselves it's a genuine thing, every last corner of it,and there's not been one of my men allowed to so much as touch itsince it came into the shop—there'd be another figure in the priceI'm asking."

"And what's that: five and twenty?"

"Multiply that by three and you've got it, sir. Seventy-five's myprice."

"And fifty's mine," said Mr. Dillet.

The point of agreement was, of course, somewhere between the two, itdoes not matter exactly where—I think sixty guineas. But half an hourlater the object was being packed, and within an hour Mr. Dillet hadcalled for it in his car and driven away. Mr. Chittenden, holding thecheque in his hand, saw him off from the door with smiles, andreturned, still smiling, into the parlour where his wife was makingthe tea. He stopped at the door.

"It's gone," he said.

"Thank God for that!" said Mrs. Chittenden, putting down the teapot."Mr. Dillet, was it?"

"Yes, it was."

"Well, I'd sooner it was him than another."

"Oh, I don't know; he ain't a bad feller, my dear."

"Maybe not, but in my opinion he'd be none the worse for a bit of ashake up."

"Well, if that's your opinion, it's my opinion he's put himself intothe way of getting one. Anyhow, we shan't have no more of it, andthat's something to be thankful for."

And so Mr. and Mrs. Chittenden sat down to tea.

And what of Mr. Dillet and of his new acquisition? What it was, thetitle of this story will have told you. What it was like, I shall haveto indicate as well as I can.

There was only just room enough for it in the car, and Mr. Dillet hadto sit with the driver: he had also to go slow, for though the roomsof the Dolls' House had all been stuffed carefully with softcotton-wool, jolting was to be avoided, in view of the immense numberof small objects which thronged them; and the ten-mile drive was ananxious time for him, in spite of all the precautions he insistedupon. At last his front door was reached, and Collins, the butler,came out.

"Look here, Collins, you must help me with this thing—it's a delicatejob. We must get it out upright, see? It's full of little things thatmustn't be displaced more than we can help. Let's see, where shall wehave it? (After a pause for consideration.) Really, I think I shallhave to put it in my own room, to begin with at any rate. On the bigtable—that's it."

It was conveyed—with much talking—to Mr. Dillet's spacious room onthe first floor, looking out on the drive. The sheeting was unwoundfrom it, and the front thrown open, and for the next hour or two Mr.Dillet was fully occupied in extracting the padding and setting inorder the contents of the rooms.

When this thoroughly congenial task was finished, I must say that itwould have been difficult to find a more perfect and attractivespecimen of a Dolls' House in Strawberry Hill Gothic than that whichnow stood on Mr. Dillet's large kneehole table, lighted up by theevening sun which came slanting through three tall sash-windows.

It was quite six feet long, including the Chapel or Oratory whichflanked the front on the left as you faced it, and the stable on theright. The main block of the house was, as I have said, in the Gothicmanner: that is to say, the windows had pointed arches and weresurmounted by what are called ogival hoods, with crockets and finialssuch as we see on the canopies of tombs built into church walls. Atthe angles were absurd turrets covered with arched panels. The Chapelhad pinnacles and buttresses, and a bell in the turret and colouredglass in the windows. When the front of the house was open you sawfour large rooms, bedroom, dining-room, drawing-room and kitchen,each with its appropriate furniture in a very complete state.

The stable on the right was in two storeys, with its proper complementof horses, coaches and grooms, and with its clock and Gothic cupolafor the clock bell.

Pages, of course, might be written on the outfit of the mansion—howmany frying-pans, how many gilt chairs, what pictures, carpets,chandeliers, four-posters, table linen, glass, crockery and plate itpossessed; but all this must be left to the imagination. I will onlysay that the base or plinth on which the house stood (for it wasfitted with one of some depth which allowed of a flight of steps tothe front door and a terrace, partly balustraded) contained a shallowdrawer or drawers in which were neatly stored sets of embroideredcurtains, changes of raiment for the inmates, and, in short, all thematerials for an infinite series of variations and refittings of themost absorbing and delightful kind.

"Quintessence of Horace Walpole, that's what it is: he must have hadsomething to do with the making of it." Such was Mr. Dillet's murmuredreflection as he knelt before it in a reverent ecstasy. "Simplywonderful! this is my day and no mistake. Five hundred pound coming inthis morning for that cabinet which I never cared about, and now thistumbling into my hands for a tenth, at the very most, of what it wouldfetch in town. Well, well! It almost makes one afraid something'llhappen to counter it. Let's have a look at the population, anyhow."

Accordingly, he set them before him in a row. Again, here is anopportunity, which some would snatch at, of making an inventory ofcostume: I am incapable of it.

There were a gentleman and lady, in blue satin and brocaderespectively. There were two children, a boy and a girl. There was acook, a nurse, a footman, and there were the stable servants, twopostilions, a coachman, two grooms.

"Anyone else? Yes, possibly."

The curtains of the four-poster in the bedroom were closely drawnround all four sides of it, and he put his finger in between them andfelt in the bed. He drew the finger back hastily, for it almost seemedto him as if something had—not stirred, perhaps, but yielded—in anodd live way as he pressed it. Then he put back the curtains, whichran on rods in the proper manner, and extracted from the bed awhite-haired old gentleman in a long linen night-dress and cap, andlaid him down by the rest. The tale was complete.

Dinner-time was now near, so Mr. Dillet spent but five minutes inputting the lady and children into the drawing-room, the gentlemaninto the dining-room, the servants into the kitchen and stables, andthe old man back into his bed. He retired into his dressing-room nextdoor, and we see and hear no more of him until something like eleveno'clock at night.

His whim was to sleep surrounded by some of the gems of hiscollection. The big room in which we have seen him contained his bed:bath, wardrobe, and all the appliances of dressing were in acommodious room adjoining: but his four-poster, which itself was avalued treasure, stood in the large room where he sometimes wrote, andoften sat, and even received visitors. To-night he repaired to it in ahighly complacent frame of mind.

There was no striking clock within earshot—none on the staircase,none in the stable, none in the distant church tower. Yet it isindubitable that Mr. Dillet was startled out of a very pleasantslumber by a bell tolling One.

He was so much startled that he did not merely lie breathless withwide-open eyes, but actually sat up in his bed.

He never asked himself, till the morning hours, how it was that,though there was no light at all in the room, the Dolls' House on thekneehole table stood out with complete clearness. But it was so. Theeffect was that of a bright harvest moon shining full on the front ofa big white stone mansion—a quarter of a mile away it might be, andyet every detail was photographically sharp. There were trees aboutit, too—trees rising behind the chapel and the house. He seemed to beconscious of the scent of a cool still September night. He thought hecould hear an occasional stamp and clink from the stables, as ofhorses stirring. And with another shock he realized that, above thehouse, he was looking, not at the wall of his room with its pictures,but into the profound blue of a night sky.

There were lights, more than one, in the windows, and he quickly sawthat this was no four-roomed house with a movable front, but one ofmany rooms, and staircases—a real house, but seen as if through thewrong end of a telescope. "You mean to show me something," he mutteredto himself, and he gazed earnestly on the lighted windows. They wouldin real life have been shuttered or curtained, no doubt, he thought;but, as it was, there was nothing to intercept his view of what wasbeing transacted inside the rooms.

Two rooms were lighted—one on the ground floor to the right of thedoor, one upstairs, on the left—the first brightly enough, the otherrather dimly. The lower room was the dining-room: a table was laid,but the meal was over, and only wine and glasses were left on thetable. The man of the blue satin and the woman of the brocade werealone in the room, and they were talking very earnestly, seated closetogether at the table, their elbows on it: every now and againstopping to listen, as it seemed. Once he rose, came to the windowand opened it and put his head out and his hand to his ear. There wasa lighted taper in a silver candlestick on a sideboard. When the manleft the window he seemed to leave the room also; and the lady, taperin hand, remained standing and listening. The expression on her facewas that of one striving her utmost to keep down a fear thatthreatened to master her—and succeeding. It was a hateful face, too;broad, flat and sly. Now the man came back and she took some smallthing from him and hurried out of the room. He, too, disappeared, butonly for a moment or two. The front door slowly opened and he steppedout and stood on the top of the perron, looking this way and that;then turned towards the upper window that was lighted, and shook hisfist.

It was time to look at that upper window. Through it was seen afour-post bed: a nurse or other servant in an arm-chair, evidentlysound asleep; in the bed an old man lying: awake, and, one would say,anxious, from the way in which he shifted about and moved his fingers,beating tunes on the coverlet. Beyond the bed a door opened. Light wasseen on the ceiling, and the lady came in: she set down her candle ona table, came to the fireside and roused the nurse. In her hand shehad an old-fashioned wine bottle, ready uncorked. The nurse took it,poured some of the contents into a little silver saucepan, added somespice and sugar from casters on the table, and set it to warm on thefire. Meanwhile the old man in the bed beckoned feebly to the lady,who came to him, smiling, took his wrist as if to feel his pulse, andbit her lip as if in consternation. He looked at her anxiously, andthen pointed to the window, and spoke. She nodded, and did as the manbelow had done; opened the casement and listened—perhaps ratherostentatiously: then drew in her head and shook it, looking at theold man, who seemed to sigh.

By this time the posset on the fire was steaming, and the nurse pouredit into a small two-handled silver bowl and brought it to the bedside.The old man seemed disinclined for it and was waving it away, but thelady and the nurse together bent over him and evidently pressed itupon him. He must have yielded, for they supported him into a sittingposition, and put it to his lips. He drank most of it, in severaldraughts, and they laid him down. The lady left the room, smiling goodnight to him, and took the bowl, the bottle and the silver saucepanwith her. The nurse returned to the chair, and there was an intervalof complete quiet.

Suddenly the old man started up in his bed—and he must have utteredsome cry, for the nurse started out of her chair and made but one stepof it to the bedside. He was a sad and terrible sight—flushed in theface, almost to blackness, the eyes glaring whitely, both handsclutching at his heart, foam at his lips.

For a moment the nurse left him, ran to the door, flung it wide open,and, one supposes, screamed aloud for help, then darted back to thebed and seemed to try feverishly to soothe him—to lay himdown—anything. But as the lady, her husband, and several servants,rushed into the room with horrified faces, the old man collapsed underthe nurse's hands and lay back, and the features, contorted with agonyand rage, relaxed slowly into calm.

A few moments later, lights showed out to the left of the house, and acoach with flambeaux drove up to the door. A white-wigged man in blackgot nimbly out and ran up the steps, carrying a small leathertrunk-shaped box. He was met in the doorway by the man and his wife,she with her handkerchief clutched between her hands, he with a tragicface, but retaining his self-control. They led the new-comer into thedining-room, where he set his box of papers on the table, and, turningto them, listened with a face of consternation at what they had totell. He nodded his head again and again, threw out his handsslightly, declined, it seemed, offers of refreshment and lodging forthe night, and within a few minutes came slowly down the steps,entering the coach and driving off the way he had come. As the man inblue watched him from the top of the steps, a smile not pleasant tosee stole slowly over his fat white face. Darkness fell over the wholescene as the lights of the coach disappeared.

But Mr. Dillet remained sitting up in the bed: he had rightly guessedthat there would be a sequel. The house front glimmered out againbefore long. But now there was a difference. The lights were in otherwindows, one at the top of the house, the other illuminating the rangeof coloured windows of the chapel. How he saw through these is notquite obvious, but he did. The interior was as carefully furnished asthe rest of the establishment, with its minute red cushions on thedesks, its Gothic stall-canopies, and its western gallery andpinnacled organ with gold pipes. On the centre of the black and whitepavement was a bier: four tall candles burned at the corners. On thebier was a coffin covered with a pall of black velvet.

As he looked the folds of the pall stirred. It seemed to rise at oneend: it slid downwards: it fell away, exposing the black coffin withits silver handles and name-plate. One of the tall candlesticks swayedand toppled over. Ask no more, but turn, as Mr. Dillet hastily did,and look in at the lighted window at the top of the house, where a boyand girl lay in two truckle-beds, and a four-poster for the nurse roseabove them. The nurse was not visible for the moment; but the fatherand mother were there, dressed now in mourning, but with very littlesign of mourning in their demeanour. Indeed, they were laughing andtalking with a good deal of animation, sometimes to each other, andsometimes throwing a remark to one or other of the children, and againlaughing at the answers. Then the father was seen to go on tiptoe outof the room, taking with him as he went a white garment that hung on apeg near the door. He shut the door after him. A minute or two laterit was slowly opened again, and a muffled head poked round it. A bentform of sinister shape stepped across to the truckle-beds, andsuddenly stopped, threw up its arms and revealed, of course, thefather, laughing. The children were in agonies of terror, the boy withthe bed-clothes over his head, the girl throwing herself out of bedinto her mother's arms. Attempts at consolation followed—the parentstook the children on their laps, patted them, picked up the white gownand showed there was no harm in it, and so forth; and at last puttingthe children back into bed, left the room with encouraging waves ofthe hand. As they left it, the nurse came in, and soon the light dieddown.

Still Mr. Dillet watched immovable.

A new sort of light—not of lamp or candle—a pale ugly light, beganto dawn around the door-case at the back of the room. The door wasopening again. The seer does not like to dwell upon what he sawentering the room: he says it might be described as a frog—the sizeof a man—but it had scanty white hair about its head. It was busyabout the truckle-beds, but not for long. The sound of cries—faint,as if coming out of a vast distance—but, even so, infinitelyappalling, reached the ear.

There were signs of a hideous commotion all over the house: lightsmoved along and up, and doors opened and shut, and running figurespassed within the windows. The clock in the stable turret tolled one,and darkness fell again.

It was only dispelled once more, to show the house front. At thebottom of the steps dark figures were drawn up in two lines, holdingflaming torches. More dark figures came down the steps, bearing, firstone, then another small coffin. And the lines of torch-bearers withthe coffins between them moved silently onward to the left.

The hours of night passed on—never so slowly, Mr. Dillet thought.Gradually he sank down from sitting to lying in his bed—but he didnot close an eye: and early next morning he sent for the doctor.

The doctor found him in a disquieting state of nerves, and recommendedsea-air. To a quiet place on the East Coast he accordingly repaired byeasy stages in his car.

One of the first people he met on the sea front was Mr. Chittenden,who, it appeared, had likewise been advised to take his wife away fora bit of a change.

Mr. Chittenden looked somewhat askance upon him when they met: and notwithout cause.

"Well, I don't wonder at you being a bit upset, Mr. Dillet. What? yes,well, I might say 'orrible upset, to be sure, seeing what me and mypoor wife went through ourselves. But I put it to you, Mr. Dillet, oneof two things: was I going to scrap a lovely piece like that on theone 'and, or was I going to tell customers: 'I'm selling you a regularpicture-palace-dramar in reel life of the olden time, billed toperform regular at one o'clock a.m.'? Why, what would you 'ave saidyourself? And next thing you know, two Justices of the Peace in theback parlour, and pore Mr. and Mrs. Chittenden off in a spring cart tothe County Asylum and everyone in the street saying, 'Ah, I thought it'ud come to that. Look at the way the man drank!'—and me next door,or next door but one, to a total abstainer, as you know. Well, therewas my position. What? Me 'ave it back in the shop? Well, what doyou think? No, but I'll tell you what I will do. You shall have yourmoney back, bar the ten pound I paid for it, and you make what youcan."

Later in the day, in what is offensively called the "smoke-room" ofthe hotel, a murmured conversation between the two went on for sometime.

"How much do you really know about that thing, and where it camefrom?"

"Honest, Mr. Dillet, I don't know the 'ouse. Of course, it came out ofthe lumber room of a country 'ouse—that anyone could guess. But I'llgo as far as say this, that I believe it's not a hundred miles fromthis place. Which direction and how far I've no notion. I'm onlyjudging by guess-work. The man as I actually paid the cheque to ain'tone of my regular men, and I've lost sight of him; but I 'ave the ideathat this part of the country was his beat, and that's every word Ican tell you. But now, Mr. Dillet, there's one thing that ratherphysicks me. That old chap,—I suppose you saw him drive up to thedoor—I thought so: now, would he have been the medical man, do youtake it? My wife would have it so, but I stuck to it that was thelawyer, because he had papers with him, and one he took out was foldedup."

"I agree," said Mr. Dillet. "Thinking it over, I came to theconclusion that was the old man's will, ready to be signed."

"Just what I thought," said Mr. Chittenden, "and I took it that willwould have cut out the young people, eh? Well, well! It's been alesson to me, I know that. I shan't buy no more dolls' houses, norwaste no more money on the pictures—and as to this business ofpoisonin' grandpa, well, if I know myself, I never 'ad much of a turnfor that. Live and let live: that's bin my motto throughout life, andI ain't found it a bad one."

Filled with these elevated sentiments, Mr. Chittenden retired to hislodgings. Mr. Dillet next day repaired to the local Institute, wherehe hoped to find some clue to the riddle that absorbed him. He gazedin despair at a long file of the Canterbury and York Society'spublications of the Parish Registers of the district. No printresembling the house of his nightmare was among those that hung on thestaircase and in the passages. Disconsolate, he found himself at lastin a derelict room, staring at a dusty model of a church in a dustyglass case: Model of St. Stephen's Church, Coxham. Presented by J.Merewether, Esq., of Ilbridge House, 1877. The work of his ancestorJames Merewether, d. 1786. There was something in the fashion of itthat reminded him dimly of his horror. He retraced his steps to a wallmap he had noticed, and made out that Ilbridge House was in CoxhamParish. Coxham was, as it happened, one of the parishes of which hehad retained the name when he glanced over the file of printedregisters, and it was not long before he found in them the record ofthe burial of Roger Milford, aged 76, on the 11th of September, 1757,and of Roger and Elizabeth Merewether, aged 9 and 7, on the 19th ofthe same month. It seemed worth while to follow up this clue, frail asit was; and in the afternoon he drove out to Coxham. The east end ofthe north aisle of the church is a Milford chapel, and on its northwall are tablets to the same persons; Roger, the elder, it seems, wasdistinguished by all the qualities which adorn "the Father, theMagistrate, and the Man": the memorial was erected by his attacheddaughter Elizabeth, "who did not long survive the loss of a parentever solicitous for her welfare, and of two amiable children." Thelast sentence was plainly an addition to the original inscription.

A yet later slab told of James Merewether, husband of Elizabeth, "whoin the dawn of life practised, not without success, those arts which,had he continued their exercise, might in the opinion of the mostcompetent judges have earned for him the name of the BritishVitruvius: but who, overwhelmed by the visitation which deprived himof an affectionate partner and a blooming offspring, passed his Primeand Age in a secluded yet elegant Retirement: his grateful Nephew andHeir indulges a pious sorrow by this too brief recital of hisexcellences."

The children were more simply commemorated. Both died on the night ofthe 12th of September.

Mr. Dillet felt sure that in Ilbridge House he had found the scene ofhis drama. In some old sketchbook, possibly in some old print, he mayyet find convincing evidence that he is right. But the Ilbridge Houseof to-day is not that which he sought; it is an Elizabethan erectionof the forties, in red brick with stone quoins and dressings. Aquarter of a mile from it, in a low part of the park, backed byancient, stag-horned, ivy-strangled trees and thick undergrowth, aremarks of a terraced platform overgrown with rough grass. A few stonebalusters lie here and there, and a heap or two, covered with nettlesand ivy, of wrought stones with badly-carved crockets. This, someonetold Mr. Dillet, was the site of an older house.

As he drove out of the village, the hall clock struck four, and Mr.Dillet started up and clapped his hands to his ears. It was not thefirst time he had heard that bell.

Awaiting an offer from the other side of the Atlantic, the dolls'house still reposes, carefully sheeted, in a loft over Mr. Dillet'sstables, whither Collins conveyed it on the day when Mr. Dilletstarted for the sea coast.

[It will be said, perhaps, and not unjustly, that this is no more thana variation on a former story of mine called The Mezzotint. I canonly hope that there is enough of variation in the setting to make therepetition of the motif tolerable.]

THE UNCOMMON PRAYER-BOOK

I

Mr. Davidson was spending the first week in January alone in a countrytown. A combination of circumstances had driven him to that drasticcourse: his nearest relations were enjoying winter sports abroad, andthe friends who had been kindly anxious to replace them had aninfectious complaint in the house. Doubtless he might have foundsomeone else to take pity on him. "But," he reflected, "most of themhave made up their parties, and, after all, it is only for three orfour days at most that I have to fend for myself, and it will be justas well if I can get a move on with my introduction to the LeventhorpPapers. I might use the time by going down as near as I can toGaulsford and making acquaintance with the neighbourhood. I ought tosee the remains of Leventhorp House, and the tombs in the church."

The first day after his arrival at the Swan Hotel at Longbridge was sostormy that he got no farther than the tobacconist's. The next,comparatively bright, he used for his visit to Gaulsford, whichinterested him more than a little, but had no ulterior consequences.The third, which was really a pearl of a day for early January, wastoo fine to be spent indoors. He gathered from the landlord that afavourite practice of visitors in the summer was to take a morningtrain to a couple of stations westward, and walk back down the valleyof the Tent, through Stanford St. Thomas and Stanford Magdalene, bothof which were accounted highly picturesque villages. He closed withthis plan, and we now find him seated in a third-class carriage at9.45 a.m., on his way to Kingsbourne Junction, and studying the map ofthe district.

One old man was his only fellow-traveller, a piping old man, whoseemed inclined for conversation. So Mr. Davidson, after going throughthe necessary versicles and responses about the weather, inquiredwhether he was going far.

"No, sir, not far, not this morning, sir," said the old man. "I ain'tonly goin' so far as what they call Kingsbourne Junction. There isn'tbut two stations betwixt here and there. Yes, they calls itKingsbourne Junction."

"I'm going there, too," said Mr. Davidson.

"Oh, indeed, sir; do you know that part?"

"No, I'm only going for the sake of taking a walk back to Longbridge,and seeing a bit of the country."

"Oh, indeed, sir! Well, 'tis a beautiful day for a gentleman as enjoysa bit of a walk."

"Yes, to be sure. Have you got far to go when you get to Kingsbourne?"

"No, sir, I ain't got far to go, once I get to Kingsbourne Junction.I'm agoin' to see my daughter, sir. She live at Brockstone. That'sabout two mile across the fields from what they call KingsbourneJunction, that is. You've got that marked down on your map, I expect,sir."

"I expect I have. Let me see, Brockstone, did you say? Here'sKingsbourne, yes; and which way is Brockstone—toward the Stanfords?Ah, I see it: Brockstone Court, in a park. I don't see the village,though."

"No, sir, you wouldn't see no village of Brockstone. There ain't onlythe Court and the Chapel at Brockstone."

"Chapel? Oh, yes, that's marked here, too. The Chapel; close by theCourt, it seems to be. Does it belong to the Court?"

"Yes, sir, that's close up to the Court, only a step. Yes, that belongto the Court. My daughter, you see, sir, she's the keeper's wife now,and she live at the Court and look after things now the family'saway."

"No one living there now, then?"

"No, sir, not for a number of years. The old gentleman, he lived therewhen I was a lad; and the lady, she lived on after him to very nearupon ninety years of age. And then she died, and them that have itnow, they've got this other place, in Warwickshire I believe it is,and they don't do nothin' about lettin' the Court out; but ColonelWildman, he have the shooting, and young Mr. Clark, he's the agent, hecome over once in so many weeks to see to things, and my daughter'shusband, he's the keeper."

"And who uses the Chapel? just the people round about, I suppose."

"Oh, no, no one don't use the Chapel. Why, there ain't no one to go.All the people about, they go to Stanford St. Thomas Church; but myson-in-law, he go to Kingsbourne Church now, because the gentleman atStanford, he have this Gregory singin', and my son-in-law, he don'tlike that; he say he can hear the old donkey brayin' any day of theweek, and he like something a little cheerful on the Sunday." The oldman drew his hand across his mouth and laughed. "That's what myson-in-law say; he say he can hear the old donkey," etc., da capo.

Mr. Davidson also laughed as honestly as he could, thinking meanwhilethat Brockstone Court and Chapel would probably be worth including inhis walk; for the map showed that from Brockstone he could strike theTent Valley quite as easily as by following the mainKingsbourne-Longbridge road. So, when the mirth excited by theremembrance of the son-in-law's bon mot had died down, he returnedto the charge, and ascertained that both the Court and the Chapel wereof the class known as "old-fashioned places," and that the old manwould be very willing to take him thither, and his daughter would behappy to show him whatever she could.

"But that ain't a lot, sir, not as if the family was livin' there; allthe lookin'-glasses is covered up, and the paintin's, and the curtainsand carpets folded away; not but what I dare say she could show you apair just to look at, because she go over them to see as the morthshouldn't get into 'em."

"I shan't mind about that, thank you; if she can show me the inside ofthe Chapel, that's what I'd like best to see."

"Oh, she can show you that right enough, sir. She have the key of thedoor, you see, and most weeks she go in and dust about. That's a niceChapel, that is. My son-in-law, he say he'll be bound they didn't havenone of this Gregory singin' there. Dear! I can't help but smile whenI think of him sayin' that about th' old donkey. 'I can hear himbray,' he say, 'any day of the week'; and so he can, sir; that's true,anyway."

