Experience has taught me that people like three ingredients in a collection of ghost stories. Fear, to make them shudder, pathos to make them shed the occasional tear, and humour to dilute the other two. But of course the greatest of these must be fear.

The ghosts that walk the pages of John Hastings Turner�s The House in the Wood are not of the usual variety, for they have wandered from the land of What-Should-Have-Been, instead of What-Has-Been. All of us have walked beneath the evergreen trees in that nostalgic country and sought vainly for our still-born ghosts in the melancholy twilight. Mr�Turner�s conducted tour is well worth your attendance.

Fear, by P.�C.�Wren, would seem a strange departure for the author of Beau Geste, but in fact this gifted writer wrote many ghost stories, of which, in my opinion, this is one of the best. From the moment we enter that lonely bungalow the atmosphere is heavy with menace.

Read on.

It is my long-held contention that every room that has been used by a lot of people over a long number of years must be haunted. It would seem that O.�Henry, that superb master of the short story, agreed with me. For in The Furnished Room we sense the presence of numerous ghosts, but only one can make itself felt. Think about this story when you are next in a hotel bedroom.

Master Ghost and I by Barbara Softly is a ghost story with a difference. What that difference is I do not propose to tell you, but it is exciting and extremely readable. In particular I like the historical background.

Apart from writing many excellent novels, Rosemary Timperley has turned out an impressive number of ghost stories, including To Keep Him Company, which I have included in this collection. Here we have fear and pathos, plus another visit to the land of What-Should-Have-Been.

In The Mist, by Elizabeth Walter, is a story set in the days of the last war�� at least the ghostly part is�� and to my mind it is made even more chilling by the matter-of-fact appearance of the ghost. I am of the opinion that ghosts should advertise their calling by a few warning groans and at least a hint of transparency�� not accept a lift from a perfect stranger and chat away ten to the dozen, even if this particular one has a voice that is rich and pleasing. It is rather like taking advantage of good nature.

The ghost in On The Brighton Road, by Richard Middleton, has the same unconventional code of behaviour and deserves to be continuously bumped off, whenever a suitable occasion occurs.

I have often warned people that party games played in the dark can lead to trouble of one kind or another, but I was not thinking of the trouble which crops up in Smee (It�s me) by �Ex-Private�X�, which really is too much of a bad thing. Should you be trapped into taking part in this extremely dubious pastime, take my advice and shut yourself in a narrow cupboard. By the way, I have still to learn who �Ex-Private�X� was�� or is.

I suppose Ambrose Bierce�s most famous story is Incident At Owl Creek, which has had the distinction of being made into two films and a radio play. I have not included it here, because it has been reprinted so many times, and in any case it is not a ghost story. But The Moonlit Road is, and a very gripping one into the bargain. It has a terrifying depth and intensity and I think comes a good second to its more famous predecessor.

Two Trifles, by Oliver Onions, are very funny and act as comic relief after the grim feast that has gone before. I love the second trifle, The Mortal, where the ghost of Sir Egbert has to spend the night in a Human Chamber. As another ghost so aptly remarks: �Oh, it�s playing with flesh.�

Any ghost story by Sheridan Le Fanu is bound to be blood-curdling, and Wicked Captain Walshawe is no exception. I was particularly drawn to the mode of materialization favoured by the ghost of Captain Walshawe.

Me too.

Next comes an offering from the author of The Go-Between, L.�P.�Hartley. Monkshood Manor has a ghost which keeps well in the background, but has a penchant for arson that is most disconcerting.

A.�E.�Ellis was at one time master at two public schools, and during that period wrote a number of ghost stories which afforded pleasurable thrills to his young pupils. Now that pleasure is extended to a wider audience with the first appearance of The Chapel Men, written by an author whose father was a Wesleyan minister, living in West Cornwall at the period of this story. This is a marvellous piece of macabre and the description of the fishing village community is masterly.

The Birthright by Hilda Hughes is, quite frankly, hair-raising. The twist at the end is one of the most original and horrifying that it has been my privilege to read for some time. Read the story carefully�� don�t skip a word�� and see if you don�t agree with me.

Lastly�� my own contribution: Non-paying Passengers. What can I say? It�s true�� every word of it. Honestly. If you don�t believe me, stand on Platform 16 at Waterloo Station during the evening rush hour and look out for the�� more than one�� odd passenger that climbs aboard the five-forty-five train for Shepperton. You�ll be surprised�� to say the least.