The walk across the fields from Kingsbourne to Brockstone was verypleasant. It lay for the most part on the top of the country, andcommanded wide views over a succession of ridges, plough and pasture,or covered with dark-blue woods—all ending, more or less abruptly, onthe right, in headlands that overlooked the wide valley of a greatwestern river. The last field they crossed was bounded by a closecopse, and no sooner were they in it than the path turned downwardvery sharply, and it became evident that Brockstone was neatly fittedinto a sudden and very narrow valley. It was not long before they hadglimpses of groups of smokeless stone chimneys, and stone-tiled roofs,close beneath their feet; and, not many minutes after that, they werewiping their shoes at the back-door of Brockstone Court, while thekeeper's dogs barked very loudly in unseen places, and Mrs. Porter, inquick succession, screamed at them to be quiet, greeted her father,and begged both her visitors to step in.

II

It was not to be expected that Mr. Davidson should escape being takenthrough the principal rooms of the Court, in spite of the fact thatthe house was entirely out of commission. Pictures, carpets, curtains,furniture, were all covered up or put away, as old Mr. Avery had said;and the admiration which our friend was very ready to bestow had to belavished on the proportions of the rooms, and on the one paintedceiling, upon which an artist who had fled from London in theplague-year had depicted the Triumph of Loyalty and Defeat ofSedition. In this Mr. Davidson could show an unfeigned interest. Theportraits of Cromwell, Ireton, Bradshaw, Peters, and the rest,writhing in carefully-devised torments, were evidently the part of thedesign to which most pains had been devoted.

"That were the old Lady Sadleir had that paintin' done, same as theone what put up the Chapel. They say she were the first that went upto London to dance on Oliver Cromwell's grave." So said Mr. Avery, andcontinued musingly, "Well, I suppose she got some satisfaction to hermind, but I don't know as I should want to pay the fare to London andback just for that; and my son-in-law, he say the same; he say hedon't know as he should have cared to pay all that money only forthat. I was tellin' the gentleman as we come along in the train, Mary,what your 'Arry says about this Gregory singin' down at Stanford here.We 'ad a bit of a laugh over that, sir, didn't us?"

"Yes, to be sure we did; ha! ha!" Once again Mr. Davidson strove to dojustice to the pleasantry of the keeper. "But," he said, "if Mrs.Porter can show me the Chapel, I think it should be now, for the daysaren't long, and I want to get back to Longbridge before it fallsquite dark."

Even if Brockstone Court has not been illustrated in Rural Life (andI think it has not), I do not propose to point out its excellenceshere; but of the Chapel a word must be said. It stands about a hundredyards from the house, and has its own little graveyard and trees aboutit. It is a stone building about seventy feet long, and in the Gothicstyle, as that style was understood in the middle of the seventeenthcentury. On the whole it resembles some of the Oxford college chapelsas much as anything, save that it has a distinct chancel, like aparish church, and a fanciful domed bell-turret at the south-westangle.

When the west door was thrown open, Mr. Davidson could not repress anexclamation of pleased surprise at the completeness and richness ofthe interior. Screen-work, pulpit, seating, and glass—all were of thesame period; and as he advanced into the nave and sighted theorgan-case with its gold embossed pipes in the western gallery, hiscup of satisfaction was filled. The glass in the nave windows waschiefly armorial; and in the chancel were figure-subjects, of the kindthat may be seen at Abbey Dore, of Lord Scudamore's work.

But this is not an archæological review.

While Mr. Davidson was still busy examining the remains of the organ(attributed to one of the Dallams, I believe), old Mr. Avery hadstumped up into the chancel and was lifting the dust-cloths from theblue-velvet cushions of the stall-desks. Evidently it was here thatthe family sat.

Mr. Davidson heard him say in a rather hushed tone of surprise, "Why,Mary, here's all the books open agin!"

The reply was in a voice that sounded peevish rather than surprised."Tt-tt-tt, well, there, I never!"

Mrs. Porter went over to where her father was standing, and theycontinued talking in a lower key. Mr. Davidson saw plainly thatsomething not quite in the common run was under discussion; so he camedown the gallery stairs and joined them. There was no sign of disorderin the chancel any more than in the rest of the Chapel, which wasbeautifully clean; but the eight folio Prayer-Books on the cushions ofthe stall-desks were indubitably open.

Mrs. Porter was inclined to be fretful over it. "Whoever can it be asdoes it?" she said: "for there's no key but mine, nor yet door but theone we come in by, and the winders is barred, every one of 'em; Idon't like it, father, that I don't."

"What is it, Mrs. Porter? Anything wrong?" said Mr. Davidson.

"No, sir, nothing reely wrong, only these books. Every time, prettynear, that I come in to do up the place, I shuts 'em and spreads thecloths over 'em to keep off the dust, ever since Mr. Clark spoke aboutit, when I first come; and yet there they are again, and always thesame page—and as I says, whoever it can be as does it with the doorand winders shut; and as I says, it makes anyone feel queer comin' inhere alone, as I 'ave to do, not as I'm given that way myself, not tobe frightened easy, I mean to say; and there's not a rat in theplace—not as no rat wouldn't trouble to do a thing like that, do youthink, sir?"

"Hardly, I should say; but it sounds very queer. Are they always openat the same place, did you say?"

"Always the same place, sir, one of the psalms it is, and I didn'tparticular notice it the first time or two, till I see a little redline of printing, and it's always caught my eye since."

Mr. Davidson walked along the stalls and looked at the open books.Sure enough, they all stood at the same page: Psalm cix., and at thehead of it, just between the number and the Deus laudum, was arubric, "For the 25th day of April." Without pretending to minuteknowledge of the history of the Book of Common Prayer, he knew enoughto be sure that this was a very odd and wholly unauthorized additionto its text; and though he remembered that April 25 is St. Mark's Day,he could not imagine what appropriateness this very savage psalm couldhave to that festival. With slight misgivings he ventured to turn overthe leaves to examine the title-page, and knowing the need forparticular accuracy in these matters, he devoted some ten minutes tomaking a line-for-line transcript of it. The date was 1653; theprinter called himself Anthony Cadman. He turned to the list of properpsalms for certain days; yes, added to it was that same inexplicableentry: For the 25th day of April: the 109th Psalm. An expert wouldno doubt have thought of many other points to inquire into, but thisantiquary, as I have said, was no expert. He took stock, however, ofthe binding—a handsome one of tooled blue leather, bearing the armsthat figured in several of the nave windows in various combinations.

"How often," he said at last to Mrs. Porter, "have you found thesebooks lying open like this?"

"Reely I couldn't say, sir, but it's a great many times now. Do yourecollect, father, me telling you about it the first time I noticedit?"

"That I do, my dear; you was in a rare taking, and I don't so muchwonder at it; that was five year ago I was paying you a visit atMichaelmas time, and you come in at tea-time, and says you, 'Father,there's the books laying open under the cloths agin'; and I didn'tknow what my daughter was speakin' about, you see, sir, and I says,'Books?' just like that, I says; and then it all came out. But asHarry says,—that's my son-in-law, sir,—'whoever it can be,' he says,'as does it, because there ain't only the one door, and we keeps thekey locked up,' he says, 'and the winders is barred, every one on 'em.Well,' he says, 'I lay once I could catch 'em at it, they wouldn't doit a second time,' he says. And no more they wouldn't, I don'tbelieve, sir. Well, that was five year ago, and it's been happenin'constant ever since by your account, my dear. Young Mr. Clark, hedon't seem to think much to it; but then he don't live here, you see,and 'tisn't his business to come and clean up here of a darkafternoon, is it?"

"I suppose you never notice anything else odd when you are at workhere, Mrs. Porter?" said Mr. Davidson.

"No, sir, I do not," said Mrs. Porter, "and it's a funny thing to me Idon't, with the feeling I have as there's someone settin' here—no,it's the other side, just within the screen—and lookin' at me all thetime I'm dustin' in the gallery and pews. But I never yet see nothin'worse than myself, as the sayin' goes, and I kindly hope I never may."

III

In the conversation that followed (there was not much of it), nothingwas added to the statement of the case. Having parted on good termswith Mr. Avery and his daughter, Mr. Davidson addressed himself tohis eight-mile walk. The little valley of Brockstone soon led him downinto the broader one of the Tent, and on to Stanford St. Thomas, wherehe found refreshment.

We need not accompany him all the way to Longbridge. But as he waschanging his socks before dinner, he suddenly paused and saidhalf-aloud, "By Jove, that is a rum thing!" It had not occurred to himbefore how strange it was that any edition of the Prayer-Book shouldhave been issued in 1653, seven years before the Restoration, fiveyears before Cromwell's death, and when the use of the book, let alonethe printing of it, was penal. He must have been a bold man who puthis name and a date on that title-page. Only, Mr. Davidson reflected,it probably was not his name at all, for the ways of printers indifficult times were devious.

As he was in the front hall of the Swan that evening, making someinvestigations about trains, a small motor stopped in front of thedoor, and out of it came a small man in a fur coat, who stood on thesteps and gave directions in a rather yapping foreign accent to hischauffeur. When he came into the hotel, he was seen to be black-hairedand pale-faced, with a little pointed beard, and gold pince-nez;altogether, very neatly turned out.

He went to his room, and Mr. Davidson saw no more of him tilldinner-time. As they were the only two dining that night, it was notdifficult for the new-comer to find an excuse for falling into talk; hewas evidently wishing to make out what brought Mr. Davidson into thatneighbourhood at that season.

"Can you tell me how far it is from here to Arlingworth?" was one ofhis early questions; and it was one which threw some light on his ownplans; for Mr. Davidson recollected having seen at the station anadvertisement of a sale at Arlingworth Hall, comprising old furniture,pictures, and books. This, then, was a London dealer.

"No," he said, "I've never been there. I believe it lies out byKingsbourne—it can't be less than twelve miles. I see there's a salethere shortly."

The other looked at him inquisitively, and he laughed. "No," he said,as if answering a question, "you needn't be afraid of my competing;I'm leaving this place to-morrow."

This cleared the air, and the dealer, whose name was Homberger,admitted that he was interested in books, and thought there might bein these old country-house libraries something to repay a journey."For," said he, "we English have always this marvellous talent foraccumulating rarities in the most unexpected places, ain't it?"

And in the course of the evening he was most interesting on thesubject of finds made by himself and others. "I shall take theoccasion after this sale to look round the district a bit; perhaps youcould inform me of some likely spots, Mr. Davidson?"

But Mr. Davidson, though he had seen some very tempting locked-upbook-cases at Brockstone Court, kept his counsel. He did not reallylike Mr. Homberger.

Next day, as he sat in the train, a little ray of light came toilluminate one of yesterday's puzzles. He happened to take out analmanac-diary that he had bought for the new year, and it occurred tohim to look at the remarkable events for April 25. There it was: "St.Mark. Oliver Cromwell born, 1599."

That, coupled with the painted ceiling, seemed to explain a good deal.The figure of old Lady Sadleir became more substantial to hisimagination, as of one in whom love for Church and King had graduallygiven place to intense hate of the power that had silenced the one andslaughtered the other. What curious evil service was that which sheand a few like her had been wont to celebrate year by year in thatremote valley? and how in the world had she managed to eludeauthority? And again, did not this persistent opening of the booksagree oddly with the other traits of her portrait known to him? Itwould be interesting for anyone who chanced to be near Brockstone onthe twenty-fifth of April to look in at the Chapel and see if anythingexceptional happened. When he came to think of it, there seemed to beno reason why he should not be that person himself; he, and ifpossible, some congenial friend. He resolved that so it should be.

Knowing that he knew really nothing about the printing ofPrayer-Books, he realized that he must make it his business to get thebest light on the matter without divulging his reasons. I may say atonce that his search was entirely fruitless. One writer of the earlypart of the nineteenth century, a writer of rather windy andrhapsodical chat about books, professed to have heard of a specialanti-Cromwellian issue of the Prayer-Book in the very midst of theCommonwealth period. But he did not claim to have seen a copy, and noone had believed him. Looking into this matter, Mr. Davidson foundthat the statement was based on letters from a correspondent who hadlived near Longbridge; so he was inclined to think that the BrockstonePrayer-Books were at the bottom of it, and had excited a momentaryinterest.

Months went on, and St. Mark's Day came near. Nothing interfered withMr. Davidson's plans of visiting Brockstone, or with those of thefriend whom he had persuaded to go with him, and to whom alone he hadconfided the puzzle. The same 9.45 train which had taken him inJanuary took them now to Kingsbourne; the same field-path led them toBrockstone. But to-day they stopped more than once to pick a cowslip;the distant woods and ploughed uplands were of another colour, and inthe copse there was, as Mrs. Porter said, "a regular charm of birds;why you couldn't hardly collect your mind sometimes with it."

She recognized Mr. Davidson at once, and was very ready to do thehonours of the Chapel. The new visitor, Mr. Witham, was as much struckby the completeness of it as Mr. Davidson had been. "There can't besuch another in England," he said.

"Books open again, Mrs. Porter?" said Davidson, as they walked up tothe chancel.

"Dear, yes, I expect so, sir," said Mrs. Porter, as she drew off thecloths. "Well, there!" she exclaimed the next moment, "if they ain'tshut! That's the first time ever I've found 'em so. But it's not forwant of care on my part, I do assure you, gentlemen, if they wasn't,for I felt the cloths the last thing before I shut up last week, whenthe gentleman had done photografting the heast winder, and every onewas shut, and where there was ribbons left, I tied 'em. Now I think ofit, I don't remember ever to 'ave done that before, and per'aps,whoever it is, it just made the difference to 'em. Well, it onlyshows, don't it? if at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again."

Meanwhile the two men had been examining the books, and now Davidsonspoke.

"I'm sorry to say I'm afraid there's something wrong here, Mrs.Porter. These are not the same books."

It would make too long a business to detail all Mrs. Porter'soutcries, and the questionings that followed. The upshot was this.Early in January the gentleman had come to see over the Chapel, andthought a great deal of it, and said he must come back in the springweather and take some photografts. And only a week ago he had drove upin his motoring car, and a very 'eavy box with the slides in it, andshe had locked him in because he said something about a longexplosion, and she was afraid of some damage happening; and he says,no, not explosion, but it appeared the lantern what they take theslides with worked very slow; and so he was in there the best part ofan hour and she come and let him out, and he drove off with his boxand all and gave her his visiting-card, and oh, dear, dear, to thinkof such a thing! he must have changed the books and took the old onesaway with him in his box.

"What sort of man was he?"

"Oh, dear, he was a small-made gentleman, if you can call him so afterthe way he've behaved, with black hair, that is if it was hair, andgold eye-glasses, if they was gold; reely, one don't know what tobelieve. Sometimes I doubt he weren't a reel Englishman at all, andyet he seemed to know the language, and had the name on hisvisiting-card like anybody else might."

"Just so; might we see the card? Yes; T. W. Henderson, and an addresssomewhere near Bristol. Well, Mrs. Porter, it's quite plain this Mr.Henderson, as he calls himself, has walked off with your eightPrayer-Books and put eight others about the same size in place ofthem. Now listen to me. I suppose you must tell your husband aboutthis, but neither you nor he must say one word about it to anyoneelse. If you'll give me the address of the agent,—Mr. Clark, isn'tit?—I will write to him and tell him exactly what has happened, andthat it really is no fault of yours. But, you understand, we must keepit very quiet; and why? Because this man who has stolen the bookswill of course try to sell them one at a time—for I may tell you theyare worth a good deal of money—and the only way we can bring it hometo him is by keeping a sharp look out and saying nothing."

By dint of repeating the same advice in various forms, they succeededin impressing Mrs. Porter with the real need for silence, and wereforced to make a concession only in the case of Mr. Avery, who wasexpected on a visit shortly. "But you may be safe with father, sir,"said Mrs. Porter. "Father ain't a talkin' man."

It was not quite Mr. Davidson's experience of him; still, there wereno neighbours at Brockstone, and even Mr. Avery must be aware thatgossip with anybody on such a subject would be likely to end in thePorters having to look out for another situation.

A last question was whether Mr. Henderson, so-called, had anyone withhim.

"No, sir, not when he come he hadn't; he was working his own motoringcar himself, and what luggage he had, let me see: there was hislantern and this box of slides inside the carriage, which I helped himinto the Chapel and out of it myself with it, if only I'd knowed! Andas he drove away under the big yew tree by the monument, I see thelong white bundle laying on the top of the coach, what I didn't noticewhen he drove up. But he set in front, sir, and only the boxes insidebehind him. And do you reely think, sir, as his name weren'tHenderson at all? Oh, dear me, what a dreadful thing! Why, fancy whattrouble it might bring to a innocent person that might never have setfoot in the place but for that!"

They left Mrs. Porter in tears. On the way home there was muchdiscussion as to the best means of keeping watch upon possible sales.What Henderson-Homberger (for there could be no real doubt of theidentity) had done was, obviously, to bring down the requisite numberof folio Prayer-Books—disused copies from college chapels and thelike, bought ostensibly for the sake of the bindings, which weresuperficially like enough to the old ones—and to substitute them athis leisure for the genuine articles. A week had now passed withoutany public notice being taken of the theft. He would take a littletime himself to find out about the rarity of the books, and wouldultimately, no doubt, "place" them cautiously. Between them, Davidsonand Witham were in a position to know a good deal of what was passingin the book-world, and they could map out the ground prettycompletely. A weak point with them at the moment was that neither ofthem knew under what other name or names Henderson-Homberger carriedon business. But there are ways of solving these problems.

And yet all this planning proved unnecessary.

IV

We are transported to a London office on this same 25th of April. Wefind there, within closed doors, late in the day, two policeinspectors, a commissionaire, and a youthful clerk. The two latter,both rather pale and agitated in appearance, are sitting on chairs andbeing questioned.

"How long do you say you've been in this Mr. Poschwitz's employment?Six months? And what was his business? Attended sales in various partsand brought home parcels of books. Did he keep a shop anywhere? No?Disposed of 'em here and there, and sometimes to private collectors.Right. Now then, when did he go out last? Rather better than a weekago? Tell you where he was going? No? Said he was going to start nextday from his private residence, and shouldn't be at the office—that'shere, eh?—before two days; you was to attend as usual. Where is hisprivate residence? Oh, that's the address, Norwood way; I see. Anyfamily? Not in this country? Now, then, what account do you give ofwhat's happened since he came back? Came back on the Tuesday, did he?and this is the Saturday. Bring any books? One package; where is it?In the safe? You got the key? No, to be sure, it's open, of course.How did he seem when he got back—cheerful? Well, but how do youmean—curious? Thought he might be in for an illness: he said that,did he? Odd smell got in his nose, couldn't get rid of it; told you tolet him know who wanted to see him before you let 'em in? That wasn'tusual with him? Much the same all Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Out agood deal; said he was going to the British Museum. Often went thereto make inquiries in the way of his business. Walked up and down a lotin the office when he was in. Anyone call in on those days? Mostlywhen he was out. Anyone find him in? Oh, Mr. Collinson? Who's Mr.Collinson? An old customer; know his address? All right, give it usafterwards. Well, now, what about this morning? You left Mr.Poschwitz's here at twelve and went home. Anybody see you?Commissionaire, you did? Remained at home till summoned here. Verywell.

"Now, commissionaire; we have your name—Watkins, eh? Very well, makeyour statement; don't go too quick, so as we can get it down."

"I was on duty 'ere later than usual, Mr. Potwitch 'aving asked me toremain on, and ordered his lunching to be sent in, which came asordered. I was in the lobby from eleven-thirty on, and see Mr. Bligh[the clerk] leave at about twelve. After that no one come in at allexcept Mr. Potwitch's lunching come at one o'clock and the man left infive minutes' time. Towards the afternoon I became tired of waitin'and I come upstairs to this first floor. The outer door what lead tothe orfice stood open, and I come up to the plate-glass door here. Mr.Potwitch he was standing behind the table smoking a cigar, and he laidit down on the mantelpiece and felt in his trouser pockets and tookout a key and went across to the safe. And I knocked on the glass,thinkin' to see if he wanted me to come and take away his tray; buthe didn't take no notice, bein' engaged with the safe door. Then hegot it open and stooped down and seemed to be lifting up a package offof the floor of the safe. And then, sir, I see what looked to be likea great roll of old shabby white flannel, about four to five feethigh, fall for'ards out of the inside of the safe right against Mr.Potwitch's shoulder as he was stooping over; and Mr. Potwitch, heraised himself up as it were, resting his hands on the package, andgave a exclamation. And I can't hardly expect you should take what Isays, but as true as I stand here I see this roll had a kind of a facein the upper end of it, sir. You can't be more surprised than what Iwas, I can assure you, and I've seen a lot in me time. Yes, I candescribe it if you wish it, sir; it was very much the same as thiswall here in colour [the wall had an earth-coloured distemper] and ithad a bit of a band tied round underneath. And the eyes, well they wasdry-like, and much as if there was two big spiders' bodies in theholes. Hair? no, I don't know as there was much hair to be seen; theflannel-stuff was over the top of the 'ead. I'm very sure it warn'twhat it should have been. No, I only see it in a flash, but I took itin like a photograft—wish I hadn't. Yes, sir, it fell right over onto Mr. Potwitch's shoulder, and this face hid in his neck,—yes, sir,about where the injury was,—more like a ferret going for a rabbitthan anythink else; and he rolled over, and of course I tried to getin at the door; but as you know, sir, it were locked on the inside,and all I could do, I rung up everyone, and the surgeon come, and thepolice and you gentlemen, and you know as much as what I do. If youwon't be requirin' me any more to-day I'd be glad to be getting offhome; it's shook me up more than I thought for."

"Well," said one of the inspectors, when they were left alone; and"Well?" said the other inspector; and, after a pause, "What's thesurgeon's report again? You've got it there. Yes. Effect on the bloodlike the worst kind of snake-bite; death almost instantaneous. I'mglad of that, for his sake; he was a nasty sight. No case fordetaining this man Watkins, anyway; we know all about him. And whatabout this safe, now? We'd better go over it again; and, by the way,we haven't opened that package he was busy with when he died."

"Well, handle it careful," said the other; "there might be this snakein it, for what you know. Get a light into the corners of the place,too. Well, there's room for a shortish person to stand up in; but whatabout ventilation?"

"Perhaps," said the other slowly, as he explored the safe with anelectric torch, "perhaps they didn't require much of that. My word! itstrikes warm coming out of that place! like a vault, it is. But here,what's this bank-like of dust all spread out into the room? That musthave come there since the door was opened; it would sweep it all awayif you moved it—see? Now what do you make of that?"

"Make of it? About as much as I make of anything else in this case.One of London's mysteries this is going to be, by what I can see. AndI don't believe a photographer's box full of large-size old-fashionedPrayer-Books is going to take us much further. For that's just whatyour package is."

It was a natural but hasty utterance. The preceding narrative showsthat there was, in fact, plenty of material for constructing a case;and when once Messrs. Davidson and Witham had brought their end toScotland Yard, the join-up was soon made, and the circle completed.

To the relief of Mrs. Porter, the owners of Brockstone decided not toreplace the books in the Chapel; they repose, I believe, in asafe-deposit in town. The police have their own methods of keepingcertain matters out of the newspapers; otherwise, it can hardly besupposed that Watkins's evidence about Mr. Poschwitz's death couldhave failed to furnish a good many head-lines of a startling characterto the press.

A NEIGHBOUR'S LANDMARK

Those who spend the greater part of their time in reading or writingbooks are, of course, apt to take rather particular notice ofaccumulations of books when they come across them. They will not passa stall, a shop, or even a bedroom-shelf without reading some title,and if they find themselves in an unfamiliar library, no host needtrouble himself further about their entertainment. The putting ofdispersed sets of volumes together, or the turning right way up onthose which the dusting housemaid has left in an apoplectic condition,appeals to them as one of the lesser Works of Mercy. Happy in theseemployments, and in occasionally opening an eighteenth-century octavo,to see "what it is all about," and to conclude after five minutes thatit deserves the seclusion it now enjoys, I had reached the middle of awet August afternoon at Betton Court——

"You begin in a deeply Victorian manner," I said; "is this tocontinue?"

"Remember, if you please," said my friend, looking at me over hisspectacles, "that I am a Victorian by birth and education, and thatthe Victorian tree may not unreasonably be expected to bear Victorianfruit. Further, remember that an immense quantity of clever andthoughtful Rubbish is now being written about the Victorian age. Now,"he went on, laying his papers on his knee, "that article, 'TheStricken Years,' in The Times Literary Supplement the otherday,—able? of course it is able; but, oh! my soul and body, do justhand it over here, will you? it's on the table by you."

"I thought you were to read me something you had written," I said,without moving, "but, of course——"

"Yes, I know," he said. "Very well, then, I'll do that first. But Ishould like to show you afterwards what I mean. However——" And helifted the sheets of paper and adjusted his spectacles.

----at Betton Court, where, generations back, two country-houselibraries had been fused together, and no descendant of either stockhad ever faced the task of picking them over or getting rid ofduplicates. Now I am not setting out to tell of rarities I may havediscovered, of Shakespeare quartos bound up in volumes of politicaltracts, or anything of that kind, but of an experience which befell mein the course of my search—an experience which I cannot eitherexplain away or fit into the scheme of my ordinary life.

It was, I said, a wet August afternoon, rather windy, rather warm.Outside the window great trees were stirring and weeping. Between themwere stretches of green and yellow country (for the Court stands highon a hill-side), and blue hills far off, veiled with rain. Up abovewas a very restless and hopeless movement of low clouds travellingnorth-west. I had suspended my work—if you call it work—for someminutes to stand at the window and look at these things, and at thegreenhouse roof on the right with the water sliding off it, and theChurch tower that rose behind that. It was all in favour of my goingsteadily on; no likelihood of a clearing up for hours to come. I,therefore, returned to the shelves, lifted out a set of eight or ninevolumes, lettered "Tracts," and conveyed them to the table for closerexamination.

They were for the most part of the reign of Anne. There was a gooddeal of The Late Peace, The Late War, The Conduct of the Allies:there were also Letters to a Convocation Man; Sermons preached atSt. Michael's, Queenhithe; Enquiries into a late Charge of the Rt.Rev. the Lord Bishop of Winchester (or more probably Winton) to hisClergy: things all very lively once, and indeed still keeping so muchof their old sting that I was tempted to betake myself into anarm-chair in the window, and give them more time than I had intended.Besides, I was somewhat tired by the day. The Church clock struckfour, and it really was four, for in 1889 there was no saving ofdaylight.

So I settled myself. And first I glanced over some of the Warpamphlets, and pleased myself by trying to pick out Swift by his stylefrom among the undistinguished. But the War pamphlets needed moreknowledge of the geography of the Low Countries than I had. I turnedto the Church, and read several pages of what the Dean of Canterburysaid to the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge on the occasionof their anniversary meeting in 1711. When I turned over to a Letterfrom a Beneficed Clergyman in the Country to the Bishop of C....r,I was becoming languid, and I gazed for some moments at the followingsentence without surprise:

"This Abuse (for I think myself justified in calling it by that name)is one which I am persuaded Your Lordship would (if 'twere known toyou) exert your utmost efforts to do away. But I am also persuadedthat you know no more of its existence than (in the words of theCountry Song)

Then indeed I did sit up in my chair, and run my finger along thelines to make sure that I had read them right. There was no mistake.Nothing more was to be gathered from the rest of the pamphlet. Thenext paragraph definitely changed the subject: "But I have said enoughupon this Topick," were its opening words. So discreet, too, was thenamelessness of the Beneficed Clergyman that he refrained even frominitials, and had his letter printed in London.

The riddle was of a kind that might faintly interest anyone: to me,who have dabbled a good deal in works of folklore, it was reallyexciting. I was set upon solving it—on finding out, I mean, whatstory lay behind it; and, at least, I felt myself lucky in one point,that, whereas I might have come on the paragraph in some CollegeLibrary far away, here I was at Betton, on the very scene of action.

The Church clock struck five, and a single stroke on a gong followed.This, I knew, meant tea. I heaved myself out of the deep chair, andobeyed the summons.

My host and I were alone at the Court. He came in soon, wet from around of landlord's errands, and with pieces of local news which hadto be passed on before I could make an opportunity of asking whetherthere was a particular place in the parish that was still known asBetton Wood.

"Betton Wood," he said, "was a short mile away, just on the crest ofBetton Hill, and my father stubbed up the last bit of it when it paidbetter to grow corn than scrub oaks. Why do you want to know aboutBetton Wood?"

"Because," I said, "in an old pamphlet I was reading just now, thereare two lines of a country song which mention it, and they sound as ifthere was a story belonging to them. Someone says that someone elseknows no more of whatever it may be—

"Goodness," said Philipson, "I wonder whether that was why ... Imust ask old Mitchell." He muttered something else to himself, andtook some more tea, thoughtfully.

"Whether that was why——?" I said.

"Yes, I was going to say, whether that was why my father had the Woodstubbed up. I said just now it was to get more plough-land, but Idon't really know if it was. I don't believe he ever broke it up: it'srough pasture at this moment. But there's one old chap at least who'dremember something of it—old Mitchell." He looked at his watch."Blest if I don't go down there and ask him. I don't think I'll takeyou," he went on; "he's not so likely to tell anything he thinks isodd if there's a stranger by."

"Well, mind you remember every single thing he does tell. As for me,if it clears up, I shall go out, and if it doesn't, I shall go on withthe books."

It did clear up, sufficiently at least to make me think it worth whileto walk up the nearest hill and look over the country. I did not knowthe lie of the land; it was the first visit I had paid to Philipson,and this was the first day of it. So I went down the garden andthrough the wet shrubberies with a very open mind, and offered noresistance to the indistinct impulse—was it, however, so veryindistinct?—which kept urging me to bear to the left whenever therewas a forking of the path. The result was that after ten minutes ormore of dark going between dripping rows of box and laurel and privet,I was confronted by a stone arch in the Gothic style set in the stonewall which encircled the whole demesne. The door was fastened by aspring-lock, and I took the precaution of leaving this on the jar as Ipassed out into the road. That road I crossed, and entered a narrowlane between hedges which led upward; and that lane I pursued at aleisurely pace for as much as half a mile, and went on to the field towhich it led. I was now on a good point of vantage for taking in thesituation of the Court, the village, and the environment; and I leantupon a gate and gazed westward and downward.

I think we must all know the landscapes—are they by Birket Foster, orsomewhat earlier?—which, in the form of woodcuts, decorate thevolumes of poetry that lay on the drawing-room tables of our fathersand grandfathers—volumes in "Art Cloth, embossed bindings"; thatstrikes me as being the right phrase. I confess myself an admirer ofthem, and especially of those which show the peasant leaning over agate in a hedge and surveying, at the bottom of a downward slope, thevillage church spire—embosomed amid venerable trees, and a fertileplain intersected by hedgerows, and bounded by distant hills, behindwhich the orb of day is sinking (or it may be rising) amid levelclouds illumined by his dying (or nascent) ray. The expressionsemployed here are those which seem appropriate to the pictures I havein mind; and were there opportunity, I would try to work in the Vale,the Grove, the Cot, and the Flood. Anyhow, they are beautiful to me,these landscapes, and it was just such a one that I was nowsurveying. It might have come straight out of "Gems of Sacred Song,selected by a Lady" and given as a birthday present to EleanorPhilipson in 1852 by her attached friend Millicent Graves. All at onceI turned as if I had been stung. There thrilled into my right ear andpierced my head a note of incredible sharpness, like the shriek of abat, only ten times intensified—the kind of thing that makes onewonder if something has not given way in one's brain. I held mybreath, and covered my ear, and shivered. Something in thecirculation: another minute or two, I thought, and I return home. ButI must fix the view a little more firmly in my mind. Only, when Iturned to it again, the taste was gone out of it. The sun was downbehind the hill, and the light was off the fields, and when the clockbell in the Church tower struck seven, I thought no longer of kindmellow evening hours of rest, and scents of flowers and woods onevening air; and of how someone on a farm a mile or two off would besaying "How clear Betton bell sounds to-night after the rain!"; butinstead images came to me of dusty beams and creeping spiders andsavage owls up in the tower, and forgotten graves and their uglycontents below, and of flying Time and all it had taken out of mylife. And just then into my left ear—close as if lips had been putwithin an inch of my head, the frightful scream came thrilling again.

There was no mistake possible now. It was from outside. "With nolanguage but a cry" was the thought that flashed into my mind. Hideousit was beyond anything I had heard or have heard since, but I couldread no emotion in it, and doubted if I could read any intelligence.All its effect was to take away every vestige, every possibility, ofenjoyment, and make this no place to stay in one moment more. Ofcourse there was nothing to be seen: but I was convinced that, if Iwaited, the thing would pass me again on its aimless, endless beat,and I could not bear the notion of a third repetition. I hurried backto the lane and down the hill. But when I came to the arch in the wallI stopped. Could I be sure of my way among those dank alleys, whichwould be danker and darker now! No, I confessed to myself that I wasafraid: so jarred were all my nerves with the cry on the hill that Ireally felt I could not afford to be startled even by a little bird ina bush, or a rabbit. I followed the road which followed the wall, andI was not sorry when I came to the gate and the lodge, and descriedPhilipson coming up towards it from the direction of the village.

"And where have you been?" said he.

"I took that lane that goes up the hill opposite the stone arch in thewall."

"Oh! did you? Then you've been very near where Betton Wood used to be:at least, if you followed it up to the top, and out into the field."

And if the reader will believe it, that was the first time that I puttwo and two together. Did I at once tell Philipson what had happenedto me? I did not. I have not had other experiences of the kind whichare called super-natural, or -normal, or -physical, but, though I knewvery well I must speak of this one before long, I was not at allanxious to do so; and I think I have read that this is a common case.

So all I said was: "Did you see the old man you meant to?"

"Old Mitchell? Yes, I did; and got something of a story out of him.I'll keep it till after dinner. It really is rather odd."

So when we were settled after dinner he began to report, faithfully,as he said, the dialogue that had taken place. Mitchell, not far offeighty years old, was in his elbow-chair. The married daughter withwhom he lived was in and out preparing for tea.

After the usual salutations: "Mitchell, I want you to tell mesomething about the Wood."

"What Wood's that, Master Reginald?"

"Betton Wood. Do you remember it?"

Mitchell slowly raised his hand and pointed an accusing forefinger."It were your father done away with Betton Wood, Master Reginald, Ican tell you that much."

"Well, I know it was, Mitchell. You needn't look at me as if it weremy fault."

"Your fault? No, I says it were your father done it, before yourtime."

"Yes, and I dare say if the truth was known, it was your father thatadvised him to do it, and I want to know why."

Mitchell seemed a little amused. "Well," he said, "my father werewoodman to your father and your grandfather before him, and if hedidn't know what belonged to his business, he'd oughter done. And ifhe did give advice that way, I suppose he might have had his reasons,mightn't he now?"

"Of course he might, and I want you to tell me what they were."

"Well now, Master Reginald, whatever makes you think as I know whathis reasons might 'a been I don't know how many year ago?"

"Well, to be sure, it is a long time, and you might easily haveforgotten, if ever you knew. I suppose the only thing is for me to goand ask old Ellis what he can recollect about it."

That had the effect I hoped for.

"Old Ellis!" he growled. "First time ever I hear anyone say old Elliswere any use for any purpose. I should 'a thought you know'd betterthan that yourself, Master Reginald. What do you suppose old Ellis cantell you better'n what I can about Betton Wood, and what call have hegot to be put afore me, I should like to know. His father warn'twoodman on the place: he were ploughman—that's what he was, and soanyone could tell you what knows; anyone could tell you that, I says."

"Just so, Mitchell, but if you know all about Betton Wood and won'ttell me, why, I must do the next best I can, and try and get it outof somebody else; and old Ellis has been on the place very nearly aslong as you have."

"That he ain't, not by eighteen months! Who says I wouldn't tell younothing about the Wood? I ain't no objection; only it's a funny kindof a tale, and 'taint right to my thinkin' it should be all about theparish. You, Lizzie, do you keep in your kitchen a bit. Me and MasterReginald wants to have a word or two private. But one thing I'd liketo know, Master Reginald, what come to put you upon asking about itto-day?"

"Oh! well, I happened to hear of an old saying about something thatwalks in Betton Wood. And I wondered if that had anything to do withits being cleared away: that's all."

"Well, you was in the right, Master Reginald, however you come to hearof it, and I believe I can tell you the rights of it better thananyone in this parish, let alone old Ellis. You see it came about thisway: that the shortest road to Allen's Farm laid through the Wood, andwhen we was little my poor mother she used to go so many times in theweek to the farm to fetch a quart of milk, because Mr. Allen what hadthe farm then under your father, he was a good man, and anyone thathad a young family to bring up, he was willing to allow 'em so much inthe week. But never you mind about that now. And my poor mother shenever liked to go through the Wood, because there was a lot of talkin the place, and sayings like what you spoke about just now. Butevery now and again, when she happened to be late with her work, she'dhave to take the short road through the Wood, and as sure as ever shedid, she'd come home in a rare state. I remember her and my fathertalking about it, and he'd say, 'Well, but it can't do you no harm,Emma,' and she'd say, 'Oh! but you haven't an idear of it, George.Why, it went right through my head,' she says, 'and I came over allbewildered-like, and as if I didn't know where I was. You see,George,' she says, 'it ain't as if you was about there in the dusk.You always goes there in the daytime, now don't you?' and he says:'Why, to be sure I do; do you take me for a fool?' And so they'd goon. And time passed by, and I think it wore her out, because, youunderstand, it warn't no use to go for the milk not till theafternoon, and she wouldn't never send none of us children instead,for fear we should get a fright. Nor she wouldn't tell us about itherself. 'No,' she says, 'it's bad enough for me. I don't want no oneelse to go through it, nor yet hear talk about it.' But one time Irecollect she says, 'Well, first it's a rustling-like all along in thebushes, coming very quick, either towards me or after me according tothe time, and then there comes this scream as appears to pierce rightthrough from the one ear to the other, and the later I am comingthrough, the more like I am to hear it twice over; but thanks be, Inever yet heard it the three times.' And then I asked her, and Isays: 'Why, that seems like someone walking to and fro all the time,don't it?' and she says, 'Yes, it do, and whatever it is she wants, Ican't think': and I says, 'Is it a woman, mother?' and she says, 'Yes,I've heard it is a woman.'

"Anyway, the end of it was my father he spoke to your father, and toldhim the Wood was a bad wood. 'There's never a bit of game in it, andthere's never a bird's nest there,' he says, 'and it ain't no mannerof use to you.' And after a lot of talk, your father he come and seemy mother about it, and he see she warn't one of these silly women asgets nervish about nothink at all, and he made up his mind there wassomethink in it, and after that he asked about in the neighbourhood,and I believe he made out somethink, and wrote it down in a paper whatvery like you've got up at the Court, Master Reginald. And then hegave the order, and the Wood was stubbed up. They done all the work inthe daytime, I recollect, and was never there after three o'clock."

"Didn't they find anything to explain it, Mitchell? No bones oranything of that kind?"

"Nothink at all, Master Reginald, only the mark of a hedge and ditchalong the middle, much about where the quickset hedge run now; andwith all the work they done, if there had been anyone put away there,they was bound to find 'em. But I don't know whether it done muchgood, after all. People here don't seem to like the place no betterthan they did afore."

"That's about what I got out of Mitchell," said Philipson, "and as faras any explanation goes, it leaves us very much where we were. I mustsee if I can't find that paper."

"Why didn't your father ever tell you about the business?" I said.

"He died before I went to school, you know, and I imagine he didn'twant to frighten us children by any such story. I can remember beingshaken and slapped by my nurse for running up that lane towards theWood when we were coming back rather late one winter afternoon: but inthe daytime no one interfered with our going into the Wood if wewanted to—only we never did want."

"Hm!" I said, and then, "Do you think you'll be able to find thatpaper that your father wrote?"

"Yes," he said, "I do. I expect it's no farther away than thatcupboard behind you. There's a bundle or two of things specially putaside, most of which I've looked through at various times, and I knowthere's one envelope labelled Betton Wood: but as there was no BettonWood any more, I never thought it would be worth while to open it, andI never have. We'll do it now, though."

"Before you do," I said (I was still reluctant, but I thought this wasperhaps the moment for my disclosure), "I'd better tell you I thinkMitchell was right when he doubted if clearing away the Wood had putthings straight." And I gave the account you have heard already: Ineed not say Philipson was interested. "Still there?" he said. "It'samazing. Look here, will you come out there with me now, and see whathappens?"

"I will do no such thing," I said, "and if you knew the feeling, you'dbe glad to walk ten miles in the opposite direction. Don't talk of it.Open your envelope, and let's hear what your father made out."

He did so, and read me the three or four pages of jottings which itcontained. At the top was written a motto from Scott's Glenfinlas,which seemed to me well-chosen:

Then there were notes of his talk with Mitchell's mother, from which Iextract only this much. "I asked her if she never thought she sawanything to account for the sounds she heard. She told me, no morethan once, on the darkest evening she ever came through the Wood; andthen she seemed forced to look behind her as the rustling came in thebushes, and she thought she saw something all in tatters with the twoarms held out in front of it coming on very fast, and at that she ranfor the stile, and tore her gown all to flinders getting over it."

Then he had gone to two other people whom he found very shy oftalking. They seemed to think, among other things, that it reflecteddiscredit on the parish. However, one, Mrs. Emma Frost, was prevailedupon to repeat what her mother had told her. "They say it was a ladyof title that married twice over, and her first husband went by thename of Brown, or it might have been Bryan ("Yes, there were Bryans atthe Court before it came into our family," Philipson put in), and sheremoved her neighbour's landmark: leastways she took in a fair pieceof the best pasture in Betton parish what belonged by rights to twochildren as hadn't no one to speak for them, and they say years aftershe went from bad to worse, and made out false papers to gainthousands of pounds up in London, and at last they was proved in lawto be false, and she would have been tried and put to death very like,only she escaped away for the time. But no one can't avoid the cursethat's laid on them that removes the landmark, and so we take it shecan't leave Betton before someone take and put it right again."

At the end of the paper there was a note to this effect. "I regretthat I cannot find any clue to previous owners of the fields adjoiningthe Wood. I do not hesitate to say that if I could discover theirrepresentatives, I should do my best to indemnify them for the wrongdone to them in years now long past: for it is undeniable that theWood is very curiously disturbed in the manner described by the peopleof the place. In my present ignorance alike of the extent of the landwrongly appropriated, and of the rightful owners, I am reduced tokeeping a separate note of the profits derived from this part of theestate, and my custom has been to apply the sum that would representthe annual yield of about five acres to the common benefit of theparish and to charitable uses: and I hope that those who succeed memay see fit to continue this practice."

So much for the elder Mr. Philipson's paper. To those who, likemyself, are readers of the State Trials it will have gone far toilluminate the situation. They will remember how between the years1678 and 1684 the Lady Ivy, formerly Theodosia Bryan, was alternatelyPlaintiff and Defendant in a series of trials in which she was tryingto establish a claim against the Dean and Chapter of St. Paul's for aconsiderable and very valuable tract of land in Shadwell: how in thelast of those trials, presided over by L.C.J. Jeffreys, it was provedup to the hilt that the deeds upon which she based her claim wereforgeries executed under her orders: and how, after an information forperjury and forgery was issued against her, she disappearedcompletely—so completely, indeed, that no expert has ever been ableto tell me what became of her.

Does not the story I have told suggest that she may still be heard ofon the scene of one of her earlier and more successful exploits?

"That," said my friend, as he folded up his papers, "is a veryfaithful record of my one extraordinary experience. And now——"

But I had so many questions to ask him, as for instance, whether hisfriend had found the proper owner of the land, whether he had doneanything about the hedge, whether the sounds were ever heard now, whatwas the exact title and date of his pamphlet, etc., etc., thatbed-time came and passed, without his having an opportunity to revertto the Literary Supplement of The Times.

[Thanks to the researches of Sir John Fox, in his book on The LadyIvie's Trial (Oxford, 1929), we now know that my heroine died in herbed in 1695, having—heaven knows how—been acquitted of the forgery,for which she had undoubtedly been responsible.]

A VIEW FROM A HILL

How pleasant it can be, alone in a first-class railway carriage, onthe first day of a holiday that is to be fairly long, to dawdlethrough a bit of English country that is unfamiliar, stopping at everystation. You have a map open on your knee, and you pick out thevillages that lie to right and left by their church towers. You marvelat the complete stillness that attends your stoppage at the stations,broken only by a footstep crunching the gravel. Yet perhaps that isbest experienced after sundown, and the traveller I have in mind wasmaking his leisurely progress on a sunny afternoon in the latter halfof June.

He was in the depths of the country. I need not particularize furtherthan to say that if you divided the map of England into four quarters,he would have been found in the south-western of them.

He was a man of academic pursuits, and his term was just over. He wason his way to meet a new friend, older than himself. The two of themhad met first on an official inquiry in town, had found that they hadmany tastes and habits in common, liked each other, and the result wasan invitation from Squire Richards to Mr. Fanshawe which was nowtaking effect.

The journey ended about five o'clock. Fanshawe was told by a cheerfulcountry porter that the car from the Hall had been up to the stationand left a message that something had to be fetched from half a milefarther on, and would the gentleman please to wait a few minutes tillit came back? "But I see," continued the porter, "as you've got yourbysticle, and very like you'd find it pleasanter to ride up to the'All yourself. Straight up the road 'ere, and then first turn to theleft—it ain't above two mile—and I'll see as your things is put inthe car for you. You'll excuse me mentioning it, only I thought itwere a nice evening for a ride. Yes, sir, very seasonable weather forthe haymakers: let me see, I have your bike ticket. Thank you, sir;much obliged: you can't miss your road, etc., etc."

The two miles to the Hall were just what was needed, after the day inthe train, to dispel somnolence and impart a wish for tea. The Hall,when sighted, also promised just what was needed in the way of a quietresting-place after days of sitting on committees andcollege-meetings. It was neither excitingly old nor depressingly new.Plastered walls, sash-windows, old trees, smooth lawns, were thefeatures which Fanshawe noticed as he came up the drive. SquireRichards, a burly man of sixty odd, was awaiting him in the porch withevident pleasure.

"Tea first," he said, "or would you like a longer drink? No? Allright, tea's ready in the garden. Come along, they'll put your machineaway. I always have tea under the lime-tree by the stream on a daylike this."

Nor could you ask for a better place. Midsummer afternoon, shade andscent of a vast lime-tree, cool, swirling water within five yards. Itwas long before either of them suggested a move. But about six, Mr.Richards sat up, knocked out his pipe, and said: "Look here, it's coolenough now to think of a stroll, if you're inclined? All right: thenwhat I suggest is that we walk up the park and get on to thehill-side, where we can look over the country. We'll have a map, andI'll show you where things are; and you can go off on your machine, orwe can take the car, according as you want exercise or not. If you'reready, we can start now and be back well before eight, taking it veryeasy."

"I'm ready. I should like my stick, though, and have you got anyfield-glasses? I lent mine to a man a week ago, and he's gone off Lordknows where and taken them with him."

Mr. Richards pondered. "Yes," he said, "I have, but they're not thingsI use myself, and I don't know whether the ones I have will suit you.They're old-fashioned, and about twice as heavy as they make 'em now.You're welcome to have them, but I won't carry them. By the way, whatdo you want to drink after dinner?"

Protestations that anything would do were overruled, and asatisfactory settlement was reached on the way to the front hall,where Mr. Fanshawe found his stick, and Mr. Richards, afterthoughtful pinching of his lower lip, resorted to a drawer in thehall-table, extracted a key, crossed to a cupboard in the panelling,opened it, took a box from the shelf, and put it on the table. "Theglasses are in there," he said, "and there's some dodge of opening it,but I've forgotten what it is. You try." Mr. Fanshawe accordinglytried. There was no keyhole, and the box was solid, heavy and smooth:it seemed obvious that some part of it would have to be pressed beforeanything could happen. "The corners," said he to himself, "are thelikely places; and infernally sharp corners they are too," he added,as he put his thumb in his mouth after exerting force on a lowercorner.

"What's the matter?" said the Squire.

"Why, your disgusting Borgia box has scratched me, drat it," saidFanshawe. The Squire chuckled unfeelingly. "Well, you've got it open,anyway," he said.

"So I have! Well, I don't begrudge a drop of blood in a good cause,and here are the glasses. They are pretty heavy, as you said, but Ithink I'm equal to carrying them."

"Ready?" said the Squire. "Come on then; we go out by the garden."

So they did, and passed out into the park, which sloped decidedlyupwards to the hill which, as Fanshawe had seen from the train,dominated the country. It was a spur of a larger range that laybehind. On the way, the Squire, who was great on earthworks, pointedout various spots where he detected or imagined traces of war-ditchesand the like. "And here," he said, stopping on a more or less levelplot with a ring of large trees, "is Baxter's Roman villa." "Baxter?"said Mr. Fanshawe.

"I forgot; you don't know about him. He was the old chap I got thoseglasses from. I believe he made them. He was an old watch-maker downin the village, a great antiquary. My father gave him leave to grubabout where he liked; and when he made a find he used to lend him aman or two to help him with the digging. He got a surprising lot ofthings together, and when he died—I dare say it's ten or fifteenyears ago—I bought the whole lot and gave them to the town museum.We'll run in one of these days, and look over them. The glasses cameto me with the rest, but of course I kept them. If you look at them,you'll see they're more or less amateur work—the body of them;naturally the lenses weren't his making."

"Yes, I see they are just the sort of thing that a clever workman in adifferent line of business might turn out. But I don't see why he madethem so heavy. And did Baxter actually find a Roman villa here?"