I�ve got to put this thing on paper. I�ve told the story again and again, and I find, at the finish of it, that even my best friends are trying not to look slantwise at me. I don�t blame them. It is, as one of them said to me, �a hell of a proposition�. But the way I feel is that if once I can get the thing down in black and white it won�t, so to speak, be on my mind so much. It was after I had told Bill Whiteman the story and asked him the question I always ask that I got the answer which I have written.

A hell of a proposition it may be�.�.�. and perhaps I, too, ought to be where poor Robbie McClaren is�� and he�s been in an asylum these two years�.�.�.

I�d known Robbie since the days when we knocked cricket balls through his father�s cucumber frames, and then told lies about it, for Robbie�s father was about sixty years out of date, and Robbie feared him more than he feared Hell. I think if his mother had lived, or if his father had been another kind of man, Robbie might have been every bit as sane as the rest of us. But he was hunted�� literally hunted�� through his boyhood�.�.�.

But that has nothing to do with the story. He became an architect. He never did much at it. I believe his ideas were a bit impracticable, and, anyway, he wasn�t long enough at the job to make his mark. He was twenty-eight when the thing happened, and I was two years his senior. Of course, I knew that Robbie was what people call �peculiar�. That is to say, he didn�t fall in line with everybody else. He didn�t play games, or shoot, or dance�� in fact, the only thing he did do was to play the piano. His own stuff, and for all I know abominable�� but I liked to hear him play for all that.

I had a little flat in Charing Cross Road, and one evening in the early summer Robbie blew in. I hadn�t seen him for months, and I thought he looked rather used up.

�Look here, Roger,� he said, �I want some air.�

�You won�t get it in Charing Cross Road,� I answered.

�I want to go for a week�� walking�� anywhere,� he went on. �Will you come?�

It was an attractive idea. The weather seemed set fair. The country would be at its best. I said I might.

�When I say anywhere,� he continued, �I mean the Savernake Forest.�

�Why?� I asked.

�I�m not going at all if I don�t go there,� he replied.

Well, I ought to have thought that a bit queer, I dare say, but I didn�t. Robbie had always been a creature of whims, and if he�d set his heart on the Savernake Forest, why not? It�s a lovely spot.

I said I didn�t care where we went, and after a bit of a talk and planning things out, we agreed to make a start the following Saturday.

For a miracle the weather held, and as we walked out of Wantage, our faces set towards the downs, I think we both felt about eighteen. I can answer for myself at least, and Robbie�s high spirits were almost embarrassing. He chucked his hat away over a hedge and sang lewd songs at the top of his voice. But Robbie had always hated towns, and became a different creature in the country. We tramped along for a couple of days, taking things easily, and I must confess I never remember such a grand time. The air was intoxicating, the turf like walking on a springboard, and a subtle, satisfying appeal was coming to us from the very earth, the appeal of being English in England. (Robbie was Scotch, but he swore he felt it, too!) Those first two days were pure joy�.�.�.

On the third we were in the Forest itself, surprising squirrels and rabbits, and once, in the evening, an old badger. We deviated that night, and slept at the smallest inn we have ever seen in a village of which we didn�t even ask the name. And, in the charming, contemptuous English way, the name not being written up for us anywhere, I do not know it to this day.

On the following morning we struck back into the Forest. And then I noticed that Robbie was beginning to hurry. He set about twice the pace we had been travelling. When I taxed him with it he slowed down, and made some silly joke about my getting an old man. But I noticed that he seemed curiously embarrassed.

A strange eagerness seemed to have got hold of him. It was as if�� yes, almost as if he was pointing, like a dog. But at the time, though I noticed his mood, I gave it no serious thought. Why should I? It was so like Robbie to have some unaccountable enthusiasm.

We lunched under a beech tree, and I remember a green woodpecker (shyest of birds) came and looked at us gravely from across the riding, and deciding that we were harmless, if unusual, continued his tap-tapping without taking any further notice.

When we had religiously buried our empty beer bottles and were watching the smoke from our pipes go spiralling up into the leaves, I said casually:

�Where do we turn in tonight, Robbie?�

�Oh, I know a place,� he answered, and I noticed�� or thought I noticed�� a queer constraint in his voice, as if he was facing a crisis of some sort, a crisis which he knew would come. But I was sleepy, and paid no heed to it.

�Well, anyway,� I murmured, �don�t let�s overshoot the mark again and have an extra two miles to the village at the end of the day.�

For that was what we had done before, and two unexpected miles just when you�re wanting your supper seem a day�s journey. Robbie�s voice became suddenly quite surly.

�It isn�t a village,� he said abruptly.