"Yes, there's a pavement turfed over, where we're standing: it was toorough and plain to be worth taking up, but of course there aredrawings of it: and the small things and pottery that turned up werequite good of their kind. An ingenious chap, old Baxter: he seemed tohave a quite out-of-the-way instinct for these things. He wasinvaluable to our archæologists. He used to shut up his shop for daysat a time, and wander off over the district, marking down places,where he scented anything, on the ordnance map; and he kept a bookwith fuller notes of the places. Since his death, a good many of themhave been sampled, and there's always been something to justify him."

"What a good man!" said Mr. Fanshawe.

"Good?" said the Squire, pulling up brusquely.

"I meant useful to have about the place," said Mr. Fanshawe. "But washe a villain?"

"I don't know about that either," said the Squire; "but all I can sayis, if he was good, he wasn't lucky. And he wasn't liked: I didn'tlike him," he added, after a moment.

"Oh?" said Fanshawe interrogatively.

"No, I didn't; but that's enough about Baxter: besides, this is thestiffest bit, and I don't want to talk and walk as well."

Indeed it was hot, climbing a slippery grass slope that evening. "Itold you I should take you the short way," panted the Squire, "and Iwish I hadn't. However, a bath won't do us any harm when we get back.Here we are, and there's the seat."

A small clump of old Scotch firs crowned the top of the hill; and, atthe edge of it, commanding the cream of the view, was a wide and solidseat, on which the two disposed themselves, and wiped their brows,and regained breath.

"Now, then," said the Squire, as soon as he was in a condition to talkconnectedly, "this is where your glasses come in. But you'd bettertake a general look round first. My word! I've never seen the viewlook better."

Writing as I am now with a winter wind flapping against dark windowsand a rushing, tumbling sea within a hundred yards, I find it hard tosummon up the feelings and words which will put my reader inpossession of the June evening and the lovely English landscape ofwhich the Squire was speaking.

Across a broad level plain they looked upon ranges of great hills,whose uplands—some green, some furred with woods—caught the light ofa sun, westering but not yet low. And all the plain was fertile,though the river which traversed it was nowhere seen. There werecopses, green wheat, hedges and pasture-land: the little compact whitemoving cloud marked the evening train. Then the eye picked out redfarms and grey houses, and nearer home scattered cottages, and thenthe Hall, nestled under the hill. The smoke of chimneys was very blueand straight. There was a smell of hay in the air: there were wildroses on bushes hard by. It was the acme of summer.

After some minutes of silent contemplation, the Squire began to pointout the leading features, the hills and valleys, and told where thetowns and villages lay. "Now," he said, "with the glasses you'll beable to pick out Fulnaker Abbey. Take a line across that big greenfield, then over the wood beyond it, then over the farm on the knoll."

"Yes, yes," said Fanshawe. "I've got it. What a fine tower!"

"You must have got the wrong direction," said the Squire; "there's notmuch of a tower about there that I remember, unless it's OldbourneChurch that you've got hold of. And if you call that a fine tower,you're easily pleased."

"Well, I do call it a fine tower," said Fanshawe, the glasses still athis eyes, "whether it's Oldbourne or any other. And it must belong toa largish church; it looks to me like a central tower—four bigpinnacles at the corners, and four smaller ones between. I mustcertainly go over there. How far is it?"

"Oldbourne's about nine miles, or less," said the Squire. "It's a longtime since I've been there, but I don't remember thinking much of it.Now I'll show you another thing."

Fanshawe had lowered the glasses, and was still gazing in theOldbourne direction. "No," he said, "I can't make out anything withthe naked eye. What was it you were going to show me?"

"A good deal more to the left—it oughtn't to be difficult to find. Doyou see a rather sudden knob of a hill with a thick wood on top of it?It's in a dead line with that single tree on the top of the bigridge."

"I do," said Fanshawe, "and I believe I could tell you without muchdifficulty what it's called."

"Could you now?" said the Squire. "Say on."

"Why, Gallows Hill," was the answer.

"How did you guess that?"

"Well, if you don't want it guessed, you shouldn't put up a dummygibbet and a man hanging on it."

"What's that?" said the Squire abruptly. "There's nothing on that hillbut wood."

"On the contrary," said Fanshawe, "there's a largish expanse of grasson the top and your dummy gibbet in the middle; and I thought therewas something on it when I looked first. But I see there's nothing—oris there? I can't be sure."

"Nonsense, nonsense, Fanshawe, there's no such thing as a dummygibbet, or any other sort, on that hill. And it's thick wood—a fairlyyoung plantation. I was in it myself not a year ago. Hand me theglasses, though I don't suppose I can see anything." After a pause:"No, I thought not: they won't show a thing."

Meanwhile Fanshawe was scanning the hill—it might be only two orthree miles away. "Well, it's very odd," he said, "it does lookexactly like a wood without the glass." He took it again. "That isone of the oddest effects. The gibbet is perfectly plain, and thegrass field, and there even seem to be people on it, and carts, or acart, with men in it. And yet when I take the glass away, there'snothing. It must be something in the way this afternoon light falls:I shall come up earlier in the day when the sun's full on it."

"Did you say you saw people and a cart on that hill?" said the Squireincredulously. "What should they be doing there at this time of day,even if the trees have been felled? Do talk sense—look again."

"Well, I certainly thought I saw them. Yes, I should say there were afew, just clearing off. And now—by Jove, it does look like somethinghanging on the gibbet. But these glasses are so beastly heavy I can'thold them steady for long. Anyhow, you can take it from me there's nowood. And if you'll show me the road on the map, I'll go thereto-morrow."

The Squire remained brooding for some little time. At last he rose andsaid, "Well, I suppose that will be the best way to settle it. And nowwe'd better be getting back. Bath and dinner is my idea." And on theway back he was not very communicative.

They returned through the garden, and went into the front hall toleave sticks, etc., in their due place. And here they found the agedbutler Patten evidently in a state of some anxiety. "Beg pardon,Master Henry," he began at once, "but someone's been up to mischiefhere, I'm much afraid." He pointed to the open box which had containedthe glasses.

"Nothing worse than that, Patten?" said the Squire. "Mayn't I take outmy own glasses and lend them to a friend? Bought with my own money,you recollect? At old Baxter's sale, eh?"

Patten bowed, unconvinced. "Oh, very well, Master Henry, as long asyou know who it was. Only I thought proper to name it, for I didn'tthink that box'd been off its shelf since you first put it there; and,if you'll excuse me, after what happened....". The voice waslowered, and the rest was not audible to Fanshawe. The Squire repliedwith a few words and a gruff laugh, and called on Fanshawe to come andbe shown his room. And I do not think that anything else happened thatnight which bears on my story.

Except, perhaps, the sensation which invaded Fanshawe in the smallhours that something had been let out which ought not to have been letout. It came into his dreams. He was walking in a garden which heseemed half to know, and stopped in front of a rockery made of oldwrought stones, pieces of window tracery from a church, and even bitsof figures. One of these moved his curiosity: it seemed to be asculptured capital with scenes carved on it. He felt he must pull itout, and worked away, and, with an ease that surprised him, moved thestones that obscured it aside, and pulled out the block. As he did so,a tin label fell down by his feet with a little clatter. He picked itup and read on it: "On no account move this stone. Yours sincerely, J.Patten." As often happens in dreams, he felt that this injunction wasof extreme importance; and with an anxiety that amounted to anguish helooked to see if the stone had really been shifted. Indeed it had; infact, he could not see it anywhere. The removal had disclosed themouth of a burrow, and he bent down to look into it. Something stirredin the blackness, and then, to his intense horror, a hand emerged—aclean right hand in a neat cuff and coatsleeve, just in the attitudeof a hand that means to shake yours. He wondered whether it would notbe rude to let it alone. But, as he looked at it, it began to growhairy and dirty and thin, and also to change its pose and stretch outas if to take hold of his leg. At that he dropped all thought ofpoliteness, decided to run, screamed and woke himself up.

This was the dream he remembered; but it seemed to him (as, again, itoften does) that there had been others of the same import before, butnot so insistent. He lay awake for some little time, fixing thedetails of the last dream in his mind, and wondering in particularwhat the figures had been which he had seen or half seen on the carvedcapital. Something quite incongruous, he felt sure; but that was themost he could recall.

Whether because of the dream, or because it was the first day of hisholiday, he did not get up very early; nor did he at once plunge intothe exploration of the country. He spent a morning, half lazy, halfinstructive, in looking over the volumes of the County ArchæologicalSociety's transactions, in which were many contributions from Mr.Baxter on finds of flint implements, Roman sites, ruins of monasticestablishments—in fact, most departments of archæology. They werewritten in an odd, pompous, only half-educated style. If the man hadhad more early schooling, thought Fanshawe, he would have been a verydistinguished antiquary; or he might have been (he thus qualified hisopinion a little later), but for a certain love of opposition andcontroversy, and, yes, a patronizing tone as of one possessingsuperior knowledge, which left an unpleasant taste. He might have beena very respectable artist. There was an imaginary restoration andelevation of a priory church which was very well conceived. A finepinnacled central tower was a conspicuous feature of this; it remindedFanshawe of that which he had seen from the hill, and which the Squirehad told him must be Oldbourne. But it was not Oldbourne; it wasFulnaker Priory. "Oh, well," he said to himself, "I suppose OldbourneChurch may have been built by Fulnaker monks, and Baxter has copiedOldbourne tower. Anything about it in the letterpress? Ah, I see itwas published after his death—found among his papers."

After lunch the Squire asked Fanshawe what he meant to do.

"Well," said Fanshawe, "I think I shall go out on my bike about fouras far as Oldbourne and back by Gallows Hill. That ought to be a roundof about fifteen miles, oughtn't it?"

"About that," said the Squire, "and you'll pass Lambsfield andWanstone, both of which are worth looking at. There's a little glassat Lambsfield and the stone at Wanstone."

"Good," said Fanshawe, "I'll get tea somewhere, and may I take theglasses? I'll strap them on my bike, on the carrier."

"Of course, if you like," said the Squire. "I really ought to havesome better ones. If I go into the town to-day, I'll see if I can pickup some."

"Why should you trouble to do that if you can't use them yourself?"said Fanshawe.

"Oh, I don't know; one ought to have a decent pair; and—well, oldPatten doesn't think those are fit to use."

"Is he a judge?"

"He's got some tale: I don't know: something about old Baxter. I'vepromised to let him tell me about it. It seems very much on his mindsince last night."

"Why that? Did he have a nightmare like me?"

"He had something: he was looking an old man this morning, and he saidhe hadn't closed an eye."

"Well, let him save up his tale till I come back."

"Very well, I will if I can. Look here, are you going to be late? Ifyou get a puncture eight miles off and have to walk home, what then? Idon't trust these bicycles: I shall tell them to give us cold thingsto eat."

"I shan't mind that, whether I'm late or early. But I've got things tomend punctures with. And now I'm off."

It was just as well that the Squire had made that arrangement about acold supper, Fanshawe thought, and not for the first time, as hewheeled his bicycle up the drive about nine o'clock. So also theSquire thought and said, several times, as he met him in the hall,rather pleased at the confirmation of his want of faith in bicyclesthan sympathetic with his hot, weary, thirsty, and indeed haggard,friend. In fact, the kindest thing he found to say was: "You'll want along drink to-night? Cider-cup do? All right. Hear that, Patten?Cider-cup, iced, lots of it." Then to Fanshawe, "Don't be all nightover your bath."

By half-past nine they were at dinner, and Fanshawe was reportingprogress, if progress it might be called.

"I got to Lambsfield very smoothly, and saw the glass. It is veryinteresting stuff, but there's a lot of lettering I couldn't read."

"Not with glasses?" said the Squire.

"Those glasses of yours are no manner of use inside a church—orinside anywhere, I suppose, for that matter. But the only places Itook 'em into were churches."

"H'm! Well, go on," said the Squire.

"However, I took some sort of a photograph of the window, and I daresay an enlargement would show what I want. Then Wanstone; I shouldthink that stone was a very out-of-the-way thing, only I don't knowabout that class of antiquities. Has anybody opened the mound itstands on?"

"Baxter wanted to, but the farmer wouldn't let him."

"Oh, well, I should think it would be worth doing. Anyhow, the nextthing was Fulnaker and Oldbourne. You know, it's very odd about thattower I saw from the hill. Oldbourne Church is nothing like it, and ofcourse there's nothing over thirty feet high at Fulnaker, though youcan see it had a central tower. I didn't tell you, did I? thatBaxter's fancy drawing of Fulnaker shows a tower exactly like the oneI saw."

"So you thought, I dare say," put in the Squire.

"No, it wasn't a case of thinking. The picture actually reminded meof what I'd seen, and I made sure it was Oldbourne, well before Ilooked at the title."

"Well, Baxter had a very fair idea of architecture. I dare say what'sleft made it easy for him to draw the right sort of tower."

"That may be it, of course, but I'm doubtful if even a professionalcould have got it so exactly right. There's absolutely nothing left atFulnaker but the bases of the piers which supported it. However, thatisn't the oddest thing."

"What about Gallows Hill?" said the Squire. "Here, Patten, listen tothis. I told you what Mr. Fanshawe said he saw from the hill."

"Yes, Master Henry, you did; and I can't say I was so much surprised,considering."

"All right, all right. You keep that till afterwards. We want to hearwhat Mr. Fanshawe saw to-day. Go on, Fanshawe. You turned to come backby Ackford and Thorfield, I suppose?"

"Yes, and I looked into both the churches. Then I got to the turningwhich goes to the top of Gallows Hill; I saw that if I wheeled mymachine over the field at the top of the hill I could join the homeroad on this side. It was about half-past six when I got to the top ofthe hill, and there was a gate on my right, where it ought to be,leading into the belt of plantation."

"You hear that, Patten? A belt, he says."

"So I thought it was—a belt. But it wasn't. You were quite right, andI was hopelessly wrong. I cannot understand it. The whole top isplanted quite thick. Well, I went on into this wood, wheeling anddragging my bike, expecting every minute to come to a clearing, andthen my misfortunes began. Thorns, I suppose; first I realized thatthe front tyre was slack, then the back. I couldn't stop to do morethan try to find the punctures and mark them; but even that washopeless. So I ploughed on, and the farther I went, the less I likedthe place."

"Not much poaching in that cover, eh, Patten?" said the Squire.

"No, indeed, Master Henry: there's very few cares to go——"

"No, I know: never mind that now. Go on, Fanshawe."

"I don't blame anybody for not caring to go there. I know I had allthe fancies one least likes: steps crackling over twigs behind me,indistinct people stepping behind trees in front of me, yes, and evena hand laid on my shoulder. I pulled up very sharp at that and lookedround, but there really was no branch or bush that could have done it.Then, when I was just about at the middle of the plot, I was convincedthat there was someone looking down on me from above—and not with anypleasant intent. I stopped again, or at least slackened my pace, tolook up. And as I did, down I came, and barked my shins abominably on,what do you think? a block of stone with a big square hole in the topof it. And within a few paces there were two others just like it. Thethree were set in a triangle. Now, do you make out what they were putthere for?"

"I think I can," said the Squire, who was now very grave and absorbedin the story. "Sit down, Patten."

It was time, for the old man was supporting himself by one hand, andleaning heavily on it. He dropped into a chair, and said in a verytremulous voice, "You didn't go between them stones, did you, sir?"

"I did not," said Fanshawe, emphatically. "I dare say I was an ass,but as soon as it dawned on me where I was, I just shouldered mymachine and did my best to run. It seemed to me as if I was in anunholy evil sort of graveyard, and I was most profoundly thankful thatit was one of the longest days and still sunlight. Well, I had ahorrid run, even if it was only a few hundred yards. Everything caughton everything: handles and spokes and carrier and pedals—caught inthem viciously, or I fancied so. I fell over at least five times. Atlast I saw the hedge, and I couldn't trouble to hunt for the gate."

"There is no gate on my side," the Squire interpolated.

"Just as well I didn't waste time, then. I dropped the machine oversomehow and went into the road pretty near head-first; some branch orsomething got my ankle at the last moment. Anyhow, there I was out ofthe wood, and seldom more thankful or more generally sore. Then camethe job of mending my punctures. I had a good outfit and I'm not atall bad at the business; but this was an absolutely hopeless case. Itwas seven when I got out of the wood, and I spent fifty minutes overone tyre. As fast as I found a hole and put on a patch, and blew itup, it went flat again. So I made up my mind to walk. That hill isn'tthree miles away, is it?"

"Not more across country, but nearer six by road."

"I thought it must be. I thought I couldn't have taken well over thehour over less than five miles, even leading a bike. Well, there's mystory: where's yours and Patten's?"

"Mine? I've no story," said the Squire. "But you weren't very far outwhen you thought you were in a graveyard. There must be a good few ofthem up there, Patten, don't you think? They left 'em there when theyfell to bits, I fancy."

Patten nodded, too much interested to speak. "Don't," said Fanshawe.

"Now then, Patten," said the Squire, "you've heard what sort of a timeMr. Fanshawe's been having. What do you make of it? Anything to dowith Mr. Baxter? Fill yourself a glass of port, and tell us."

"Ah, that done me good, Master Henry," said Patten, after absorbingwhat was before him. "If you really wish to know what were in mythoughts, my answer would be clear in the affirmative. Yes," he wenton, warming to his work, "I should say as Mr. Fanshawe's experience ofto-day were very largely doo to the person you named. And I think,Master Henry, as I have some title to speak, in view of me 'aving beenmany years on speaking terms with him, and swore in to be jury on theCoroner's inquest near this time ten years ago, you being then, if youcarry your mind back, Master Henry, travelling abroad, and no one 'ereto represent the family."

"Inquest?" said Fanshawe. "An inquest on Mr. Baxter, was there?"

"Yes, sir, on—on that very person. The facts as led up to thatoccurrence was these. The deceased was, as you may have gathered, avery peculiar individual in 'is 'abits—in my idear, at least, but allmust speak as they find. He lived very much to himself, withoutneither chick nor child, as the saying is. And how he passed away histime was what very few could orfer a guess at."

"He lived unknown, and few could know when Baxter ceased to be," saidthe Squire to his pipe.

"I beg pardon, Master Henry, I was just coming to that. But when I sayhow he passed away his time—to be sure we know 'ow intent he was inrummaging and ransacking out all the 'istry of the neighbourhood andthe number of things he'd managed to collect together—well, it wasspoke of for miles round as Baxter's Museum, and many a time when hemight be in the mood, and I might have an hour to spare, have heshowed me his pieces of pots and what not, going back by his accountto the times of the ancient Romans. However, you know more about thatthan what I do, Master Henry: only what I was a-going to say was this,as know what he might and interesting as he might be in his talk,there was something about the man—well, for one thing, no one everremember to see him in church nor yet chapel at service-time. And thatmade talk. Our rector he never come in the house but once. 'Never askme what the man said'; that was all anybody could ever get out ofhim. Then how did he spend his nights, particularly about thisseason of the year? Time and again the labouring men'd meet him comingback as they went out to their work, and he'd pass 'em by without aword, looking, they says, like someone straight out of the asylum.They see the whites of his eyes all round. He'd have a fish-basketwith him, that they noticed, and he always come the same road. And thetalk got to be that he'd made himself some business, and that not thebest kind—well, not so far from where you was at seven o'clock thisevening, sir.

"Well, now, after such a night as that, Mr. Baxter he'd shut up theshop, and the old lady that did for him had orders not to come in; andknowing what she did about his language, she took care to obey themorders. But one day it so happened, about three o'clock in theafternoon, the house being shut up as I said, there come a mostfearful to-do inside, and smoke out of the windows, and Baxter cryingout seemingly in an agony. So the man as lived next door he run roundto the back premises and burst the door in, and several others cometoo. Well, he tell me he never in all his life smelt such afearful—well, odour, as what there was in that kitchen-place. It seemas if Baxter had been boiling something in a pot and overset it on hisleg. There he laid on the floor, trying to keep back the cries, but itwas more than he could manage, and when he seen the people comein—oh, he was in a nice condition: if his tongue warn't blisteredworse than his leg it warn't his fault. Well, they picked him up, andgot him into a chair, and run for the medical man, and one of 'em wasgoing to pick up the pot, and Baxter, he screams out to let it alone.So he did, but he couldn't see as there was anything in the pot but afew old brown bones. Then they says 'Dr. Lawrence'll be here in aminute, Mr. Baxter; he'll soon put you to rights.' And then he was offagain. He must be got up to his room, he couldn't have the doctor comein there and see all that mess—they must throw a cloth overit—anything—the tablecloth out of the parlour; well, so they did.But that must have been poisonous stuff in that pot, for it was prettynear on two months afore Baxter were about agin. Beg pardon, MasterHenry, was you going to say something?"

"Yes, I was," said the Squire. "I wonder you haven't told me all thisbefore. However, I was going to say I remember old Lawrence telling mehe'd attended Baxter. He was a queer card, he said. Lawrence was up inthe bedroom one day, and picked up a little mask covered with blackvelvet, and put it on in fun and went to look at himself in the glass.He hadn't time for a proper look, for old Baxter shouted out to himfrom the bed: 'Put it down, you fool! Do you want to look through adead man's eyes?' and it startled him so that he did put it down, andthen he asked Baxter what he meant. And Baxter insisted on him handingit over, and said the man he bought it from was dead, or some suchnonsense. But Lawrence felt it as he handed it over, and he declaredhe was sure it was made out of the front of a skull. He bought adistilling apparatus at Baxter's sale, he told me, but he could neveruse it: it seemed to taint everything, however much he cleaned it. Butgo on, Patten."

"Yes, Master Henry, I'm nearly done now, and time, too, for I don'tknow what they'll think about me in the servants' 'all. Well, thisbusiness of the scalding was some few years before Mr. Baxter wastook, and he got about again, and went on just as he'd used. And oneof the last jobs he done was finishing up them actual glasses what youtook out last night. You see he'd made the body of them some longtime, and got the pieces of glass for them, but there was somethinkwanted to finish 'em, whatever it was, I don't know, but I picked upthe frame one day, and I says: 'Mr. Baxter, why don't you make a jobof this?' And he says, 'Ah, when I've done that, you'll hear news, youwill: there's going to be no such pair of glasses as mine when they'refilled and sealed,' and there he stopped, and I says: 'Why, Mr.Baxter, you talk as if they was wine bottles: filled and sealed—why,where's the necessity for that?' 'Did I say filled and sealed?' hesays. 'O, well, I was suiting my conversation to my company.' Well,then come round this time of year, and one fine evening, I was passinghis shop on my way home, and he was standing on the step, very pleasedwith hisself, and he says: 'All right and tight now: my best bit ofwork's finished, and I'll be out with 'em to-morrow.' 'What, finishedthem glasses?' I says, 'might I have a look at them ?' 'No, no,' hesays, 'I've put 'em to bed for to-night, and when I do show 'em you,you'll have to pay for peepin', so I tell you.' And that, gentlemen,were the last words I heard that man say.

"That were the 17th of June, and just a week after, there was a funnything happened, and it was doo to that as we brought in 'unsound mind'at the inquest, for barring that, no one as knew Baxter in businesscould anyways have laid that against him. But George Williams, aslived in the next house, and do now, he was woke up that same nightwith a stumbling and tumbling about in Mr. Baxter's premises, and hegot out o' bed, and went to the front window on the street to see ifthere was any rough customers about. And it being a very light night,he could make sure as there was not. Then he stood and listened, andhe hear Mr. Baxter coming down his front stair one step after anothervery slow, and he got the idear as it was like someone bein' pushed orpulled down and holdin' on to everythin' he could. Next thing he hearthe street door come open, and out come Mr. Baxter into the street inhis day-clothes, 'at and all, with his arms straight down by hissides, and talking to hisself, and shakin' his head from one side tothe other, and walking in that peculiar way that he appeared to begoing as it were against his own will. George Williams put up thewindow, and hear him say: 'O mercy, gentlemen!' and then he shut upsudden as if, he said, someone clapped his hand over his mouth, andMr. Baxter threw his head back, and his hat fell off. And Williams seehis face looking something pitiful, so as he couldn't keep fromcalling out to him: 'Why, Mr. Baxter, ain't you well?' and he wasgoin' to offer to fetch Dr. Lawrence to him, only he heard the answer:''Tis best you mind your own business. Put in your head.' But whetherit were Mr. Baxter said it so hoarse-like and faint, he never could besure. Still there weren't no one but him in the street, and yetWilliams was that upset by the way he spoke that he shrank back fromthe window and went and sat on the bed. And he heard Mr. Baxter's stepgo on and up the road, and after a minute or more he couldn't help butlook out once more and he see him going along the same curious way asbefore. And one thing he recollected was that Mr. Baxter never stoppedto pick up his 'at when it fell off, and yet there it was on his head.Well, Master Henry, that was the last anybody see of Mr. Baxter,leastways for a week or more. There was a lot of people said he wascalled off on business, or made off because he'd got into some scrape,but he was well known for miles round, and none of the railway-peoplenor the public-house people hadn't seen him; and then ponds was lookedinto and nothink found; and at last one evening Fakes the keeper comedown from over the hill to the village, and he says he seen theGallows Hill planting black with birds, and that were a funny thing,because he never see no sign of a creature there in his time. So theylooked at each other a bit, and first one says: 'I'm game to go up,'and another says: 'So am I, if you are,' and half a dozen of 'em setout in the evening time, and took Dr. Lawrence with them, and youknow, Master Henry, there he was between them three stones with hisneck broke."

Useless to imagine the talk which this story set going. It is notremembered. But before Patten left them, he said to Fanshawe: "Excuseme, sir, but did I understand as you took out them glasses with youto-day? I thought you did; and might I ask, did you make use of themat all?"

"Yes. Only to look at something in a church."

"Oh, indeed, you took 'em into the church, did you, sir?"

"Yes, I did; it was Lambsfield church. By the way, I left themstrapped on to my bicycle, I'm afraid, in the stable-yard."

"No matter for that, sir. I can bring them in the first thingto-morrow, and perhaps you'll be so good as to look at 'em then."

Accordingly, before breakfast, after a tranquil and well-earned sleep,Fanshawe took the glasses into the garden and directed them to adistant hill. He lowered them instantly, and looked at top and bottom,worked the screws, tried them again and yet again, shrugged hisshoulders and replaced them on the hall-table.

"Patten," he said, "they're absolutely useless. I can't see a thing:it's as if someone had stuck a black wafer over the lens."

"Spoilt my glasses, have you?" said the Squire. "Thank you: the onlyones I've got."

"You try them yourself," said Fanshawe, "I've done nothing to them."

So after breakfast the Squire took them out to the terrace and stoodon the steps. After a few ineffectual attempts, "Lord, how heavy theyare!" he said impatiently, and in the same instant dropped them on tothe stones, and the lens splintered and the barrel cracked: a littlepool of liquid formed on the stone slab. It was inky black, and theodour that rose from it is not to be described.

"Filled and sealed, eh?" said the Squire. "If I could bring myself totouch it, I dare say we should find the seal. So that's what came ofhis boiling and distilling, is it? Old Ghoul!"

"What in the world do you mean?"

"Don't you see, my good man? Remember what he said to the doctor aboutlooking through dead men's eyes? Well, this was another way of it. Butthey didn't like having their bones boiled, I take it, and the end ofit was they carried him off whither he would not. Well, I'll get aspade, and we'll bury this thing decently."

As they smoothed the turf over it, the Squire, handing the spade toPatten, who had been a reverential spectator, remarked to Fanshawe:"It's almost a pity you took that thing into the church: you mighthave seen more than you did. Baxter had them for a week, I make out,but I don't see that he did much in the time."

"I'm not sure," said Fanshawe, "there is that picture of FulnakerPriory Church."

A WARNING TO THE CURIOUS

The place on the east coast which the reader is asked to consider isSeaburgh. It is not very different now from what I remember it to havebeen when I was a child. Marshes intersected by dykes to the south,recalling the early chapters of Great Expectations; flat fields to thenorth, merging into heath; heath, fir woods, and, above all, gorse,inland. A long sea-front and a street: behind that a spacious church offlint, with a broad, solid western tower and a peal of six bells. Howwell I remember their sound on a hot Sunday in August, as our party wentslowly up the white, dusty slope of road towards them, for the churchstands at the top of a short, steep incline. They rang with a flatclacking sort of sound on those hot days, but when the air was softerthey were mellower too. The railway ran down to its little terminusfarther along the same road. There was a gay white windmill just beforeyou came to the station, and another down near the shingle at the southend of the town, and yet others on higher ground to the north. Therewere cottages of bright red brick with slate roofs ... but why do Iencumber you with these commonplace details? The fact is that they comecrowding to the point of the pencil when it begins to write ofSeaburgh. I should like to be sure that I had allowed the right ones toget on to the paper. But I forgot. I have not quite done with theword-painting business yet.

Walk away from the sea and the town, pass the station, and turn up theroad on the right. It is a sandy road, parallel with the railway, and ifyou follow it, it climbs to somewhat higher ground. On your left (youare now going northward) is heath, on your right (the side towards thesea) is a belt of old firs, wind-beaten, thick at the top, with theslope that old seaside trees have; seen on the skyline from the trainthey would tell you in an instant, if you did not know it, that you wereapproaching a windy coast. Well, at the top of my little hill, a line ofthese firs strikes out and runs towards the sea, for there is a ridgethat goes that way; and the ridge ends in a rather well-defined moundcommanding the level fields of rough grass, and a little knot of firtrees crowns it. And here you may sit on a hot spring day, very wellcontent to look at blue sea, white windmills, red cottages, bright greengrass, church tower, and distant martello tower on the south.

As I have said, I began to know Seaburgh as a child; but a gap of a goodmany years separates my early knowledge from that which is more recent.Still it keeps its place in my affections, and any tales of it that Ipick up have an interest for me. One such tale is this: it came to me ina place very remote from Seaburgh, and quite accidentally, from a manwhom I had been able to oblige—enough in his opinion to justify hismaking me his confidant to this extent.

I know all that country more or less (he said). I used to go toSeaburgh pretty regularly for golf in the spring. I generally putup at the "Bear," with a friend—Henry Long it was, you knew himperhaps—("Slightly," I said) and we used to take a sitting-room and bevery happy there. Since he died I haven't cared to go there. And I don'tknow that I should anyhow after the particular thing that happened onour last visit.

It was in April, 19—, we were there, and by some chance we were almostthe only people in the hotel. So the ordinary public rooms werepractically empty, and we were the more surprised when, after dinner,our sitting-room door opened, and a young man put his head in. We wereaware of this young man. He was rather a rabbity anæmic subject—lighthair and light eyes—but not unpleasing. So when he said: "I beg yourpardon, is this a private room?" we did not growl and say: "Yes, it is,"but Long said, or I did—no matter which: "Please come in." "Oh, may I?"he said, and seemed relieved. Of course it was obvious that he wantedcompany; and as he was a reasonable kind of person—not the sort tobestow his whole family history on you—we urged him to make himself athome. "I dare say you find the other rooms rather bleak," I said. Yes,he did: but it was really too good of us, and so on. That being gotover, he made some pretence of reading a book. Long was playingPatience, I was writing. It became plain to me after a few minutes thatthis visitor of ours was in rather a state of fidgets or nerves, whichcommunicated itself to me, and so I put away my writing and turned to atengaging him in talk.

After some remarks, which I forget, he became rather confidential."You'll think it very odd of me" (this was the sort of way he began),"but the fact is I've had something of a shock." Well, I recommended adrink of some cheering kind, and we had it. The waiter coming in made aninterruption (and I thought our young man seemed very jumpy when thedoor opened), but after a while he got back to his woes again. There wasnobody he knew in the place, and he did happen to know who we both were(it turned out there was some common acquaintance in town), and reallyhe did want a word of advice, if we didn't mind. Of course we both said:"By all means," or "Not at all," and Long put away his cards. And wesettled down to hear what his difficulty was.

"It began," he said, "more than a week ago, when I bicycled over toFroston, only about five or six miles, to see the church; I'm very muchinterested, in architecture, and it's got one of those pretty porcheswith niches and shields. I took a photograph of it, and then an old manwho was tidying up in the churchyard came and asked if I'd care to lookinto the church. I said yes, and he produced a key and let me in. Therewasn't much inside, but I told him it was a nice little church, and hekept it very clean, 'but,' I said, 'the porch is the best part of it.'We were just outside the porch then, and he said, 'Ah, yes, that is anice porch; and do you know, sir, what's the meanin' of that coat ofarms there?'

"It was the one with the three crowns, and though I'm not much of aherald, I was able to say yes, I thought it was the old arms of thekingdom of East Anglia.

"'That's right, sir,' he said, 'and do you know the meanin' of themthree crowns that's on it?'

"I said I'd no doubt it was known, but I couldn't recollect to haveheard it myself.

"'Well, then,' he said, 'for all you're a scholard, I can tell yousomething you don't know. Them's the three 'oly crowns what was buriedin the ground near by the coast to keep the Germans from landing—ah, Ican see you don't believe that. But I tell you, if it hadn't have beenfor one of them 'oly crowns bein' there still, them Germans would alanded here time and again, they would. Landed with their ships, andkilled man, woman and child in their beds. Now then, that's the truthwhat I'm telling you, that is; and if you don't believe me, you ast therector. There he comes: you ast him, I says.'

"I looked round, and there was the rector, a nice-looking old man,coming up the path; and before I could begin assuring my old man, whowas getting quite excited, that I didn't disbelieve him, the rectorstruck in, and said: 'What's all this about, John? Good day to you, sir.Have you been looking at our little church?'

"So then there was a little talk which allowed the old man to calm down,and then the rector asked him again what was the matter.

"'Oh,' he said, 'it warn't nothink, only I was telling this gentlemanhe'd ought to ast you about them 'oly crowns.'

"'Ah, yes, to be sure,' said the rector, 'that's a very curious matter,isn't it? But I don't know whether the gentleman is interested in ourold stories, eh?'

"'Oh, he'll be interested fast enough,' says the old man, 'he'll put hisconfidence in what you tells him, sir; why, you known William Ageryourself, father and son too.'

"Then I put in a word to say how much I should like to hear all aboutit, and before many minutes I was walking up the village street with therector, who had one or two words to say to parishioners, and then to therectory, where he took me into his study. He had made out, on the way,that I really was capable of taking an intelligent interest in a pieceof folklore, and not quite the ordinary tripper. So he was very willingto talk, and it is rather surprising to me that the particular legend hetold me has not made its way into print before. His account of it wasthis: 'There has always been a belief in these parts in the three holycrowns. The old people say they were buried in different places near thecoast to keep off the Danes or the French or the Germans. And they saythat one of the three was dug up a long time ago, and another hasdisappeared by the encroaching of the sea, and one's still left doingits work, keeping off invaders. Well, now, if you have read the ordinaryguides and histories of this county, you will remember perhaps that in1687 a crown, which was said to be the crown of Redwald, King of theEast Angles, was dug up at Rendlesham, and alas! alas! melted downbefore it was even properly described or drawn. Well, Rendlesham isn'ton the coast, but it isn't so very far inland, and it's on a veryimportant line of access. And I believe that is the crown which thepeople mean when they say that one has been dug up. Then on the southyou don't want me to tell you where there was a Saxon royal palace whichis now under the sea, eh? Well, there was the second crown, I take it.And up beyond these two, they say, lies the third.'

"'Do they say where it is?' of course I asked.

"He said, 'Yes, indeed, they do, but they don't tell,' and his mannerdid not encourage me to put the obvious question. Instead of that Iwaited a moment, and said: 'What did the old man mean when he said youknew William Ager, as if that had something to do with the crowns?'

"'To be sure,' he said, 'now that's another curious story. TheseAgers—it's a very old name in these parts, but I can't find that theywere ever people of quality or big owners—these Agers say, or said,that their branch of the family were the guardians of the last crown. Acertain old Nathaniel Ager was the first one I knew—I was born andbrought up quite near here—and he, I believe, camped out at the placeduring the whole of the war of 1870. William, his son, did the same, Iknow, during the South African War. And young William, his son, whohas only died fairly recently, took lodgings at the cottage nearest thespot, and I've no doubt hastened his end, for he was a consumptive, byexposure and night watching. And he was the last of that branch. It wasa dreadful grief to him to think that he was the last, but he could donothing, the only relations at all near to him were in the colonies. Iwrote letters for him to them imploring them to come over on businessvery important to the family, but there has been no answer. So the lastof the holy crowns, if it's there, has no guardian now.'

"That was what the rector told me, and you can fancy how interesting Ifound it. The only thing I could think of when I left him was how to hitupon the spot where the crown was supposed to be. I wish I'd left italone.

"But there was a sort of fate in it, for as I bicycled back past thechurchyard wall my eye caught a fairly new gravestone, and on it was thename of William Ager. Of course I got off and read it. It said 'of thisparish, died at Seaburgh, 19—, aged 28.' There it was, you see. Alittle judicious questioning in the right place, and I should at leastfind the cottage nearest the spot. Only I didn't quite know what was theright place to begin my questioning at. Again there was fate: it took meto the curiosity-shop down that way—you know—and I turned over someold books, and, if you please, one was a prayer-book of 1740 odd, in arather handsome binding—I'll just go and get it, it's in my room."

He left us in a state of some surprise, but we had hardly time toexchange any remarks when he was back, panting, and handed us the bookopened at the fly-leaf, on which was, in a straggly hand:

This poem was dated 1754, and there were many more entries of Agers,Nathaniel, Frederick, William, and so on, ending with William, 19—.

"You see," he said, "anybody would call it the greatest bit of luck. Idid, but I don't now. Of course I asked the shopman about William Ager,and of course he happened to remember that he lodged in a cottage inthe North Field and died there. This was just chalking the road for me.I knew which the cottage must be: there is only one sizable one aboutthere. The next thing was to scrape some sort of acquaintance with thepeople, and I took a walk that way at once. A dog did the business forme: he made at me so fiercely that they had to run out and beat him off,and then naturally begged my pardon, and we got into talk. I had only tobring up Ager's name, and pretend I knew, or thought I knew something ofhim, and then the woman said how sad it was him dying so young, and shewas sure it came of him spending the night out of doors in the coldweather. Then I had to say: 'Did he go out on the sea at night?' and shesaid: 'Oh, no, it was on the hillock yonder with the trees on it.' Andthere I was.

"I know something about digging in these barrows: I've opened many ofthem in the down country. But that was with owner's leave, and in broaddaylight and with men to help. I had to prospect very carefully herebefore I put a spade in: I couldn't trench across the mound, and withthose old firs growing there I knew there would be awkward tree roots.Still the soil was very light and sandy and easy, and there was a rabbithole or so that might be developed into a sort of tunnel. The going outand coming back at odd hours to the hotel was going to be the awkwardpart. When I made up my mind about the way to excavate I told thepeople that I was called away for a night, and I spent it out there. Imade my tunnel: I won't bore you with the details of how I supported itand filled it in when I'd done, but the main thing is that I got thecrown."

Naturally we both broke out into exclamations of surprise and interest.I for one had long known about the finding of the crown at Rendleshamand had often lamented its fate. No one has ever seen an Anglo-Saxoncrown—at least no one had. But our man gazed at us with a rueful eye."Yes," he said, "and the worst of it is I don't know how to put itback."

"Put it back?" we cried out. "Why, my dear sir, you've made one of themost exciting finds ever heard of in this country. Of course it ought togo to the Jewel House at the Tower. What's your difficulty? If you'rethinking about the owner of the land, and treasure-trove, and all that,we can certainly help you through. Nobody's going to make a fuss abouttechnicalities in a case of this kind."

Probably more was said, but all he did was to put his face in his hands,and mutter: "I don't know how to put it back."

At last Long said: "You'll forgive me, I hope, if I seem impertinent,but are you quite sure you've got it?" I was wanting to ask much thesame question myself, for of course the story did seem a lunatic's dreamwhen one thought over it. But I hadn't quite dared to say what mighthurt the poor young man's feelings. However, he took it quitecalmly—really, with the calm of despair, you might say. He sat up andsaid: "Oh, yes, there's no doubt of that: I have it here, in my room,locked up in my bag. You can come and look at it if you like: I won'toffer to bring it here."

We were not likely to let the chance slip. We went with him; his roomwas only a few doors off. The boots was just collecting shoes in thepassage: or so we thought: afterwards we were not sure. Our visitor—hisname was Paxton—was in a worse state of shivers than before, and wenthurriedly into the room, and beckoned us after him, turned on the light,and shut the door carefully. Then he unlocked his kit-bag, and produceda bundle of clean pocket-handkerchiefs in which something was wrapped,laid it on the bed, and undid it. I can now say I have seen an actualAnglo-Saxon crown. It was of silver—as the Rendlesham one is alwayssaid to have been—it was set with some gems, mostly antique intagliosand cameos, and was of rather plain, almost rough workmanship. In fact,it was like those you see on the coins and in the manuscripts. I foundno reason to think it was later than the ninth century. I was intenselyinterested, of course, and I wanted to turn it over in my hands, butPaxton prevented me. "Don't you touch it," he said, "I'll do that."And with a sigh that was, I declare to you, dreadful to hear, he took itup and turned it about so that we could see every part of it. "Seenenough?" he said at last, and we nodded. He wrapped it up and locked itin his bag, and stood looking at us dumbly. "Come back to our room,"Long said, "and tell us what the trouble is." He thanked us, and said:"Will you go first and see if—if the coast is clear?" That wasn't veryintelligible, for our proceedings hadn't been, after all, verysuspicious, and the hotel, as I said, was practically empty. However, wewere beginning to have inklings of—we didn't know what, and anyhownerves are infectious. So we did go, first peering out as we opened thedoor, and fancying (I found we both had the fancy) that a shadow, ormore than a shadow—but it made no sound—passed from before us to oneside as we came out into the passage. "It's all right," we whispered toPaxton—whispering seemed the proper tone—and we went, with him betweenus, back to our sitting-room. I was preparing, when we got there, to beecstatic about the unique interest of what we had seen, but when Ilooked at Paxton I saw that would be terribly out of place, and I leftit to him to begin.

"What is to be done?" was his opening. Long thought it right (as heexplained to me afterwards) to be obtuse, and said: "Why not find outwho the owner of the land is, and inform——" "Oh, no, no!" Paxton brokein impatiently, "I beg your pardon: you've been very kind, but don't yousee it's got to go back, and I daren't be there at night, anddaytime's impossible. Perhaps, though, you don't see: well, then, thetruth is that I've never been alone since I touched it." I was beginningsome fairly stupid comment, but Long caught my eye, and I stopped. Longsaid: "I think I do see, perhaps: but wouldn't it be—a relief—to tellus a little more clearly what the situation is?"

Then it all came out: Paxton looked over his shoulder and beckoned to usto come nearer to him, and began speaking in a low voice: we listenedmost intently, of course, and compared notes afterwards, and I wrotedown our version, so I am confident I have what he told us almost wordfor word. He said: "It began when I was first prospecting, and put meoff again and again. There was always somebody—a man—standing by oneof the firs. This was in daylight, you know. He was never in front ofme. I always saw him with the tail of my eye on the left or the right,and he was never there when I looked straight for him. I would lie downfor quite a long time and take careful observations, and make sure therewas no one, and then when I got up and began prospecting again, there hewas. And he began to give me hints, besides; for wherever I put thatprayer-book—short of locking it up, which I did at last—when I cameback to my room it was always out on my table open at the fly-leaf wherethe names are, and one of my razors across it to keep it open. I'm surehe just can't open my bag, or something more would have happened. Yousee, he's light and weak, but all the same I daren't face him. Well,then, when I was making the tunnel, of course it was worse, and if Ihadn't been so keen I should have dropped the whole thing and run. Itwas like someone scraping at my back all the time: I thought for a longtime it was only soil dropping on me, but as I got nearer the—thecrown, it was unmistakable. And when I actually laid it bare and got myfingers into the ring of it and pulled it out, there came a sort of crybehind me—oh, I can't tell you how desolate it was! And horriblythreatening too. It spoilt all my pleasure in my find—cut it off thatmoment. And if I hadn't been the wretched fool I am, I should have putthe thing back and left it. But I didn't. The rest of the time was justawful. I had hours to get through before I could decently come back tothe hotel. First I spent time filling up my tunnel and covering mytracks, and all the while he was there trying to thwart me. Sometimes,you know, you see him, and sometimes you don't, just as he pleases, Ithink: he's there, but he has some power over your eyes. Well, I wasn'toff the spot very long before sunrise, and then I had to get to thejunction for Seaburgh, and take a train back. And though it was daylightfairly soon, I don't know if that made it much better. There were alwayshedges, or gorse-bushes, or park fences along the road—some sort ofcover, I mean—and I was never easy for a second. And then when I beganto meet people going to work, they always looked behind me verystrangely: it might have been that they were surprised at seeing anyoneso early; but I didn't think it was only that, and I don't now: theydidn't look exactly at me. And the porter at the train was like thattoo. And the guard held open the door after I'd got into thecarriage—just as he would if there was somebody else coming, you know.Oh, you may be very sure it isn't my fancy," he said with a dull sort oflaugh. Then he went on: "And even if I do get it put back, he won'tforgive me: I can tell that. And I was so happy a fortnight ago." Hedropped into a chair, and I believe he began to cry.

We didn't know what to say, but we felt we must come to the rescuesomehow, and so—it really seemed the only thing—we said if he was soset on putting the crown back in its place, we would help him. And Imust say that after what we had heard it did seem the right thing. Ifthese horrid consequences had come on this poor man, might there notreally be something in the original idea of the crown having somecurious power bound up with it, to guard the coast? At least, that wasmy feeling, and I think it was Long's too. Our offer was very welcome toPaxton, anyhow. When could we do it? It was nearing half-past ten. Couldwe contrive to make a late walk plausible to the hotel people that verynight? We looked out of the window: there was a brilliant full moon—thePaschal moon. Long undertook to tackle the boots and propitiate him. Hewas to say that we should not be much over the hour, and if we did findit so pleasant that we stopped out a bit longer we would see that hedidn't lose by sitting up. Well, we were pretty regular customers of thehotel, and did not give much trouble, and were considered by theservants to be not under the mark in the way of tips; and so the bootswas propitiated, and let us out on to the sea-front, and remained, aswe heard later, looking after us. Paxton had a large coat over his arm,under which was the wrapped-up crown.

So we were off on this strange errand before we had time to think howvery much out of the way it was. I have told this part quite shortly onpurpose, for it really does represent the haste with which we settledour plan and took action. "The shortest way is up the hill and throughthe churchyard," Paxton said, as we stood a moment before the hotellooking up and down the front. There was nobody about—nobody at all.Seaburgh out of the season is an early, quiet place. "We can't go alongthe dyke by the cottage, because of the dog," Paxton also said, when Ipointed to what I thought a shorter way along the front and across twofields. The reason he gave was good enough. We went up the road to thechurch, and turned in at the churchyard gate. I confess to havingthought that there might be some lying there who might be conscious ofour business: but if it was so, they were also conscious that one whowas on their side, so to say, had us under surveillance, and we saw nosign of them. But under observation we felt we were, as I have neverfelt it at another time. Specially was it so when we passed out of thechurchyard into a narrow path with close high hedges, through which wehurried as Christian did through that Valley; and so got out into openfields. Then along hedges, though I would sooner have been in the open,where I could see if anyone was visible behind me; over a gate or two,and then a swerve to the left, taking us up on to the ridge which endedin that mound.

As we neared it, Henry Long felt, and I felt too, that there were what Ican only call dim presences waiting for us, as well as a far more actualone attending us. Of Paxton's agitation all this time I can give you noadequate picture: he breathed like a hunted beast, and we could noteither of us look at his face. How he would manage when we got to thevery place we had not troubled to think: he had seemed so sure that thatwould not be difficult. Nor was it. I never saw anything like the dashwith which he flung himself at a particular spot in the side of themound, and tore at it, so that in a very few minutes the greater part ofhis body was out of sight. We stood holding the coat and that bundle ofhandkerchiefs, and looking, very fearfully, I must admit, about us.There was nothing to be seen: a line of dark firs behind us made oneskyline, more trees and the church tower half a mile off on the right,cottages and a windmill on the horizon on the left, calm sea dead infront, faint barking of a dog at a cottage on a gleaming dyke betweenus and it: full moon making that path we know across the sea: theeternal whisper of the Scotch firs just above us, and of the sea infront. Yet, in all this quiet, an acute, an acrid consciousness of arestrained hostility very near us, like a dog on a leash that might belet go at any moment.

Paxton pulled himself out of the hole, and stretched a hand back to us."Give it to me," he whispered, "unwrapped." We pulled off thehandkerchiefs, and he took the crown. The moonlight just fell on it ashe snatched it. We had not ourselves touched that bit of metal, and Ihave thought since that it was just as well. In another moment Paxtonwas out of the hole again and busy shovelling back the soil with handsthat were already bleeding. He would have none of our help, though. Itwas much the longest part of the job to get the place to lookundisturbed: yet—I don't know how—he made a wonderful success of it.At last he was satisfied, and we turned back.

We were a couple of hundred yards from the hill when Long suddenly saidto him: "I say, you've left your coat there. That won't do. See?" And Icertainly did see it—the long dark overcoat lying where the tunnel hadbeen. Paxton had not stopped, however: he only shook his head, and heldup the coat on his arm. And when we joined him, he said, without anyexcitement, but as if nothing mattered any more: "That wasn't my coat."And, indeed, when we looked back again, that dark thing was not to beseen.