�Oh, look here, Robbie,� I protested. �If you think I�m going to doss down in some broken-down woodman�s shack and go without my dinner, you�re on the wrong horse.�

He struck a match to relight his pipe, and his hand trembled ever so little. �It�s not a shack,� he said. �It�s anything but a shack.� He seemed to be trying to control some intense excitement. He gave me the impression that he was angry with me for asking questions. But I wasn�t going to stand that. It isn�t good for a chap, even if he does have moods and whims, to be given in to all the time.

I said: �Well, you needn�t be so mysterious about it.�

He didn�t answer for a moment or two, and when he did he had his back turned to me.

�It�s a house,� he muttered.

�A house?� I echoed. �What? Here in the middle of the Forest, miles from anywhere?�

�Yes,� he said. He seemed to hate to talk about it

�But it�s impossible!� I cried.

He turned then, and I saw that he was furiously angry.

�It isn�t impossible,� he retorted. �I tell you, I know the house and I know the people who live there. I know the house well,� he added in a gentler tone. As if he was remembering tenderly something happy about the place.

�Oh, all right,� I answered, �but you never said anything about it before.�

�Why should I?� he snapped, and I had no reply to that.

�I can�t think how they carry on,� I said, �marooned like that. Why, they�d never get a servant to stay in the place!�

He seemed to turn that over in his mind for a few seconds. Then he said, with a sort of gentle, reminiscent smile, �They�re old family servants; they�ve been there for years.�

�All the same,� I protested, �they may not be exactly pleased at two fellows blowing in without notice, both as hungry as hell.�

�They�ll be delighted,� he said earnestly, �delighted! Didn�t I tell you I�d known them for years?�

�Oh, well,� I answered, �it�s up to you.� After which we took the road again, or rather the path, for the riding had narrowed down to a bridle-track and the woods were thick all round us. I couldn�t help wondering what strange sort of birds elected to live in the middle of a forest, and, with my practical, everyday sort of mind, speculating on how they ran the place. And from that I got to wondering how on earth the house came to be built, for you can�t, as far as I know, buy a plot in the middle of Savernake Forest. I even came to the point where I was considering the possibility of Robbie trying to play a practical joke on me, and, by this time feeling a bit �leggy�, I thought what a rotten sort of joke it would be, and promised myself a real row with Robbie when he exploded it.

Meanwhile, Robbie himself was going faster and faster. Hang it, he was racing along as if he were on the Stock Exchange Walk! And his face! It was purple with excitement and his eyes were glittering like�.�.�. like a panther on the trail. I thought: �Damn!�� he�s been sitting on wet grass, and he�s got a chill and he�s feverish.� And I wondered what on earth I�d do about it, for Robbie was not strong, and if he was going to be ill he�d have complications quicker than anybody on earth.

But just as I was speculating on these lines we turned a corner abruptly and came upon the house. I must confess I was relieved to see that house. If Robbie had taken a chill we could at least get a hot-water bottle and a whisky and lemon for him. And I took another sidelong look at the man. I was astonished at the change in him. The mere sight of the house seemed to have returned him to the normal. He stood quite still, looking at it with a sort of appreciative smile.

�Well, here we are,� I said at last, �and damn it, Robbie, you�ve almost walked me off my feet.�

�Sorry,� he replied. �You see, I got in a funk that I shouldn�t be able to find it.�

So that was it. But fancy working oneself up into such a state! Thank God, I had an ordinary workaday temperament that refused to fatigue itself!

Then, for the first time, I took a real look at the house itself. It was a new house�� and that gave me a bit of a shock, because, for some absurd reason or other, I had expected an old one.

But this was quite new�� so new, indeed, that the polygonum they meant to train up its walls was merely a row of spindly branches, and in the freshly laid lawn one could still see the gaps between the turves. As for the house itself, it was pleasing enough to look upon�� built on two floors, with green shutters to the windows, which somehow or other gave it a foreign appearance. And yet, though it was an ordinary enough kind of house at first sight, there was something about it�.�.�. some oddity which struck one, as such things will, even before one had time to see exactly what it was. But in another second, as we were approaching the front door, I saw what made the place look unusual. The roof. From each end of the long, low house it rose with a gentle slope to a point in the centre. I�d never seen a roof built like that, and now that I did I couldn�t help feeling that, with a long, low house like that, the effect of that slight slope and the centre angle where it met was rather pleasing.

I said as much to Robbie.

�Curious kind of roof,� I commented, �but, in a way, rather effective, don�t you think?�

�Do you?� he said, with a curious eagerness. �Yes, I agree. I like it immensely�.�.�. immensely!�

I thought his sudden enthusiasm rather odd, until I remembered that he was an architect, and that these things meant a great deal more to him than they did to me.

He rang the bell, and, in the interval before the door was opened, I noticed that it was as much as he could do to keep still.

A maid opened the door and recognized him immediately.

�Mr�McClaren,� she said, and smiled at us; then she added: �I�ll go and tell the master at once.�

But Robbie stopped her.

�And Miss Dorothy?� he said. �She�s at home, isn�t she?�

�Oh yes, sir,� answered the maid. �Miss Dorothy is at home.�

I thought then that I understood everything. Robbie�s excitement, his embarrassment (for that, of course, was the explanation of his bad temper), everything. But why on earth couldn�t he have told me about Dorothy? After all, we had been friends for years.

I was congratulating myself on such a simple explanation of what I had foolishly thought to be a feverish attack when I saw an old gentleman coming down the stairs to meet us. When I say old, I mean that he was what men of our age call old. I dare say he was round about sixty; and one of the most charming-looking men I�ve ever seen. His expression of welcome to us both, not only in his words but his face, made one feel in an instant that in that house one could never be a stranger again.

His arm went round Robbie�s shoulder, but he smiled at both of us as he said: �Now, what would you two boys like? A drink right away�� or a wash first, and join Dorothy and myself for cocktails in a quarter of an hour?�

We chose the latter, and were shown to our rooms. Our host insisted on coming with us himself. I remember when he left us, feeling what a pity Robbie�s father hadn�t been that kind of man. He radiated everything that was generous, everything that was lovable. And evidently he was used to entertaining. My room looked as if I had been expected at this very moment. Robbie came in to me, after a wash and brush-up, and I commented on the readiness of things. I remember he walked to the window and sighed, a deep, contented sort of sigh. And then he turned and said quite simply:

�But you are Roger�� I�ve always been expected here.�

We went downstairs, and Dorothy gave us cocktails. She was a lovely girl, with a sly sense of fun that made one feel there was no barrier between the sexes after all.

I�d begun to look on myself as a confirmed bachelor, because I believed that, in the really intimate concerns of life, it is impossible to get on terms with a woman. But if you could�.�.�. I mean, if her mind really marches with your own�.�.�. Well, I must admit that after my second glass of port I regarded Robbie as an undeserving young devil. Then those two disappeared somewhere or other, and Dorothy�s father smiled at me and produced some old brandy, and said it was good to look at them, wasn�t it? And I said it was. And I felt it, too. For there was something about that house and its occupants that somehow made you see life properly.

And then Dorothy�s father asked if I would like to see over the place, and, of course, I said �Yes,� and he showed me every hole and corner in a way that made me know he loved it. And later Robbie and Dorothy joined us; and Robbie enthused over the place as if it were his own, which, I reflected, it might well be, one day. And�� I may as well confess the thing�� I was a little jealous of Robbie.

I remember thinking, just before I dropped off to sleep that night, that it was rather a rotten sort of feeling to have had.

And the next day, off we went again. I tried to rag Robbie, in the silly way men do, about Dorothy, but he got savage about it, and I shut up. We walked in silence for some time, and I had leisure in which to think that is isn�t really such a grand joke�� people falling in love, I mean. Nobody sees anything tremendously funny about Primavera or H�lo�se and Ab�lard. What blasted cads we make of ourselves�� following silly conventions! I remember I tried to apologize to Robbie, and he said. �That�s all right,� and said it, too, as if it didn�t matter a damn what I�d said�� because, I suppose, I was too small to count in the world he was living in just then. And I thought how right he was, and I felt a bit humble, and, as a sort of punishment, I put up with the long silent walk that followed. I asked no more questions, and I certainly made no more silly jokes. We found our way to another country inn, and had the simple dinner they provided.

And it was there that it happened. Suddenly�� straight out of the blue�� in that shabby little coffee-room, Robbie gave a queer cry and burst into tears.

I got him up to his room somehow or other (I can still see the shocked and deprecating eye of a local farmer who had dined there too). In the bedroom Robbie went mad. What I mean is, I believe that it was there his brain actually snapped. He did incredible things, he said incredible things. I�m not going to set them down here. I locked the door, found the landlord and got him to send someone for the local doctor. By the grace of God he was a man who knew more than he had need of, in that little place. When I took him into Robbie�s room Robbie was stretched full-length on his bed, naked, with the tears streaming down his face. I can�t remember very much about what happened in that room. The doctor asked Robbie a question or two, and I remember him turning up his eyelids. Then he drew the coverlet over Robbie�s stark, twitching body, and he and I went outside.

�I�m going to ring up for an ambulance,� he said, �and your friend will be taken to London.�

�What�s happened to him?� I asked.