Well, we got out on to the road, and came rapidly back that way. It waswell before twelve when we got in, trying to put a good face on it, andsaying—Long and I—what a lovely night it was for a walk. The boots wason the look-out for us, and we made remarks like that for hisedification as we entered the hotel. He gave another look up and downthe sea-front before he locked the front door, and said: "You didn'tmeet many people about, I s'pose, sir?" "No, indeed, not a soul," Isaid; at which I remember Paxton looked oddly at me. "Only I thought Isee someone turn up the station road after you gentlemen," said theboots. "Still, you was three together, and I don't suppose he meantmischief." I didn't know what to say; Long merely said "Good night," andwe went off upstairs, promising to turn out all lights, and to go to bedin a few minutes.

Back in our room, we did our very best to make Paxton take a cheerfulview. "There's the crown safe back," we said; "very likely you'd havedone better not to touch it" (and he heavily assented to that), "but noreal harm has been done, and we shall never give this away to anyone whowould be so mad as to go near it. Besides, don't you feel betteryourself? I don't mind confessing," I said, "that on the way there I wasvery much inclined to take your view about—well, about being followed;but going back, it wasn't at all the same thing, was it?" No, itwouldn't do: "You've nothing to trouble yourselves about," he said,"but I'm not forgiven. I've got to pay for that miserable sacrilegestill. I know what you are going to say. The Church might help. Yes, butit's the body that has to suffer. It's true I'm not feeling that he'swaiting outside for me just now. But——" Then he stopped. Then heturned to thanking us, and we put him off as soon as we could. Andnaturally we pressed him to use our sitting-room next day, and said weshould be glad to go out with him. Or did he play golf, perhaps? Yes, hedid, but he didn't think he should care about that to-morrow. Well, werecommended him to get up late and sit in our room in the morning whilewe were playing, and we would have a walk later in the day. He was verysubmissive and piano about it all: ready to do just what we thoughtbest, but clearly quite certain in his own mind that what was comingcould not be averted or palliated. You'll wonder why we didn't insist onaccompanying him to his home and seeing him safe into the care ofbrothers or someone. The fact was he had nobody. He had had a flat intown, but lately he had made up his mind to settle for a time in Sweden,and he had dismantled his flat and shipped off his belongings, and waswhiling away a fortnight or three weeks before he made a start. Anyhow,we didn't see what we could do better than sleep on it—or not sleepvery much, as was my case—and see what we felt like to-morrow morning.

We felt very different, Long and I, on as beautiful an April morning asyou could desire; and Paxton also looked very different when we saw himat breakfast. "The first approach to a decent night I seem ever to havehad," was what he said. But he was going to do as we had settled: stayin probably all the morning, and come out with us later. We went to thelinks; we met some other men and played with them in the morning, andhad lunch there rather early, so as not to be late back. All the same,the snares of death overtook him.

Whether it could have been prevented, I don't know. I think he wouldhave been got at somehow, do what we might. Anyhow, this is whathappened.

We went straight up to our room. Paxton was there, reading quitepeaceably. "Ready to come out shortly?" said Long, "say in half anhour's time?" "Certainly," he said: and I said we would change first,and perhaps have baths, and call for him in half an hour. I had my bathfirst, and went and lay down on my bed, and slept for about ten minutes.We came out of our rooms at the same time, and went together to thesitting-room. Paxton wasn't there—only his book. Nor was he in hisroom, nor in the downstair rooms. We shouted for him. A servant came outand said: "Why, I thought you gentlemen was gone out already, and so didthe other gentleman. He heard you a-calling from the path there, and runout in a hurry, and I looked out of the coffee-room window, but Ididn't see you. 'Owever, he run off down the beach that way."

Without a word we ran that way too—it was the opposite direction tothat of last night's expedition. It wasn't quite four o'clock, and theday was fair, though not so fair as it had been, so there was really noreason, you'd say, for anxiety: with people about, surely a man couldn'tcome to much harm.

But something in our look as we ran out must have struck the servant,for she came out on the steps, and pointed, and said, "Yes, that's theway he went." We ran on as far as the top of the shingle bank, and therepulled up. There was a choice of ways: past the houses on the sea-front,or along the sand at the bottom of the beach, which, the tide being nowout, was fairly broad. Or of course we might keep along the shinglebetween these two tracks and have some view of both of them; only thatwas heavy going. We chose the sand, for that was the loneliest, andsomeone might come to harm there without being seen from the publicpath.

Long said he saw Paxton some distance ahead, running and waving hisstick, as if he wanted to signal to people who were on ahead of him. Icouldn't be sure: one of these sea-mists was coming up very quickly fromthe south. There was someone, that's all I could say. And there weretracks on the sand as of someone running who wore shoes; and there wereother tracks made before those—for the shoes sometimes trod in them andinterfered with them—of someone not in shoes. Oh, of course, it's onlymy word you've got to take for all this: Long's dead, we'd no time ormeans to make sketches or take casts, and the next tide washedeverything away. All we could do was to notice these marks as we hurriedon. But there they were over and over again, and we had no doubtwhatever that what we saw was the track of a bare foot, and one thatshowed more bones than flesh.

The notion of Paxton running after—after anything like this, andsupposing it to be the friends he was looking for, was very dreadful tous. You can guess what we fancied: how the thing he was following mightstop suddenly and turn round on him, and what sort of face it wouldshow, half-seen at first in the mist—which all the while was gettingthicker and thicker. And as I ran on wondering how the poor wretch couldhave been lured into mistaking that other thing for us, I remembered hissaying, "He has some power over your eyes." And then I wondered what theend would be, for I had no hope now that the end could be averted,and—well, there is no need to tell all the dismal and horrid thoughtsthat flitted through my head as we ran on into the mist. It was uncanny,too, that the sun should still be bright in the sky and we could seenothing. We could only tell that we were now past the houses and hadreached that gap there is between them and the old martello tower. Whenyou are past the tower, you know, there is nothing but shingle for along way—not a house, not a human creature, just that spit of land, orrather shingle, with the river on your right and the sea on your left.

But just before that, just by the martello tower, you remember there isthe old battery, close to the sea. I believe there are only a few blocksof concrete left now: the rest has all been washed away, but at thistime there was a lot more, though the place was a ruin. Well, when wegot there, we clambered to the top as quick as we could to take breathand look over the shingle in front if by chance the mist would let ussee anything. But a moment's rest we must have. We had run a mile atleast. Nothing whatever was visible ahead of us, and we were justturning by common consent to get down and run hopelessly on, when weheard what I can only call a laugh: and if you can understand what Imean by a breathless, a lungless laugh, you have it: but I don't supposeyou can. It came from below, and swerved away into the mist. That wasenough. We bent over the wall. Paxton was there at the bottom.

You don't need to be told that he was dead. His tracks showed that hehad run along the side of the battery, had turned sharp round the cornerof it, and, small doubt of it, must have dashed straight into the openarms of someone who was waiting there. His mouth was full of sand andstones, and his teeth and jaws were broken to bits. I only glanced onceat his face.

At the same moment, just as we were scrambling down from the battery toget to the body, we heard a shout, and saw a man running down the bankof the martello tower. He was the caretaker stationed there, and hiskeen old eyes had managed to descry through the mist that something waswrong. He had seen Paxton fall, and had seen us a moment after, runningup—fortunate this, for otherwise we could hardly have escaped suspicionof being concerned in the dreadful business. Had he, we asked, caughtsight of anybody attacking our friend? He could not be sure.

We sent him off for help, and stayed by the dead man till they came withthe stretcher. It was then that we traced out how he had come, on thenarrow fringe of sand under the battery wall. The rest was shingle, andit was hopelessly impossible to tell whither the other had gone.

What were we to say at the inquest? It was a duty, we felt, not to giveup, there and then, the secret of the crown, to be published in everypaper. I don't know how much you would have told; but what we did agreeupon was this: to say that we had only made acquaintance with Paxton theday before, and that he had told us he was under some apprehension ofdanger at the hands of a man called William Ager. Also that we had seensome other tracks besides Paxton's when we followed him along the beach.But of course by that time everything was gone from the sands.

No one had any knowledge, fortunately, of any William Ager living inthe district. The evidence of the man at the martello tower freed usfrom all suspicion. All that could be done was to return a verdict ofwilful murder by some person or persons unknown.

Paxton was so totally without connections that all the inquiries thatwere subsequently made ended in a No Thoroughfare. And I have never beenat Seaburgh, or even near it, since.

AN EVENING'S ENTERTAINMENT

Nothing is more common form in old-fashioned books than the descriptionof the winter fireside, where the aged grandam narrates to the circle ofchildren that hangs on her lips story after story of ghosts and fairies,and inspires her audience with a pleasing terror. But we are neverallowed to know what the stories were. We hear, indeed, of sheetedspectres with saucer eyes, and—still more intriguing—of "Rawhead andBloody Bones" (an expression which the Oxford Dictionary traces back to1550), but the context of these striking images eludes us.

Here, then, is a problem which has long obsessed me; but I see no meansof solving it finally. The aged grandams are gone, and the collectors offolklore began their work in England too late to save most of the actualstories which the grandams told. Yet such things do not easily die quiteout, and imagination, working on scattered hints, may be able to devisea picture of an evening's entertainment, such an one as Mrs. Marcet'sEvening Conversations, Mr. Joyce's Dialogues on Chemistry, andsomebody else's Philosophy in Sport made Science in Earnest, aimed atextinguishing by substituting for Error and Superstition the light ofUtility and Truth; in some such terms as these:

Charles: I think, papa, that I now understand the properties of thelever, which you so kindly explained to me on Saturday; but I have beenvery much puzzled since then in thinking about the pendulum, and havewondered why it is that, when you stop it, the clock does not go on anymore.

Papa: (You young sinner, have you been meddling with the clock in thehall? Come here to me! No, this must be a gloss that has somehow creptinto the text.) Well, my boy, though I do not wholly approve of yourconducting without my supervision experiments which may possibly impairthe usefulness of a valuable scientific instrument, I will do my best toexplain the principles of the pendulum to you. Fetch me a piece of stoutwhipcord from the drawer in my study, and ask cook to be so good as tolend you one of the weights which she uses in her kitchen.

And so we are off.

How different the scene in a household to which the beams of Sciencehave not yet penetrated! The Squire, exhausted by a long day after thepartridges, and replete with food and drink, is snoring on one side ofthe fireplace. His old mother sits opposite to him knitting, and thechildren (Charles and Fanny, not Harry and Lucy: they would never havestood it) are gathered about her knee.

Grandmother: Now, my dears, you must be very good and quiet, or you'llwake your father, and you know what'll happen then.

Charles: Yes, I know: he'll be woundy cross-tempered and send us offto bed.

Grandmother (stops knitting and speaks with severity): What's that?Fie upon you, Charles! that's not a way to speak. Now I was going tohave told you a story, but if you use such-like words, I shan't.(Suppressed outcry: "Oh, granny!") Hush! hush! Now I believe youhave woke your father!

Squire (thickly): Look here, mother, if you can't keep them bratsquiet——

Grandmother: Yes, John, yes! it's too bad. I've been telling them ifit happens again, off to bed they shall go.

Squire relapses.

Grandmother: There, now, you see, children, what did I tell you? youmust be good and sit still. And I'll tell you what: to-morrow youshall go a-blackberrying, and if you bring home a nice basketful, I'llmake you some jam.

Charles: Oh yes, granny, do! and I know where the best blackberriesare: I saw 'em to-day.

Grandmother: And where's that, Charles?

Charles: Why, in the little lane that goes up past Collins's cottage.

Grandmother (laying down her knitting): Charles! whatever you do,don't you dare to pick one single blackberry in that lane. Don't youknow—but there, how should you—what was I thinking of? Well, anyway,you mind what I say——

Charles and Fanny: But why, granny? Why shouldn't we pick 'em there?

Grandmother: Hush! hush! Very well then, I'll tell you all about it,only you mustn't interrupt. Now let me see. When I was quite a littlegirl that lane had a bad name, though it seems people don't rememberabout it now. And one day—dear me, just as it might be to-night—I toldmy poor mother when I came home to my supper—a summer evening it was—Itold her where I'd been for my walk, and how I'd come back down thatlane, and I asked her how it was that there were currant and gooseberrybushes growing in a little patch at the top of the lane. And oh, dearme, such a taking as she was in! She shook me and she slapped me, andsays she, "You naughty, naughty child, haven't I forbid you twenty timesover to set foot in that lane? and here you go dawdling down it atnight-time," and so forth, and when she'd finished I was almost too muchtaken aback to say anything: but I did make her believe that was thefirst I'd ever heard of it; and that was no more than the truth. Andthen, to be sure, she was sorry she'd been so short with me, and to makeup she told me the whole story after my supper. And since then I'veoften heard the same from the old people in the place, and had my ownreasons besides for thinking there was something in it.

Now, up at the far end of that lane—let me see, is it on the right- orthe left-hand side as you go up?—the left-hand side—you'll find alittle patch of bushes and rough ground in the field, and something likea broken old hedge round about, and you'll notice there's some oldgooseberry and currant bushes growing among it—or there used to be, forit's years now since I've been up that way. Well, that means there was acottage stood there, of course; and in that cottage, before I was bornor thought of, there lived a man named Davis. I've heard that he wasn'tborn in the parish, and it's true there's nobody of that name beenliving about here since I've known the place. But however that may be,this Mr. Davis lived very much to himself and very seldom went to thepublic-house, and he didn't work for any of the farmers, having as itseemed enough money of his own to get along. But he'd go to the town onmarket-days and take up his letters at the post-house where the mailscalled. And one day he came back from market, and brought a young manwith him; and this young man and he lived together for some long time,and went about together, and whether he just did the work of the housefor Mr. Davis, or whether Mr. Davis was his teacher in some way, nobodyseemed to know. I've heard he was a pale, ugly young fellow and hadn'tmuch to say for himself. Well, now, what did those two men do withthemselves? Of course I can't tell you half the foolish things that thepeople got into their heads, and we know, don't we, that you mustn'tspeak evil when you aren't sure it's true, even when people are dead andgone. But as I said, those two were always about together, late andearly, up on the downland and below in the woods: and there was onewalk in particular that they'd take regularly once a month, to theplace where you've seen that old figure cut out in the hill-side; and itwas noticed that in the summertime when they took that walk, they'd campout all night, either there or somewhere near by. I remember once myfather—that's your great-grandfather—told me he had spoken to Mr.Davis about it (for it's his land he lived on) and asked him why he wasso fond of going there, but he only said: "Oh, it's a wonderful oldplace, sir, and I've always been fond of the old-fashioned things, andwhen him (that was his man he meant) and me are together there, it seemsto bring back the old times so plain." And my father said, "Well," hesaid, "it may suit you, but I shouldn't like a lonely place likethat in the middle of the night." And Mr. Davis smiled, and the youngman, who'd been listening, said, "Oh, we don't want for company at suchtimes," and my father said he couldn't help thinking Mr. Davis made somekind of sign, and the young man went on quick, as if to mend his words,and said, "That's to say, Mr. Davis and me's company enough for eachother, ain't we, master? and then there's a beautiful air there of asummer night, and you can see all the country round under the moon, andit looks so different, seemingly, to what it do in the daytime. Why, allthem barrows on the down——"

And then Mr. Davis cut in, seeming to be out of temper with the lad, andsaid, "Ah yes, they're old-fashioned places, ain't they, sir? Now, whatwould you think was the purpose of them?" And my father said (now, dearme, it seems funny, doesn't it, that I should recollect all this: but ittook my fancy at the time, and though it's dull perhaps for you, I can'thelp finishing it out now), well, he said, "Why, I've heard, Mr. Davis,that they're all graves, and I know, when I've had occasion to plough upone, there's always been some old bones and pots turned up. But whosegraves they are, I don't know: people say the ancient Romans were allabout this country at one time, but whether they buried their peoplelike that I can't tell." And Mr. Davis shook his head, thinking, andsaid, "Ah, to be sure: well they look to me to be older-like than theancient Romans, and dressed different—that's to say, according to thepictures the Romans was in armour, and you didn't never find no armour,did you, sir, by what you said?" And my father was rather surprised andsaid, "I don't know that I mentioned anything about armour, but it'strue I don't remember to have found any. But you talk as if you'd seen'em, Mr. Davis," and they both of them laughed, Mr. Davis and the youngman, and Mr. Davis said, "Seen 'em, sir? that would be a difficultmatter after all these years. Not but what I should like well enough toknow more about them old times and people, and what they worshipped andall." And my father said, "Worshipped? Well, I dare say they worshippedthe old man on the hill." "Ah, indeed!" Mr. Davis said, "well, Ishouldn't wonder," and my father went on and told them what he'd heardand read about the heathens and their sacrifices: what you'll learn someday for yourself, Charles, when you go to school and begin your Latin.And they seemed to be very much interested, both of them; but my fathersaid he couldn't help thinking the most of what he was saying was nonews to them. That was the only time he ever had much talk with Mr.Davis, and it stuck in his mind, particularly, he said, the young man'sword about not wanting for company: because in those days there was alot of talk in the villages round about—why, but for my fatherinterfering, the people here would have ducked an old lady for a witch.

Charles: What does that mean, granny, ducked an old lady for a witch?Are there witches here now?

Grandmother: No, no, dear! why, what ever made me stray off like that?No, no, that's quite another affair. What I was going to say was thatthe people in other places round about believed that some sort ofmeetings went on at night-time on that hill where the man is, and thatthose who went there were up to no good. But don't you interrupt me now,for it's getting late. Well, I suppose it was a matter of three yearsthat Mr. Davis and this young man went on living together: and then allof a sudden, a dreadful thing happened. I don't know if I ought to tellyou. (Outcries of "Oh yes! yes, granny, you must," etc.). Well, then,you must promise not to get frightened and go screaming out in themiddle of the night. ("No, no, we won't, of course not!") One morningvery early towards the turn of the year, I think it was in September,one of the woodmen had to go up to his work at the top of the longcovert just as it was getting light; and just where there were some fewbig oaks in a sort of clearing deep in the wood he saw at a distance awhite thing that looked like a man through the mist, and he was in twominds about going on, but go on he did, and made out as he came nearthat it was a man, and more than that, it was Mr. Davis's young man:dressed in a sort of white gown he was, and hanging by his neck to thelimb of the biggest oak, quite, quite dead: and near his feet there layon the ground a hatchet all in a gore of blood. Well, what a terriblesight that was for anyone to come upon in that lonely place! This poorman was nearly out of his wits: he dropped everything he was carryingand ran as hard as ever he could straight down to the Parsonage, andwoke them up and told what he'd seen. And old Mr. White, who was theparson then, sent him off to get two or three of the best men, theblacksmith and the church-wardens and what not, while he dressedhimself, and all of them went up to this dreadful place with a horse tolay the poor body on and take it to the house. When they got there,everything was just as the woodman had said: but it was a terrible shockto them all to see how the corpse was dressed, specially to old Mr.White, for it seemed to him to be like a mockery of the church surplicethat was on it, only, he told my father, not the same in the fashion ofit. And when they came to take down the body from the oak tree theyfound there was a chain of some metal round the neck and a littleornament like a wheel hanging to it on the front, and it was very oldlooking, they said. Now in the meantime they had sent off a boy to runto Mr. Davis's house and see whether he was at home; for of course theycouldn't but have their suspicions. And Mr. White said they must sendtoo to the constable of the next parish, and get a message to anothermagistrate (he was a magistrate himself), and so there was runninghither and thither. But my father as it happened was away from home thatnight, otherwise they would have fetched him first. So then they laidthe body across the horse, and they say it was all they could manage tokeep the beast from bolting away from the time they were in sight of thetree, for it seemed to be mad with fright. However, they managed to bindthe eyes and lead it down through the wood and back into the villagestreet; and there, just by the big tree where the stocks are, they founda lot of the women gathered together, and this boy whom they'd sent toMr. Davis's house lying in the middle, as white as paper, and not a wordcould they get out of him, good or bad. So they saw there was somethingworse yet to come, and they made the best of their way up the lane toMr. Davis's house. And when they got near that, the horse they wereleading seemed to go mad again with fear, and reared up and screamed,and struck out with its fore-feet and the man that was leading it wasas near as possible being killed, and the dead body fell off its back.So Mr. White bid them get the horse away as quick as might be, and theycarried the body straight into the living-room, for the door stood open.And then they saw what it was that had given the poor boy such a fright,and they guessed why the horse went mad, for you know horses can't bearthe smell of dead blood.

There was a long table in the room, more than the length of a man, andon it there lay the body of Mr. Davis. The eyes were bound over with alinen band and the arms were tied across the back, and the feet werebound together with another band. But the fearful thing was that thebreast being quite bare, the bone of it was split through from the topdownwards with an axe! Oh, it was a terrible sight; not one there butturned faint and ill with it, and had to go out into the fresh air. EvenMr. White, who was what you might call a hard nature of a man, was quiteovercome and said a prayer for strength in the garden.

At last they laid out the other body as best they could in the room, andsearched about to see if they could find out how such a frightful thinghad come to pass. And in the cupboards they found a quantity of herbsand jars with liquors, and it came out, when people that understood suchmatters had looked into it, that some of these liquors were drinks toput a person asleep. And they had little doubt that that wicked youngman had put some of this into Mr. Davis's drink, and then used him ashe did, and, after that, the sense of his sin had come upon him and hehad cast himself away.

Well now, you couldn't understand all the law business that had to bedone by the coroner and the magistrates; but there was a great comingand going of people over it for the next day or two, and then the peopleof the parish got together and agreed that they couldn't bear thethought of those two being buried in the churchyard alongside ofChristian people; for I must tell you there were papers and writingsfound in the drawers and cupboards that Mr. White and some otherclergymen looked into; and they put their names to a paper that saidthese men were guilty, by their own allowing, of the dreadful sin ofidolatry; and they feared there were some in the neighbouring placesthat were not free from that wickedness, and called upon them to repent,lest the same fearful thing that was come to these men should befallthem also; and then they burnt those writings. So then, Mr. White was ofthe same mind as the parishioners, and late one evening twelve men thatwere chosen went with him to that evil house, and with them they tooktwo biers made very roughly for the purpose and two pieces of blackcloth, and down at the cross-road, where you take the turn for Bascombeand Wilcombe, there were other men waiting with torches, and a pit dug,and a great crowd of people gathered together from all round about. Andthe men that went to the cottage went in with their hats on theirheads, and four of them took the two bodies and laid them on the biersand covered them over with the black cloths, and no one said a word, butthey bore them down the lane, and they were cast into the pit andcovered over with stones and earth, and then Mr. White spoke to thepeople that were gathered together. My father was there, for he had comeback when he heard the news, and he said he never should forget thestrangeness of the sight, with the torches burning and those two blackthings huddled together in the pit, and not a sound from any of thepeople, except it might be a child or a woman whimpering with thefright. And so, when Mr. White had finished speaking, they all turnedaway and left them lying there.

They say horses don't like the spot even now, and I've heard there wassomething of a mist or a light hung about for a long time after, but Idon't know the truth of that. But this I do know, that next day myfather's business took him past the opening of the lane, and he sawthree or four little knots of people standing at different places alongit, seemingly in a state of mind about something; and he rode up tothem, and asked what was the matter. And they ran up to him and said,"Oh, Squire, it's the blood! Look at the blood!" and kept on like that.So he got off his horse and they showed him, and there, in four places,I think it was, he saw great patches in the road, of blood: but he couldhardly see it was blood, for almost every spot of it was covered withgreat black flies, that never changed their place or moved. And thatblood was what had fallen out of Mr. Davis's body as they bore it downthe lane. Well, my father couldn't bear to do more than just take in thenasty sight so as to be sure of it, and then he said to one of those menthat was there, "Do you make haste and fetch a basket or a barrow fullof clean earth out of the churchyard and spread it over these places,and I'll wait here till you come back." And very soon he came back, andthe old man that was sexton with him, with a shovel and the earth in ahand-barrow: and they set it down at the first of the places and madeready to cast the earth upon it; and as soon as ever they did that, whatdo you think? the flies that were on it rose up in the air in a kind ofa solid cloud and moved off up the lane towards the house, and thesexton (he was parish clerk as well) stopped and looked at them and saidto my father, "Lord of flies, sir," and no more would he say. And justthe same it was at the other places, every one of them.

Charles: But what did he mean, granny?

Grandmother: Well, dear, you remember to ask Mr. Lucas when you go tohim for your lesson to-morrow. I can't stop now to talk about it: it'slong past bed-time for you already. The next thing was, my father madeup his mind no one was going to live in that cottage again, or yet useany of the things that were in it: so, though it was one of the best inthe place, he sent round word to the people that it was to be done awaywith, and anyone that wished could bring a faggot to the burning of it;and that's what was done. They built a pile of wood in the living-roomand loosened the thatch so as the fire could take good hold, and thenset it alight; and as there was no brick, only the chimney-stack and theoven, it wasn't long before it was all gone. I seem to remember seeingthe chimney when I was a little girl, but that fell down of itself atlast.