�I can�t tell you that,� answered the doctor; �I wish I could. If I could I�d be one of the world�s greatest men. But I�m afraid I can tell you his condition. He�s insane, poor chap. I may be wrong, but I think he�s been insane for a considerable time. Something has brought it to a head, that�s all.�

From the first moment I disliked the bungalow intensely. Nor had this feeling anything to do with the fact that it was dirty, derelict and tumble-down; nor, again, that it was lonely, isolated and obviously long-uninhabited.

It was the atmosphere, aura, the spirit of the house that was anti-pathetic, inimical. Even outside it, one had this feeling of an emanated antagonism. Inside the feeling deepened, and one seemed conscious almost of warning; and then of danger; and, finally, of threat.

I was reminded of that remarkable and haunting line which, once he has read it, occasionally returns to the mind of the traveller in little-visited and out-of-the-way corners of the earth:

�The place was silent and�� aware.�

Certainly this place was silent, and undoubtedly one had an uneasy feeling of its awareness, of being watched, of being expected�� and unwelcome. Not watched by human eyes, but by the place itself.

It was an old�� and old-fashioned�� rest-house, built on teangs, strong square pillars, some twelve feet in height, of meribau wood, that hard red wood which is proof against the attack of insects, including even the white ant.

Mounting the flight of steps that led up to the platform on which the house was built, and entering the big central room, the thought immediately entered my mind that �rest-house� was a misnomer. I felt quite certain that whatever else I got here, I should get little rest.

One had frequently been in places which gave the impression that the genius loci was inimical. One had been conscious of the feeling, both in buildings made by hands and in places but rarely trodden by human foot; in certain swamps, ca�ons, dark forests, caves, and sun-blasted or wind-harried desert places.

I have had this feeling strongly when spending a dark and lonely night in Angkor Wat; and again in the brilliant sunlight of a beautiful morning on top of the hill called Doi Wieng Lek, a hill situated near Lampoun, some thirty miles from Chiengmai in the direction of Lampang, in Siam. �Doi Wieng Lek� means �the hill which is the place of evil spirits�, a fact of which I was unaware, or at any rate, did not realize, until I had left it.

But standing on top of the hill, which I had climbed in order to admire a view of the Lampang plain and the distant hills, I was suddenly conscious of an uneasiness, which was but little removed from fear. What caused the uneasiness, and of what I should be afraid, when mental discomfort and apprehensiveness deepened into fear, I had not the slightest idea. It had nothing to do with the fact that practically every tree looked as though it had been struck by lightning, which certainly was not the case. It was not that I heard any of those sounds which, in certain places, are perturbing, if not startling; it was not because the trees seemed to have been deserted by both birds and gibbons, in spite of the fact that all the surrounding jungle was alive with the gibbons, little spidery long-armed long-legged monkeys whose bewhiskered faces are so friendly and amusing, and whose call is musical, yet so mournful�.�.�.

But the house.

I am not psychic. I am not a nervous person nor sensitive. I am not fanciful, superstitious nor suggestible; but, like everybody else, who is not an absolute clod, I have a sense of atmosphere, whether it be social or local. And never in my life have I been so quickly or so strongly aware of an eerie and minatory atmosphere as in this abandoned rest-house. Had it been possible, I would have marched on, and left it to its loneliness and gloom. For I felt it was haunted, tragic and evil. However, I had no choice. Here I was, and here, for a period, I must remain. For, however unpleasant the place might be, to flee from it and return, the object of my journey unaccomplished, would have been more so. I should have felt ashamed of myself. Also ridiculous. For how could I possibly explain that I had found the place, according to directions given me by kindly hosts in Mualongse, had not entered into possession, but had simply fled, frightened away?

It seemed to me that my coolies disliked the place almost as much as I did, for with unwonted rapidity they unpacked the hahps, the big baskets made of woven bamboo, which hang at either end of a pole balanced over the shoulder, and in which one�s food, clothes and other chattels are transported in that part of the world.

Nor did my jungle �boy� appear disposed to linger, when once he had set up my camp-bed and served my dinner, a remarkably well cooked and satisfying meal, consisting principally of a stew of tinned meat, rice, alleged mushrooms, bamboo shoots, dough-dumplings, chillies and unidentifiable odds and ends.

In view of the fact that my cook had, so far as I knew, neither materials nor apparatus for cooking, the effort was beyond praise.

Having dined, I carried my collapsible chair out on to the veranda, lit a cigarette and�� told myself not to be a fool. For I felt more uncomfortable, more lonely, more apprehensive than ever before in all my life.

From where I sat, the moonlit jungle looked beautiful�� but unfriendly, threatening; and the danger implicit in the threat was not from the leopard or the tiger.

Generally speaking, this was one of the best hours of the day, the march completed, dinner eaten, and a pleasant tiredness enhancing the flavour of tobacco and the enjoyment of a book. A good hour for the review of the events of the day, the making of plans for the morrow, and appreciation of one�s good fortune in being far from the madding crowd and the din of an increasingly clamorous civilization.

The ocean, the desert and the jungle are the last strongholds and resorts of peace.

But here there was no peace. Silence, so far as the jungle is ever silent; utter stillness; but no peace�� of mind.

Decidedly this was a bad place, or else I was going to be ill. It must be that�.�.�. Fever�.�.�. Liver�.�.�. And yet, until I came within sight of this derelict house, I had been in perfect health.

I had better go to bed.

Re-entering the big central room, on either side of which were two bedrooms, I turned up the wick of the lamp that hung from a roof-beam, and took stock of the place. What immediately caught my attention and gave me a slight shock of surprise, was the fact that, across one corner of the room, was a piano.

Now, I have had a perhaps unusually wide experience of rest-houses, dak bungalows, pahngs and such buildings, provided for the shelter of the casual traveller in India, Ceylon, Burma, Siam, Malaya, Annam, Cambodia, and certain parts of Africa and China; but never yet have I discovered one provided with a piano. I have known them to be well-fitted, well-kept houses, with one or more resident servants; and I have known them to be dirty derelict huts, with one or more resident reptiles, poisonous, domiciled and waiting�� but never a piano.

And as my eye roamed round the ill-lit room, I discovered that it differed, in other respects, from the usual central hall common to the use of travellers occupying the different bedrooms�� should more than one traveller be occupying the rest-house at the same time.

Such a room generally contains a dining-table and four chairs.

This room was furnished; and old, neglected, tattered, dust-covered and derelict as the furniture might be, it had once been drawing-room furniture. There was what had been a handsome screen at each door; there were a sofa and armchairs; pictures had once adorned the walls, and the cracked, dirty and insect-riddled remains still hung in their places. In a teak-wood bookcase were the remains of books, now the home of the fish-insect, the ant, the cockroach and the rat. In a corner was a standard lamp, about whose glass chimney and globe still hung the tattered remnants of a silk shade. And beneath my feet was a matting of a very different quality from that of the usual plaited palm-leaf to be found in the ordinary travellers� rest-house. This was of fine Chinese reed-work and had cost money.

And incongruous, in this ghost of a long-dead drawing-room, stood a bed. Beside it, my jungle �boy� had set up my own folding camp-bed, which looked neat, clean and positively attractive beside the much bigger one, once comparatively sumptuous, now a dubious-looking mass of discoloured, dust-covered silk and grimy linen.

Here and there a gleam of colour showed through dust which lay so thickly as to amount almost to a covering of earth or ash. Part of this, of course, would be the settling dust of years, part a precipitate of fine bamboo and other wood �saw-dust� that had rained down upon it from the roof and rafters above, as the boring insects proceeded with their uninterrupted labours of destruction.

A truly dreadful room, suggesting to my mind an aged crone dressed in finery that she had worn for fifty years; a hag, evil and malignant, foul and filthy, yet not only alive, but retaining, beneath the dirt of ages, faint rare glimpses of a former finery.

But why sleep in this drawing-room of a nightmare, when there were apparently four bedrooms opening from this central room?

On a bedside table�� who last had used that bedside table, and had it been a man or a woman?�� I saw that my boy had placed my Hitchcock lamp, one of those invaluable pieces of camp-furniture which, needing neither chimney nor globe, gives an excellent if fierce light, and whose loud and insistent ticking is something that soothes or maddens the nerves of the lonely listener, according to the state of his mind, or more probably of his liver.

Picking it up, I lit it, and opened the nearest door.

In this room were two beds, a leg-rest chair, and a dressing-table with mirror. The room was in some disorder, and was evidently exactly as it had been left by its last occupants when, hurriedly, they departed.

Returning to the drawing-room and closing the door behind me, I entered the other room on the same side, and discovered similar conditions. This also was a double bedroom, or at any rate a room last occupied by two people, the almost mouldering remains of tumbled bedding, and suggestions of hurried departure, if not sudden flight.

And similarly in the case of the two other bedrooms.

Eight guests�� and a ninth person, the host, who had slept in the drawing-room that fatal night�� had fled in haste, leaving everything as it stood.

Having made my tour of inspection I sat down in a spacious arm-chair�� and almost went through it to the floor. For one hideous moment of imprisonment I struggled in a position of great indignity and extreme discomfort, until I contrived to extricate myself from what was really a very neat trap.