Now this that I've got to is the last bit of all. You may be sure thatfor a long time the people said Mr. Davis and that young man were seenabout, the one of them in the wood and both of them where the house hadbeen, or passing together down the lane, particularly in the spring ofthe year and at autumn-time. I can't speak to that, though if we weresure there are such things as ghosts, it would seem likely that peoplelike that wouldn't rest quiet. But I can tell you this, that one eveningin the month of March, just before your grandfather and I were married,we'd been taking a long walk in the woods together and picking flowersand talking as young people will that are courting; and so much taken upwith each other that we never took any particular notice where we weregoing. And on a sudden I cried out, and your grandfather asked what wasthe matter. The matter was that I'd felt a sharp prick on the back of myhand, and I snatched it to me and saw a black thing on it, and struck itwith the other hand and killed it. And I showed it him, and he was a manwho took notice of all such things, and he said, "Well, I've never seenought like that fly before," and though to my own eye it didn't seemvery much out of the common, I've no doubt he was right.

And then we looked about us, and lo and behold if we weren't in the verylane, just in front of the place where that house had stood, and, asthey told me after, just where the men set down the biers a minute whenthey bore them out of the garden gate. You may be sure we made hasteaway from there; at least, I made your grandfather come away quick, forI was wholly upset at finding myself there; but he would have lingeredabout out of curiosity if I'd have let him. Whether there was anythingabout there more than we could see I shall never be sure: perhaps it waspartly the venom of that horrid fly's bite that was working in me thatmade me feel so strange; for, dear me, how that poor arm and hand ofmine did swell up, to be sure! I'm afraid to tell you how large it wasround! and the pain of it, too! Nothing my mother could put on it hadany power over it at all, and it wasn't till she was persuaded by ourold nurse to get the wise man over at Bascombe to come and look at it,that I got any peace at all. But he seemed to know all about it, andsaid I wasn't the first that had been taken that way. "When the sun'sgathering his strength," he said, "and when he's in the height of it,and when he's beginning to lose his hold, and when he's in his weakness,them that haunts about that lane had best to take heed to themselves."But what it was he bound on my arm and what he said over it, he wouldn'ttell us. After that I soon got well again, but since then I've heardoften enough of people suffering much the same as I did; only of lateyears it doesn't seem to happen but very seldom: and maybe things likethat do die out in the course of time.

But that's the reason, Charles, why I say to you that I won't have yougathering me blackberries, no, nor eating them either, in that lane; andnow you know all about it, I don't fancy you'll want to yourself. There!Off to bed you go this minute. What's that, Fanny? A light in your room?The idea of such a thing! You get yourself undressed at once and sayyour prayers, and perhaps if your father doesn't want me when he wakesup, I'll come and say good night to you. And you, Charles, if I hearanything of you frightening your little sister on the way up to yourbed, I shall tell your father that very moment, and you know whathappened to you the last time.

The door closes, and granny, after listening intently for a minute ortwo, resumes her knitting. The Squire still slumbers.

THERE WAS A MAN DWELT BY A CHURCHYARD

This, you know, is the beginning of the story about sprites and goblinswhich Mamilius, the best child in Shakespeare, was telling to his motherthe queen, and the court ladies, when the king came in with his guardsand hurried her off to prison. There is no more of the story; Mamiliusdied soon after without having a chance of finishing it. Now what was itgoing to have been? Shakespeare knew, no doubt, and I will be bold tosay that I do. It was not going to be a new story: it was to be onewhich you have most likely heard, and even told. Everybody may set it inwhat frame he likes best. This is mine:

There was a man dwelt by a churchyard. His house had a lower story ofstone and an upper one of timber. The front windows looked out on thestreet and the back ones on the churchyard. It had once belonged to theparish priest, but (this was in Queen Elizabeth's days) the priest was amarried man and wanted more room; besides, his wife disliked seeing thechurchyard at night out of her bedroom window. She said she saw—butnever mind what she said; anyhow, she gave her husband no peace till heagreed to move into a larger house in the village street, and the oldone was taken by John Poole, who was a widower, and lived there alone.He was an elderly man who kept very much to himself, and people said hewas something of a miser.

It was very likely true: he was morbid in other ways, certainly. Inthose days it was common to bury people at night and by torchlight: andit was noticed that whenever a funeral was toward, John Poole was alwaysat his window, either on the ground floor or upstairs, according as hecould get the better view from one or the other.

There came a night when an old woman was to be buried. She was fairlywell to do, but she was not liked in the place. The usual thing was saidof her, that she was no Christian, and that on such nights as MidsummerEve and All Hallows, she was not to be found in her house. She wasred-eyed and dreadful to look at, and no beggar ever knocked at herdoor. Yet when she died she left a purse of money to the Church.

There was no storm on the night of her burial; it was fair and calm. Butthere was some difficulty about getting bearers, and men to carry thetorches, in spite of the fact that she had left larger fees than commonfor such as did that work. She was buried in woollen, without a coffin.No one was there but those who were actually needed—and John Poole,watching from his window. Just before the grave was filled in, theparson stooped down and cast something upon the body—something thatclinked—and in a low voice he said words that sounded like "Thy moneyperish with thee." Then he walked quickly away, and so did the othermen, leaving only one torch-bearer to light the sexton and his boy whilethey shovelled the earth in. They made no very neat job of it, and nextday, which was a Sunday, the church-goers were rather sharp with thesexton, saying it was the untidiest grave in the yard. And indeed, whenhe came to look at it himself, he thought it was worse than he had leftit.

Meanwhile John Poole went about with a curious air, half exulting, as itwere, and half nervous. More than once he spent an evening at the inn,which was clean contrary to his usual habit, and to those who fell intotalk with him there he hinted that he had come into a little bit ofmoney and was looking out for a somewhat better house. "Well, I don'twonder," said the smith one night, "I shouldn't care for that place ofyours. I should be fancying things all night." The landlord asked himwhat sort of things.

"Well, maybe somebody climbing up to the chamber window, or the like ofthat," said the smith. "I don't know—old mother Wilkins that was burieda week ago to-day, eh?"

"Come, I think you might consider of a person's feelings," said thelandlord. "It ain't so pleasant for Master Poole, is it now?"

"Master Poole don't mind," said the smith. "He's been there long enoughto know. I only says it wouldn't be my choice. What with the passingbell, and the torches when there's a burial, and all them graves layingso quiet when there's no one about: only they say there's lights—don'tyou never see no lights, Master Poole?"

"No, I don't never see no lights," said Master Poole sulkily, and calledfor another drink, and went home late.

That night, as he lay in his bed upstairs, a moaning wind began to playabout the house, and he could not go to sleep. He got up and crossed theroom to a little cupboard in the wall: he took out of it something thatclinked, and put it in the breast of his bedgown. Then he went to thewindow and looked out into the churchyard.

Have you ever seen an old brass in a church with a figure of a person ina shroud? It is bunched together at the top of the head in a curiousway. Something like that was sticking up out of the earth in a spot ofthe churchyard which John Poole knew very well. He darted into his bedand lay there very still indeed.

Presently something made a very faint rattling at the casement. With adreadful reluctance John Poole turned his eyes that way. Alas! Betweenhim and the moonlight was the black outline of the curious bunchedhead.... Then there was a figure in the room. Dry earth rattled on thefloor. A low cracked voice said "Where is it?" and steps went hither andthither, faltering steps as of one walking with difficulty. It could beseen now and again, peering into corners, stooping to look underchairs; finally it could be heard fumbling at the doors of the cupboardin the wall, throwing them open. There was a scratching of long nails onthe empty shelves. The figure whipped round, stood for an instant at theside of the bed, raised its arms, and with a hoarse scream of "YOU'VEGOT IT!"——

At this point H.R.H. Prince Mamilius (who would, I think, have made thestory a good deal shorter than this) flung himself with a loud yell uponthe youngest of the court ladies present, who responded with an equallypiercing cry. He was instantly seized upon by H.M. Queen Hermione, who,repressing an inclination to laugh, shook and slapped him very severely.Much flushed, and rather inclined to cry, he was about to be sent tobed: but, on the intercession of his victim, who had now recovered fromthe shock, he was eventually permitted to remain until his usual hourfor retiring; by which time he too had so far recovered as to assert, inbidding good night to the company, that he knew another story quitethree times as dreadful as that one, and would tell it on the firstopportunity that offered.

RATS

"And if you was to walk through the bedrooms now, you'd see theragged, mouldy bedclothes a-heaving and a-heaving like seas." "Anda-heaving and a-heaving with what?" he says. "Why, with the ratsunder 'em."

But was it with the rats? I ask, because in another case it was not. Icannot put a date to the story, but I was young when I heard it, and theteller was old. It is an ill-proportioned tale, but that is my fault,not his.

It happened in Suffolk, near the coast. In a place where the road makesa sudden dip and then a sudden rise; as you go northward, at the top ofthat rise, stands a house on the left of the road. It is a tallred-brick house, narrow for its height; perhaps it was built about 1770.The top of the front has a low triangular pediment with a round windowin the centre. Behind it are stables and offices, and such garden as ithas is behind them. Scraggy Scotch firs are near it: an expanse ofgorse-covered land stretches away from it. It commands a view of thedistant sea from the upper windows of the front. A sign on a post standsbefore the door; or did so stand, for though it was an inn of reputeonce, I believe it is so no longer.

To this inn came my acquaintance, Mr. Thomson, when he was a young man,on a fine spring day, coming from the University of Cambridge, anddesirous of solitude in tolerable quarters and time for reading. Thesehe found, for the landlord and his wife had been in service and couldmake a visitor comfortable, and there was no one else staying in theinn. He had a large room on the first floor commanding the road and theview, and if it faced east, why, that could not be helped; the house waswell built and warm.

He spent very tranquil and uneventful days: work all the morning, anafternoon perambulation of the country round, a little conversation withcountry company or the people of the inn in the evening over the thenfashionable drink of brandy and water, a little more reading andwriting, and bed; and he would have been content that this shouldcontinue for the full month he had at disposal, so well was his workprogressing, and so fine was the April of that year—which I have reasonto believe was that which Orlando Whistlecraft chronicles in his weatherrecord as the "Charming Year."

One of his walks took him along the northern road, which stands high andtraverses a wide common, called a heath. On the bright afternoon when hefirst chose this direction his eye caught a white object some hundredsof yards to the left of the road, and he felt it necessary to make surewhat this might be. It was not long before he was standing by it, andfound himself looking at a square block of white stone fashionedsomewhat like the base of a pillar, with a square hole in the uppersurface. Just such another you may see at this day on Thetford Heath.After taking stock of it he contemplated for a few minutes the view,which offered a church tower or two, some red roofs of cottages andwindows winking in the sun, and the expanse of sea—also with anoccasional wink and gleam upon it—and so pursued his way.

In the desultory evening talk in the bar, he asked why the white stonewas there on the common.

"A old-fashioned thing, that is," said the landlord (Mr. Betts), "we wasnone of us alive when that was put there." "That's right," said another."It stands pretty high," said Mr. Thomson, "I dare say a sea-mark was onit some time back." "Ah! yes," Mr. Betts agreed, "I 'ave 'eard theycould see it from the boats; but whatever there was, it's fell to bitsthis long time." "Good job too," said a third, "'twarn't a lucky mark,by what the old men used to say; not lucky for the fishin', I mean tosay." "Why ever not?" said Thomson. "Well, I never see it myself," wasthe answer, "but they 'ad some funny ideas, what I mean, peculiar, themold chaps, and I shouldn't wonder but what they made away with ittheirselves."

It was impossible to get anything clearer than this: the company, neververy voluble, fell silent, and when next someone spoke it was of villageaffairs and crops. Mr. Betts was the speaker.

Not every day did Thomson consult his health by taking a country walk.One very fine afternoon found him busily writing at three o'clock. Thenhe stretched himself and rose, and walked out of his room into thepassage. Facing him was another room, then the stair-head, then two morerooms, one looking out to the back, the other to the south. At the southend of the passage was a window, to which he went, considering withhimself that it was rather a shame to waste such a fine afternoon.However, work was paramount just at the moment; he thought he would justtake five minutes off and go back to it, and those five minutes he wouldemploy—the Bettses could not possibly object—to looking at the otherrooms in the passage, which he had never seen. Nobody at all, it seemed,was indoors; probably, as it was market day, they were all gone to thetown, except perhaps a maid in the bar. Very still the house was, andthe sun shone really hot; early flies buzzed in the window-panes. So heexplored. The room facing his own was undistinguished except for an oldprint of Bury St. Edmunds; the two next him on his side of the passagewere gay and clean, with one window apiece, whereas his had two.Remained the south-west room, opposite to the last which he had entered.This was locked; but Thomson was in a mood of quite indefensiblecuriosity, and feeling confident that there could be no damaging secretsin a place so easily got at, he proceeded to fetch the key of his ownroom, and when that did not answer, to collect the keys of the otherthree. One of them fitted, and he opened the door. The room had twowindows looking south and west, so it was as bright and the sun as hotupon it as could be. Here there was no carpet, but bare boards; nopictures, no washing-stand, only a bed, in the farther corner: an ironbed, with mattress and bolster, covered with a bluish check counterpane.As featureless a room as you can well imagine, and yet there wassomething that made Thomson close the door very quickly and yet quietlybehind him and lean against the window-sill in the passage, actuallyquivering all over. It was this, that under the counterpane someone lay,and not only lay, but stirred. That it was some one and not something was certain, because the shape of a head was unmistakable on thebolster; and yet it was all covered, and no one lies with covered headbut a dead person; and this was not dead, not truly dead, for it heavedand shivered. If he had seen these things in dusk or by the light of aflickering candle, Thomson could have comforted himself and talked offancy. On this bright day that was impossible. What was to be done?First, lock the door at all costs. Very gingerly he approached it andbending down listened, holding his breath; perhaps there might be asound of heavy breathing, and a prosaic explanation. There was absolutesilence. But as, with a rather tremulous hand, he put the key into itshole and turned it, it rattled, and on the instant a stumbling paddingtread was heard coming towards the door. Thomson fled like a rabbit tohis room and locked himself in: futile enough, he knew it was; woulddoors and locks be any obstacle to what he suspected? but it was all hecould think of at the moment, and in fact nothing happened; only therewas a time of acute suspense—followed by a misery of doubt as to whatto do. The impulse, of course, was to slip away as soon as possible froma house which contained such an inmate. But only the day before he hadsaid he should be staying for at least a week more, and how if hechanged plans could he avoid the suspicion of having pried into placeswhere he certainly had no business? Moreover, either the Bettses knewall about the inmate, and yet did not leave the house, or knew nothing,which equally meant that there was nothing to be afraid of, or knew justenough to make them shut up the room, but not enough to weigh on theirspirits: in any of these cases it seemed that not much was to be feared,and certainly so far he had had no sort of ugly experience. On the wholethe line of least resistance was to stay.

Well, he stayed out his week. Nothing took him past that door, and,often as he would pause in a quiet hour of day or night in the passageand listen, and listen, no sound whatever issued from that direction.You might have thought that Thomson would have made some attempt atferreting out stories connected with the inn—hardly perhaps from Betts,but from the parson of the parish, or old people in the village; but no,the reticence which commonly falls on people who have had strangeexperiences, and believe in them, was upon him. Nevertheless, as the endof his stay drew near, his yearning after some kind of explanation grewmore and more acute. On his solitary walks he persisted in planning outsome way, the least obtrusive, of getting another daylight glimpse intothat room, and eventually arrived at this scheme. He would leave by anafternoon train—about four o'clock. When his fly was waiting, and hisluggage on it, he would make one last expedition upstairs to look roundhis own room and see if anything was left unpacked, and then, with thatkey, which he had contrived to oil (as if that made any difference!),the door should once more be opened, for a moment, and shut.

So it worked out. The bill was paid, the consequent small talk gonethrough while the fly was loaded: "pleasant part of the country—beenvery comfortable, thanks to you and Mrs. Betts—hope to come back sometime," on one side: on the other, "very glad you've found satisfaction,sir, done our best—always glad to 'ave your good word—very muchfavoured we've been with the weather, to be sure." Then, "I'll just takea look upstairs in case I've left a book or something out—no, don'ttrouble, I'll be back in a minute." And as noiselessly as possible hestole to the door and opened it. The shattering of the illusion! Healmost laughed aloud. Propped, or you might say sitting, on the edge ofthe bed was—nothing in the round world but a scarecrow! A scarecrowout of the garden, of course, dumped into the deserted room.... Yes;but here amusement ceased. Have scarecrows bare bony feet? Do theirheads loll on to their shoulders? Have they iron collars and links ofchain about their necks? Can they get up and move, if never so stiffly,across a floor, with wagging head and arms close at their sides? andshiver?

The slam of the door, the dash to the stair-head, the leap downstairs,were followed by a faint. Awaking, Thomson saw Betts standing over himwith the brandy bottle and a very reproachful face. "You shouldn't adone so, sir, really you shouldn't. It ain't a kind way to act bypersons as done the best they could for you." Thomson heard words ofthis kind, but what he said in reply he did not know. Mr. Betts, andperhaps even more Mrs. Betts, found it hard to accept his apologies andhis assurances that he would say no word that could damage the good nameof the house. However, they were accepted. Since the train could notnow be caught, it was arranged that Thomson should be driven to the townto sleep there. Before he went the Bettses told him what little theyknew. "They says he was landlord 'ere a long time back, and was in withthe 'ighwaymen that 'ad their beat about the 'eath. That's how he comeby his end: 'ung in chains, they say, up where you see that stone whatthe gallus stood in. Yes, the fishermen made away with that, I believe,because they see it out at sea and it kep' the fish off, according totheir idea. Yes, we 'ad the account from the people that 'ad the 'ousebefore we come. 'You keep that room shut up,' they says, 'but don't movethe bed out, and you'll find there won't be no trouble.' And no morethere 'as been; not once he haven't come out into the 'ouse, though whathe may do now there ain't no sayin'. Anyway, you're the first I know onthat's seen him since we've been 'ere: I never set eyes on him myself,nor don't want. And ever since we've made the servants' rooms in thestablin', we ain't 'ad no difficulty that way. Only I do 'ope, sir, asyou'll keep a close tongue, considerin' 'ow an 'ouse do get talkedabout": with more to this effect.

The promise of silence was kept for many years. The occasion of myhearing the story at last was this: that when Mr. Thomson came to staywith my father it fell to me to show him to his room, and instead ofletting me open the door for him, he stepped forward and threw it openhimself, and then for some moments stood in the doorway holding up hiscandle and looking narrowly into the interior. Then he seemed torecollect himself and said: "I beg your pardon. Very absurd, but I can'thelp doing that, for a particular reason." What that reason was I heardsome days afterwards, and you have heard now.

AFTER DARK IN THE PLAYING FIELDS

The hour was late and the night was fair. I had halted not far fromSheeps' Bridge and was thinking about the stillness, only broken by thesound of the weir, when a loud tremulous hoot just above me made mejump. It is always annoying to be startled, but I have a kindness forowls. This one was evidently very near: I looked about for it. There itwas, sitting plumply on a branch about twelve feet up. I pointed mystick at it and said, "Was that you?" "Drop it," said the owl. "I knowit ain't only a stick, but I don't like it. Yes, of course it was me:who do you suppose it would be if it warn't?"

We will take as read the sentences about my surprise. I lowered thestick. "Well," said the owl, "what about it? If you will come out hereof a Midsummer evening like what this is, what do you expect?" "I begyour pardon," I said, "I should have remembered. May I say that I thinkmyself very lucky to have met you to-night? I hope you have time for alittle talk?" "Well," said the owl ungraciously, "I don't know as itmatters so particular to-night. I've had me supper as it happens, and ifyou ain't too long over it—ah-h-h!" Suddenly it broke into a loudscream, flapped its wings furiously, bent forward and clutched itsperch tightly, continuing to scream. Plainly something was pulling hardat it from behind. The strain relaxed abruptly, the owl nearly fellover, and then whipped round, ruffling up all over, and made a viciousdab at something unseen by me. "Oh, I am sorry," said a small clearvoice in a solicitous tone. "I made sure it was loose. I do hope Ididn't hurt you." "Didn't 'urt me?" said the owl bitterly. "Of courseyou 'urt me, and well you know it, you young infidel. That feather wasno more loose than—oh, if I could git at you! Now I shouldn't wonderbut what you've throwed me all out of balance. Why can't you let aperson set quiet for two minutes at a time without you must comecreepin' up and—well, you've done it this time, anyway. I shall gostraight to 'eadquarters and"—(finding it was now addressing the emptyair)—"why, where have you got to now? Oh, it is too bad, that it is!"

"Dear me!" I said, "I'm afraid this isn't the first time you've beenannoyed in this way. May I ask exactly what happened?"

"Yes, you may ask," said the owl, still looking narrowly about as itspoke, "but it 'ud take me till the latter end of next week to tell you.Fancy coming and pulling out anyone's tail feather! 'Urt me somethingcrool, it did. And what for, I should like to know? Answer me that!Where's the reason of it?"

All that occurred to me was to murmur, "The clamorous owl that nightlyhoots and wonders at our quaint spirits." I hardly thought the pointwould be taken, but the owl said sharply: "What's that? Yes, you needn'tto repeat it. I 'eard. And I'll tell you what's at the bottom of it, andyou mark my words." It bent towards me and whispered, with many nods ofits round head: "Pride! stand-offishness! that's what it is! Come notnear our fairy queen" (this in a tone of bitter contempt). "Oh, dearno! we ain't good enough for the likes of them. Us that's been notedtime out of mind for the best singers in the Fields: now, ain't thatso?"

"Well," I said, doubtfully enough, "I like to hear you very much: but,you know, some people think a lot of the thrushes and nightingales andso on; you must have heard of that, haven't you? And then, perhaps—ofcourse I don't know—perhaps your style of singing isn't exactly whatthey think suitable to accompany their dancing, eh?"

"I should kindly 'ope not," said the owl, drawing itself up. "Ourfamily's never give in to dancing, nor never won't neither. Why, whatever are you thinkin' of!" it went on with rising temper. "A prettything it would be for me to set there hiccuppin' at them"—it stoppedand looked cautiously all round it and up and down and then continued ina louder voice—"them little ladies and gentlemen. If it ain't sootablefor them, I'm very sure it ain't sootable for me. And" (temper risingagain) "if they expect me never to say a word just because they'redancin' and carryin' on with their foolishness, they're very muchmistook, and so I tell 'em."

From what had passed before I was afraid this was an imprudent line totake, and I was right. Hardly had the owl given its last emphatic nodwhen four small slim forms dropped from a bough above, and in atwinkling some sort of grass rope was thrown round the body of theunhappy bird, and it was borne off through the air, loudly protesting,in the direction of Fellows' Pond. Splashes and gurgles and shrieks ofunfeeling laughter were heard as I hurried up. Something darted awayover my head, and as I stood peering over the bank of the pond, whichwas all in commotion, a very angry and dishevelled owl scrambled heavilyup the bank, and stopping near my feet shook itself and flapped andhissed for several minutes without saying anything I should care torepeat.

Glaring at me, it eventually said—and the grim suppressed rage in itsvoice was such that I hastily drew back a step or two—"'Ear that? Saidthey was very sorry, but they'd mistook me for a duck. Oh, if it ain'tenough to make anyone go reg'lar distracted in their mind and teareverythink to flinders for miles round." So carried away was it bypassion, that it began the process at once by rooting up a large beakfulof grass, which alas! got into its throat; and the choking that resultedmade me really afraid that it would break a vessel. But the paroxysm wasmastered, and the owl sat up, winking and breathless but intact.

Some expression of sympathy seemed to be required; yet I was chary ofoffering it, for in its present state of mind I felt that the bird mightinterpret the best-meant phrase as a fresh insult. So we stood lookingat each other without speech for a very awkward minute, and then came adiversion. First the thin voice of the pavilion clock, then the deepersound from the Castle quadrangle, then Lupton's Tower, drowning theCurfew Tower by its nearness.

"What's that?" said the owl, suddenly and hoarsely. "Midnight, I shouldthink," said I, and had recourse to my watch. "Midnight?" cried the owl,evidently much startled, "and me too wet to fly a yard! Here, you pickme up and put me in the tree; don't, I'll climb up your leg, and youwon't ask me to do that twice. Quick now!" I obeyed. "Which tree do youwant?" "Why, my tree, to be sure! Over there!" It nodded towards theWall. "All right. Bad-calx tree do you mean?" I said, beginning to runin that direction. "'Ow should I know what silly names you call it? Theone what 'as like a door in it. Go faster! They'll be coming in anotherminute." "Who? What's the matter?" I asked as I ran, clutching the wetcreature, and much afraid of stumbling and coming over with it in thelong grass. "You'll see fast enough," said this selfish bird. "Youjust let me git on the tree, I shall be all right."

And I suppose it was, for it scrabbled very quickly up the trunk withits wings spread and disappeared in a hollow without a word of thanks. Ilooked round, not very comfortably. The Curfew Tower was still playingSt. David's tune and the little chime that follows, for the third andlast time, but the other bells had finished what they had to say, andnow there was silence, and again the "restless changing weir" was theonly thing that broke—no, that emphasized it.