�Good heavens!� thought I, as at length, breathless, I got to my feet and surveyed the now bottomless chair, �I might have stuck there till I died,� the idiotic thought being in keeping with my frame of mind and my environment. For I should hardly have died before morning, when my boy and the coolies would have come. On the other hand, in that horrible position, with my knees firmly pressed against my chest, I might very well have died of suffocation, heart failure, or of a broken blood-vessel.

And once again, what rubbish, when my heart was as strong as that of a horse, and my arteries as soft as indiarubber. And yet, fear, horror and despair are not ridiculous; and, for a few seconds, while firmly wedged into that malevolent-seeming chair, endowed with devilish intention, I had been frightened, horrified, and despairing of ever escaping from the trap.

However, fear had its usual reaction, anger, and I felt thoroughly and savagely annoyed�� a much healthier mental state.

I would undress and go to bed; and the devil and all his imps could play any game they fancied, in, around, above, and below the bungalow; and I would not so much as open an eye and cast a glance at them.

So I thought, or at any rate, so I told myself, and raising the mosquito curtain, got into bed, tucked the edge of the curtain in, turned the light down very low, closed my eyes and composed myself for sleep.

Suddenly something creaked very loudly. I opened my eyes and sat up; and sleep fled farther from me than ever.

This wouldn�t do. If I were going to jump up like that every time there was a creak, I should spend a restless night. But this had been no ordinary creak; and, lest it should seem strange and unreasonable that one should differentiate between one creak and another, I will mention that the sound was precisely that which I myself had made in walking across the wooden floor.

As I have said, the bungalow was supported upon teangs, great posts which raised it some twelve feet above the ground; and the floor was of boards, one or two of which, probably owing to shrinkage in dry weather after being swollen during the rains, creaked quite audibly when trodden on, somewhat as do the stairs in all old houses.

I was perfectly certain that someone, probably a bare-footed native, had crossed the room.

Hastily pulling out the linen border of the mosquito-curtain from under the thin mattress of the camp-bed, I turned up the lamp.

The room was empty, of course, and as I perfectly well knew.

Neither my jungle �boy� nor any coolie would come into the room before dawn, and no dacoit would wander about in that fashion, within a minute of my getting into bed. What a dacoit would do would be to creep up the steps, glide like a ghost�� damn that word ghost!��across the veranda and with a rush and a leap, drive his kris through my throat.

Or so I argued.

Anyway, there was nobody in the room. Nobody visible, that is to say.

And again I turned down the lamp, tucked in the mosquito curtain, turned on to my right side, firmly closed my eyes, and prayed the old English prayer:

I closed my eyes but unfortunately I could not close my ears, and the loud creak which was obviously made by someone stepping upon one of those loose boards again sounded through the room, sudden and sharp as the crack of a pistol. That was a gross exaggeration, of course. It was more like the snapping of a twig beneath the unpractised foot in the dry jungle, the tiny resounding snap that warns the stalked prey of the approach of heavy-footed clumsy death�� of murder most foul but self-defeated.

For some reason, or for no reason, I suddenly remembered my Irish batman and his favourite formula for use on all occasions.

�Ah, to Hell wit� it then!�

That was the proper attitude of mind and the suitable incantation.

Again the sound of stealthy footsteps�.�.�.

Bosh! That was an absolute boys�-magazine clich�. There was no sound of footsteps, stealthy or otherwise�� only the noise of someone treading on loose boards.

But surely a ghost, a spirit, a bhut, afrit, peh, was imponderable, without substance, and quite incapable of depressing a warped board.

It wasn�t incapable of depressing me, though, and my possibly warped mind.

A loud creak, as someone or something�� or nothing�� trod on another place where a board under the matting responded beneath the pressure.

�Ah, to Hell wit� it!�

And then, almost with a shriek, I again sprang bolt upright, for a pair of giant hands, with fingers spread from end to end of the keyboard, crashed down upon the keys of the piano, bringing forth a terrific and hideous cacophony, a horrible jangling discord, discernible through which were the sounds of breaking wires.

Good God! Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

I admit that it was with a hand decidedly inclined to tremble that I again turned up the light, and saw that there was no one at the piano, or in the room.

But really, this would not do. This was not only beyond a joke, it was beyond all reason. Clearly and definitely it was beyond reason that invisible hands should strike a crashing chord upon a piano.

I�m sure there are brave men who would have said �Tut! tut!� Possibly have walked to the piano, played a hymn-tune�� Eternal Father, strong to save, perhaps�� and returned to bed the better for the performance.