Why had the owl been so anxious to get into hiding? That of course waswhat now exercised me. Whatever and whoever was coming, I was sure thatthis was no time for me to cross the open field: I should do best todissemble my presence by staying on the darker side of the tree. Andthat is what I did.

All this took place some years ago, before summertime came in. I dosometimes go into the Playing Fields at night still, but I come inbefore true midnight. And I find I do not like a crowd after dark—forexample at the Fourth of June fireworks. You see—no, you do not, but Isee—such curious faces: and the people to whom they belong flit aboutso oddly, often at your elbow when you least expect it, and lookingclose into your face, as if they were searching for someone—who may bethankful, I think, if they do not find him. "Where do they come from?"Why, some, I think, out of the water, and some out of the ground. Theylook like that. But I am sure it is best to take no notice of them, andnot to touch them.

Yes, I certainly prefer the daylight population of the Playing Fields tothat which comes there after dark.

WAILING WELL

In the year 19— there were two members of the Troop of Scouts attachedto a famous school, named respectively Arthur Wilcox and StanleyJudkins. They were the same age, boarded in the same house, were in thesame division, and naturally were members of the same patrol. They wereso much alike in appearance as to cause anxiety and trouble, and evenirritation, to the masters who came in contact with them. But oh howdifferent were they in their inward man, or boy!

It was to Arthur Wilcox that the Head Master said, looking up with asmile as the boy entered chambers, "Why, Wilcox, there will be a deficitin the prize fund if you stay here much longer! Here, take thishandsomely bound copy of the Life and Works of Bishop Ken, and with itmy hearty congratulations to yourself and your excellent parents." Itwas Wilcox again, whom the Provost noticed as he passed through theplaying fields, and, pausing for a moment, observed to the Vice-Provost,"That lad has a remarkable brow!" "Indeed, yes," said the Vice-Provost."It denotes either genius or water on the brain."

As a Scout, Wilcox secured every badge and distinction for which hecompeted. The Cookery Badge, the Map-making Badge, the Life-savingBadge, the Badge for picking up bits of newspaper, the Badge for notslamming the door when leaving pupil-room, and many others. Of theLife-saving Badge I may have a word to say when we come to treat ofStanley Judkins.

You cannot be surprised to hear that Mr. Hope Jones added a specialverse to each of his songs, in commendation of Arthur Wilcox, or thatthe Lower Master burst into tears when handing him the Good ConductMedal in its handsome claret-coloured case: the medal which had beenunanimously voted to him by the whole of Third Form. Unanimously, did Isay? I am wrong. There was one dissentient, Judkins mi., who said thathe had excellent reasons for acting as he did. He shared, it seems, aroom with his major. You cannot, again, wonder that in after yearsArthur Wilcox was the first, and so far the only boy, to become Captainof both the School and of the Oppidans, or that the strain of carryingout the duties of both positions, coupled with the ordinary work of theschool, was so severe that a complete rest for six months, followed by avoyage round the world, was pronounced an absolute necessity by thefamily doctor.

It would be a pleasant task to trace the steps by which he attained thegiddy eminence he now occupies; but for the moment enough of ArthurWilcox. Time presses, and we must turn to a very different matter: thecareer of Stanley Judkins—Judkins ma.

Stanley Judkins, like Arthur Wilcox, attracted the attention of theauthorities; but in quite another fashion. It was to him that the LowerMaster said with no cheerful smile, "What, again, Judkins? A very littlepersistence in this course of conduct, my boy, and you will have causeto regret that you ever entered this academy. There, take that, andthat, and think yourself very lucky you don't get that and that!" It wasJudkins, again, whom the Provost had cause to notice as he passedthrough the playing fields, when a cricket ball struck him withconsiderable force on the ankle, and a voice from a short way off cried,"Thank you, cut-over!" "I think," said the Provost, pausing for a momentto rub his ankle, "that that boy had better fetch his cricket ball forhimself!" "Indeed, yes," said the Vice-Provost, "and if he comes withinreach, I will do my best to fetch him something else."

As a Scout, Stanley Judkins secured no badge save those which he wasable to abstract from members of other patrols. In the cookerycompetition he was detected trying to introduce squibs into the Dutchoven of the next-door competitors. In the tailoring competition hesucceeded in sewing two boys together very firmly, with disastrouseffect when they tried to get up. For the Tidiness Badge he wasdisqualified, because, in the Midsummer schooltime, which chanced to behot, he could not be dissuaded from sitting with his fingers in the ink:as he said, for coolness' sake. For one piece of paper which he pickedup, he must have dropped at least six banana skins or orange peels. Agedwomen seeing him approaching would beg him with tears in their eyes notto carry their pails of water across the road. They knew too well whatthe result would inevitably be. But it was in the life-savingcompetition that Stanley Judkins's conduct was most blameable and hadthe most far-reaching effects. The practice, as you know, was to throw aselected lower boy, of suitable dimensions, fully dressed, with hishands and feet tied together, into the deepest part of Cuckoo Weir, andto time the Scout whose turn it was to rescue him. On every occasionwhen he was entered for this competition Stanley Judkins was seized, atthe critical moment, with a severe fit of cramp, which caused him toroll on the ground and utter alarming cries. This naturally distractedthe attention of those present from the boy in the water, and had it notbeen for the presence of Arthur Wilcox the death-roll would have been aheavy one. As it was, the Lower Master found it necessary to take a firmline and say that the competition must be discontinued. It was in vainthat Mr. Beasley Robinson represented to him that in five competitionsonly four lower boys had actually succumbed. The Lower Master said thathe would be the last to interfere in any way with the work of theScouts; but that three of these boys had been valued members of hischoir, and both he and Dr. Ley felt that the inconvenience caused by thelosses outweighed the advantages of the competitions. Besides, thecorrespondence with the parents of these boys had become annoying, andeven distressing: they were no longer satisfied with the printed formwhich he was in the habit of sending out, and more than one of them hadactually visited Eton and taken up much of his valuable time withcomplaints. So the life-saving competition is now a thing of the past.

In short, Stanley Judkins was no credit to the Scouts, and there wastalk on more than one occasion of informing him that his services wereno longer required. This course was strongly advocated by Mr. Lambart:but in the end milder counsels prevailed, and it was decided to give himanother chance.

So it is that we find him at the beginning of the Midsummer Holidays of19— at the Scouts' camp in the beautiful district of W (or X) in thecounty of D (or Y).

It was a lovely morning, and Stanley Judkins and one or two of hisfriends—for he still had friends—lay basking on the top of the down.Stanley was lying on his stomach with his chin propped on his hands,staring into the distance.

"I wonder what that place is," he said.

"Which place?" said one of the others.

"That sort of clump in the middle of the field down there."

"Oh, ah! How should I know what it is?"

"What do you want to know for?" said another.

"I don't know: I like the look of it. What's it called? Nobody got amap?" said Stanley. "Call yourselves Scouts!"

"Here's a map all right," said Wilfred Pipsqueak, ever resourceful,"and there's the place marked on it. But it's inside the red ring. Wecan't go there."

"Who cares about a red ring?" said Stanley. "But it's got no name onyour silly map."

"Well, you can ask this old chap what it's called if you're so keen tofind out." "This old chap" was an old shepherd who had come up and wasstanding behind them.

"Good morning, young gents," he said, "you've got a fine day for yourdoin's, ain't you?"

"Yes, thank you," said Algernon de Montmorency, with native politeness."Can you tell us what that clump over there's called? And what's thatthing inside it?"

"Course I can tell you," said the shepherd. "That's Wailin' Well, thatis. But you ain't got no call to worry about that."

"Is it a well in there?" said Algernon. "Who uses it?"

The shepherd laughed. "Bless you," he said, "there ain't from a man to asheep in these parts uses Wailin' Well, nor haven't done all the yearsI've lived here."

"Well, there'll be a record broken to-day, then," said Stanley Judkins,"because I shall go and get some water out of it for tea!"

"Sakes alive, young gentleman!" said the shepherd in a startled voice,"don't you get to talkin' that way! Why, ain't your masters give younotice not to go by there? They'd ought to have done."

"Yes, they have," said Wilfred Pipsqueak.

"Shut up, you ass!" said Stanley Judkins. "What's the matter with it?Isn't the water good? Anyhow, if it was boiled, it would be all right."

"I don't know as there's anything much wrong with the water," said theshepherd. "All I know is, my old dog wouldn't go through that field, letalone me or anyone else that's got a morsel of brains in their heads."

"More fool them," said Stanley Judkins, at once rudely andungrammatically. "Who ever took any harm going there?" he added.

"Three women and a man," said the shepherd gravely. "Now just you listento me. I know these 'ere parts and you don't, and I can tell you thismuch: for these ten years last past there ain't been a sheep fed in thatfield, nor a crop raised off of it—and it's good land, too. You canpretty well see from here what a state it's got into with brambles andsuckers and trash of all kinds. You've got a glass, young gentleman,"he said to Wilfred Pipsqueak, "you can tell with that anyway."

"Yes," said Wilfred, "but I see there's tracks in it. Someone must gothrough it sometimes."

"Tracks!" said the shepherd. "I believe you! Four tracks: three womenand a man."

"What d'you mean, three women and a man?" said Stanley, turning over forthe first time and looking at the shepherd (he had been talking with hisback to him till this moment: he was an ill-mannered boy).

"Mean? Why, what I says: three women and a man."

"Who are they?" asked Algernon. "Why do they go there?"

"There's some p'r'aps could tell you who they was," said the shepherd,"but it was afore my time they come by their end. And why they goesthere still is more than the children of men can tell: except I've heardthey was all bad 'uns when they was alive."

"By George, what a rum thing!" Algernon and Wilfred muttered: butStanley was scornful and bitter.

"Why, you don't mean they're deaders? What rot! You must be a lot offools to believe that. Who's ever seen them, I'd like to know?"

"I've seen 'em, young gentleman!" said the shepherd, "seen 'em fromnear by on that bit of down: and my old dog, if he could speak, he'dtell you he've seen 'em, same time. About four o'clock of the day itwas, much such a day as this. I see 'em, each one of 'em, come peerin'out of the bushes and stand up, and work their way slow by them trackstowards the trees in the middle where the well is."

"And what were they like? Do tell us!" said Algernon and Wilfredeagerly.

"Rags and bones, young gentlemen: all four of 'em: flutterin' rags andwhity bones. It seemed to me as if I could hear 'em clackin' as they gotalong. Very slow they went, and lookin' from side to side."

"What were their faces like? Could you see?"

"They hadn't much to call faces," said the shepherd, "but I could seemto see as they had teeth."

"Lor'!" said Wilfred, "and what did they do when they got to the trees?"

"I can't tell you that, sir," said the shepherd. "I wasn't for stayin'in that place, and if I had been, I was bound to look to my old dog:he'd gone! Such a thing he never done before as leave me; but gone hehad, and when I came up with him in the end, he was in that state hedidn't know me, and was fit to fly at my throat. But I kep' talkin' tohim, and after a bit he remembered my voice and came creepin' up like achild askin' pardon. I never want to see him like that again, nor yet noother dog."

The dog, who had come up and was making friends all round, looked up athis master, and expressed agreement with what he was saying very fully.

The boys pondered for some moments on what they had heard: after whichWilfred said: "And why's it called Wailing Well?"

"If you was round here at dusk of a winter's evening, you wouldn't wantto ask why," was all the shepherd said.

"Well, I don't believe a word of it," said Stanley Judkins, "and I'll gothere next chance I get: blowed if I don't!"

"Then you won't be ruled by me?" said the shepherd. "Nor yet by yourmasters as warned you off? Come now, young gentleman, you don't want forsense, I should say. What should I want tellin' you a pack of lies? Itain't sixpence to me anyone goin' in that field: but I wouldn't like tosee a young chap snuffed out like in his prime."

"I expect it's a lot more than sixpence to you," said Stanley. "I expectyou've got a whisky still or something in there, and want to keep otherpeople away. Rot I call it. Come on back, you boys."

So they turned away. The two others said, "Good evening" and "Thank you"to the shepherd, but Stanley said nothing. The shepherd shrugged hisshoulders and stood where he was, looking after them rather sadly.

On the way back to the camp there was great argument about it all, andStanley was told as plainly as he could be told all the sorts of foolshe would be if he went to the Wailing Well.

That evening, among other notices, Mr. Beasley Robinson asked if allmaps had got the red ring marked on them. "Be particular," he said, "notto trespass inside it."

Several voices—among them the sulky one of Stanley Judkins—said, "Whynot, sir?"

"Because not," said Mr. Beasley Robinson, "and if that isn't enough foryou, I can't help it." He turned and spoke to Mr. Lambart in a lowvoice, and then said, "I'll tell you this much: we've been asked to warnScouts off that field. It's very good of the people to let us camp hereat all, and the least we can do is to oblige them—I'm sure you'll agreeto that."

Everybody said, "Yes, sir!" except Stanley Judkins, who was heard tomutter, "Oblige them be blowed!"

Early in the afternoon of the next day, the following dialogue washeard. "Wilcox, is all your tent there?"

"No, sir, Judkins isn't!"

"That boy is the most infernal nuisance ever invented! Where do yousuppose he is?"

"I haven't an idea, sir."

"Does anybody else know?"

"Sir, I shouldn't wonder if he'd gone to the Wailing Well."

"Who's that? Pipsqueak? What's the Wailing Well?"

"Sir, it's that place in the field by—well, sir, it's in a clump oftrees in a rough field."

"D'you mean inside the red ring? Good heavens! What makes you think he'sgone there?"

"Why, he was terribly keen to know about it yesterday, and we weretalking to a shepherd man, and he told us a lot about it and advised usnot to go there: but Judkins didn't believe him, and said he meant togo."

"Young ass!" said Mr. Hope Jones, "did he take anything with him?"

"Yes, I think he took some rope and a can. We did tell him he'd be afool to go."

"Little brute! What the deuce does he mean by pinching stores like that!Well, come along, you three, we must see after him. Why can't peoplekeep the simplest orders? What was it the man told you? No, don't wait,let's have it as we go along."

And off they started—Algernon and Wilfred talking rapidly and the othertwo listening with growing concern. At last they reached that spur ofdown over-looking the field of which the shepherd had spoken the daybefore. It commanded the place completely; the well inside the clump ofbent and gnarled Scotch firs was plainly visible, and so were the fourtracks winding about among the thorns and rough growth.

It was a wonderful day of shimmering heat. The sea looked like a floorof metal. There was no breath of wind. They were all exhausted when theygot to the top, and flung themselves down on the hot grass.

"Nothing to be seen of him yet," said Mr. Hope Jones, "but we must stophere a bit. You're done up—not to speak of me. Keep a sharp look-out,"he went on after a moment, "I thought I saw the bushes stir."

"Yes," said Wilcox, "so did I. Look ... no, that can't be him. It'ssomebody though, putting their head up, isn't it?"

"I thought it was, but I'm not sure."

Silence for a moment. Then:

"That's him, sure enough," said Wilcox, "getting over the hedge on thefar side. Don't you see? With a shiny thing. That's the can you said hehad."

"Yes, it's him, and he's making straight for the trees," said Wilfred.

At this moment Algernon, who had been staring with all his might, brokeinto a scream.

"What's that on the track? On all fours—O, it's the woman. O, don't letme look at her! Don't let it happen!" And he rolled over, clutching atthe grass and trying to bury his head in it.

"Stop that!" said Mr. Hope Jones loudly—but it was no use. "Look here,"he said, "I must go down there. You stop here, Wilfred, and look afterthat boy. Wilcox, you run as hard as you can to the camp and get somehelp."

They ran off, both of them. Wilfred was left alone with Algernon, anddid his best to calm him, but indeed he was not much happier himself.From time to time he glanced down the hill and into the field. He sawMr. Hope Jones drawing nearer at a swift pace, and then, to his greatsurprise, he saw him stop, look up and round about him, and turn quicklyoff at an angle! What could be the reason? He looked at the field, andthere he saw a terrible figure—something in ragged black—with whitishpatches breaking out of it: the head, perched on a long thin neck, halfhidden by a shapeless sort of blackened sun-bonnet. The creature waswaving thin arms in the direction of the rescuer who was approaching, asif to ward him off: and between the two figures the air seemed to shakeand shimmer as he had never seen it: and as he looked, he began himselfto feel something of a waviness and confusion in his brain, which madehim guess what might be the effect on someone within closer range ofthe influence. He looked away hastily, to see Stanley Judkins making hisway pretty quickly towards the clump, and in proper Scout fashion;evidently picking his steps with care to avoid treading on snappingsticks or being caught by arms of brambles. Evidently, though he sawnothing, he suspected some sort of ambush, and was trying to gonoiselessly. Wilfred saw all that, and he saw more, too. With a suddenand dreadful sinking at the heart, he caught sight of someone among thetrees, waiting: and again of someone—another of the hideous blackfigures—working slowly along the track from another side of the field,looking from side to side, as the shepherd had described it. Worst ofall, he saw a fourth—unmistakably a man this time—rising out of thebushes a few yards behind the wretched Stanley, and painfully, as itseemed, crawling into the track. On all sides the miserable victim wascut off.

Wilfred was at his wits' end. He rushed at Algernon and shook him. "Getup," he said. "Yell! Yell as loud as you can. Oh, if we'd got awhistle!"

Algernon pulled himself together. "There's one," he said, "Wilcox's: hemust have dropped it."

So one whistled, the other screamed. In the still air the sound carried.Stanley heard: he stopped: he turned round: and then indeed a cry washeard more piercing and dreadful than any that the boys on the hillcould raise. It was too late. The crouched figure behind Stanley sprangat him and caught him about the waist. The dreadful one that wasstanding waving her arms waved them again, but in exultation. The onethat was lurking among the trees shuffled forward, and she too stretchedout her arms as if to clutch at something coming her way; and the other,farthest off, quickened her pace and came on, nodding gleefully. Theboys took it all in in an instant of terrible silence, and hardly couldthey breathe as they watched the horrid struggle between the man and hisvictim. Stanley struck with his can, the only weapon he had. The rim ofa broken black hat fell off the creature's head and showed a white skullwith stains that might be wisps of hair. By this time one of the womenhad reached the pair, and was pulling at the rope that was coiled aboutStanley's neck. Between them they overpowered him in a moment: the awfulscreaming ceased, and then the three passed within the circle of theclump of firs.

Yet for a moment it seemed as if rescue might come. Mr. Hope Jones,striding quickly along, suddenly stopped, turned, seemed to rub hiseyes, and then started running towards the field. More: the boysglanced behind them, and saw not only a troop of figures from the campcoming over the top of the next down, but the shepherd running up theslope of their own hill. They beckoned, they shouted, they ran a fewyards towards him and then back again. He mended his pace.

Once more the boys looked towards the field. There was nothing. Or, wasthere something among the trees? Why was there a mist about the trees?Mr. Hope Jones had scrambled over the hedge, and was plunging throughthe bushes.

The shepherd stood beside them, panting. They ran to him and clung tohis arms. "They've got him! In the trees!" was as much as they couldsay, over and over again.

"What? Do you tell me he've gone in there after all I said to himyesterday? Poor young thing! Poor young thing!" He would have said more,but other voices broke in. The rescuers from the camp had arrived. A fewhasty words, and all were dashing down the hill.

They had just entered the field when they met Mr. Hope Jones. Over hisshoulder hung the corpse of Stanley Judkins. He had cut it from thebranch to which he found it hanging, waving to and fro. There was not adrop of blood in the body.

On the following day Mr. Hope Jones sallied forth with an axe and withthe expressed intention of cutting down every tree in the clump, and ofburning every bush in the field. He returned with a nasty cut in his legand a broken axe-helve. Not a spark of fire could he light, and on nosingle tree could he make the least impression.

I have heard that the present population of the Wailing Well fieldconsists of three women, a man, and a boy.

The shock experienced by Algernon de Montmorency and Wilfred Pipsqueakwas severe. Both of them left the camp at once; and the occurrenceundoubtedly cast a gloom—if but a passing one—on those who remained.One of the first to recover his spirits was Judkins mi.

Such, gentlemen, is the story of the career of Stanley Judkins, and of aportion of the career of Arthur Wilcox. It has, I believe, never beentold before. If it has a moral, that moral is, I trust, obvious: if ithas none, I do not well know how to help it.

STORIES I HAVE TRIED TO WRITE

I have neither much experience nor much perseverance in the writingof stories—I am thinking exclusively of ghost stories, for I nevercared to try any other kind—and it has amused me sometimes to thinkof the stories which have crossed my mind from time to time and nevermaterialized properly. Never properly: for some of them I have actuallywritten down, and they repose in a drawer somewhere. To borrow SirWalter Scott's most frequent quotation, "Look on (them) again I darenot." They were not good enough. Yet some of them had ideas in themwhich refused to blossom in the surroundings I had devised for them, butperhaps came up in other forms in stories that did get as far as print.Let me recall them for the benefit (so to style it) of somebody else.

There was the story of a man travelling in a train in France. Facinghim sat a typical Frenchwoman of mature years, with the usualmoustache and a very confirmed countenance. He had nothing to readbut an antiquated novel he had bought for its binding—Madame deLichtenstein it was called. Tired of looking out of the window andstudying his vis-à-vis, he began drowsily turning the pages, andpaused at a conversation between two of the characters. They werediscussing an acquaintance, a woman who lived in a largish house atMarcilly-le-Hayer. The house was described, and—here we were comingto a point—the mysterious disappearance of the woman's husband. Hername was mentioned, and my reader couldn't help thinking he knew it insome other connexion. Just then the train stopped at a country station,the traveller, with a start, woke up from a doze—the book open in hishand—the woman opposite him got out, and on the label of her bag heread the name that had seemed to be in his novel. Well, he went on toTroyes, and from there he made excursions, and one of these took him—atlunch-time—to—yes, to Marcilly-le-Hayer. The hotel in the GrandePlace faced a three-gabled house of some pretensions. Out of it camea well-dressed woman whom he had seen before. Conversation with thewaiter. Yes, the lady was a widow, or so it was believed. At any ratenobody knew what had become of her husband. Here I think we broke down.Of course, there was no such conversation in the novel as the travellerthought he had read.

Then there was quite a long one about two undergraduates spendingChristmas in a country house that belonged to one of them. An uncle,next heir to the estate, lived near. Plausible and learned Roman priest,living with the uncle, makes himself agreeable to the young men. Darkwalks home at night after dining with the uncle. Curious disturbancesas they pass through the shrubberies. Strange, shapeless tracks in thesnow round the house, observed in the morning. Efforts to lure away thecompanion and isolate the proprietor and get him to come out after dark.Ultimate defeat and death of the priest, upon whom the Familiar, baulkedof another victim, turns.

Also the story of two students of King's College, Cambridge, in thesixteenth century (who were, in fact, expelled thence for magicalpractices), and their nocturnal expedition to a witch at Fenstanton, andof how, at the turning to Lolworth, on the Huntingdon road, they met acompany leading an unwilling figure whom they seemed to know. And ofhow, on arriving at Fenstanton, they learned of the witch's death, andof what they saw seated upon her newly-dug grave.

These were some of the tales which got as far as the stage of beingwritten down, at least in part. There were others that flitted acrossthe mind from time to time, but never really took shape. The man, forinstance (naturally a man with something on his mind), who, sittingin his study one evening, was startled by a slight sound, turnedhastily, and saw a certain dead face looking out from between the windowcurtains: a dead face, but with living eyes. He made a dash at thecurtains and tore them apart. A pasteboard mask fell to the floor. Butthere was no one there, and the eyes of the mask were but eye-holes.What was to be done about that?

There is the touch on the shoulder that comes when you are walkingquickly homewards in the dark hours full of anticipation of the warmroom and bright fire and when you pull up, startled, what face orno-face do you see?

Similarly, when Mr. Badman had decided to settle the hash of Mr. Goodmanand had picked out just the right thicket by the roadside from whichto fire at him, how came it exactly that when Mr. Goodman and hisunexpected friend actually did pass, they found Mr. Badman welteringin the road? He was able to tell them something of what he had foundwaiting for him—even beckoning to him—in the thicket: enough toprevent them from looking into it themselves. There are possibilitieshere, but the labour of constructing the proper setting has been beyondme.

There may be possibilities, too, in the Christmas cracker, if the rightpeople pull it, and if the motto which they find inside has the rightmessage on it. They will probably leave the party early, pleadingindisposition; but very likely a previous engagement of long standingwould be the more truthful excuse.

In parenthesis, many common objects may be made the vehicles ofretribution, and where retribution is not called for, of malice. Becareful how you handle the packet you pick up in the carriage-drive,particularly if it contains nail-parings and hair. Do not, in any case,bring it into the house. It may not be alone ... (Dots are believed bymany writers of our day to be a good substitute for effective writing.They are certainly an easy one. Let us have a few more ...)

Late on Monday night a toad came into my study: but though nothing hasso far seemed to link itself with this appearance, I feel that it maynot be quite prudent to brood over topics which may open the interioreye to the presence of more formidable visitants. Enough said.

[End of The Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James]