Personally, I was much more inclined to get well down under the clothes, pull them over my head, and stay there till a cold or bony hand removed them.

What I did do was to sit and stare, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, while I burst into a cold sweat and tried to find rational explanation for this astonishing�� and indeed in that place, at that hour, appalling�� phenomenon.

The creaking of the loose boards I could explain away, more or less�� in point of fact, very much less�� satisfactorily, by remembering how furniture creaks, and indeed bangs, occasionally, in old houses, in the middle of the night. (Though why the devil it should always choose the middle of the night for that exercise is something of a mystery.)

The boards might creak and groan without having been trodden upon by human or non-human foot; it might be their playful habit and old-established custom to wait till midnight and then make precisely the noise they made when a heavy man stepped on them.

But what about the piano? I could not remember ever previously having slept in the same room as a piano, but I was prepared to wager a very large sum that though the woodwork of an aged and neglected piano might conceivably utter a creak or, through the sudden breaking of a wire, emit a doleful jangling ping, it could not possibly produce a hellish uproar in which a score of keys and strings were concerned.

I was prepared to admit that in the lonely stillness of the most ordinary drawing-room in the most commonplace bungalow, a piano, through the slipping of a wire, might make one unmusical sound; but it was inconceivable that it should make a hundred hideous jangling noises.

Cursing my cowardice, I turned the light right out.

Staring into the darkness, I could see nothing; and this is not so much a statement of the obvious as it sounds, for the darkness was not complete, not that darkness as of black velvet. The night without was lit by a gibbous moon and the brilliant tropic stars.

No, I could see nothing. But again someone at the piano played a rough and violent discord.

Raising my mosquito-curtain, I struck a match and lit the table-lamp. As I did so, I heard a heavy thud, followed by minor movements.

Lifting the lamp above my head with a hand undoubtedly beginning to tremble, I looked round the room. There was nothing whatsoever to be seen, save the decrepit furniture.

�Another little smoke wouldn�t do us any harm,� said I aloud, to show myself how bold a fellow of yet-unshaken nerve was I.

Something rustled in reply.

�Rats!� said I. �Rats. And this can be taken as a reference to rodents or as a derisive ejaculation.� Which statement, made solemnly and aloud, showed me that, whatever I might pretend, I was nervous. I would get up, light the hanging lamp, turn the small one up, and read until daylight.

No�� damned if I would. For the rest of my life I should be ashamed to look myself in the face.

I finished my cigarette, turned out my lamp again, and, as a concession to human frailty and cowardice, took the matches into bed with me, tucked in the mosquito-curtain, and composed myself to slumber.

Never yet have I found any of the devices advocated for sleep-inducement of the slightest effect or value. Speaking for myself, the only thing is to relax, mind and body, beginning with the muscles of the toes and working up to those of the scalp, consciously relaxing and letting go all holds, one after the other, and finally making the mind a blank�� or blanker than usual.

I had worked my way up to the arms, and had just made my hands and forearms utterly inert, when there was what might be called�� and indeed must be called, for there is no other description�� �a ghastly cry�. And the ghastly cry was uttered within the room.

It was something between a moan, a wail, and a scream. I struck a match. It broke, fell on to the bedclothes, and went out. And in the brief half-second of light, I saw what again might be called�� indeed must be called, for there is no other description�� �something white�, a ghostly figure that crossed the room.

I struck another match, pulled up the mosquito-curtain with a great air of resolution and determination to look into the matter and do something, only to discover that there was no matter into which to look, and nothing to be done. There was no sound in the room, and certainly there was no �something white�.

�And this is where another little drink wouldn�t do us any harm,� said I.

In point of fact, it had no opportunity to do any harm or any good, for I had nothing to drink save a little soda-water in the bottle left by my jungle �boy�. There was not even the nam tohn of porous clay with a tin cup inverted over its neck, usually to be found in dak bungalows; and, had there been one, I should have hesitated to drink from it. Why, it is difficult to say. What is the difference between germ-infested water brought straight from the nearest huey or pond to the bungalow, and water of the native-owned soda-water shop? Of the two, perhaps the soda-water is the more dangerous, as its inhabitant microbes must be in a higher state of stimulation and activity�� not to mention the mud and other filth encrusted in the neck of the soda-water bottle.

Having decided, I drank the soda-water and lay down, after noting that, according to my watch, the night was still young, the hour being but two o�clock. Well, plenty of time for plenty of doings�.�.�.

Soon I fell asleep�� even as do men who await the dawn firing-party or the gaol officials who come to lead them to the scaffold. In that cheery frame of mind.

Anyhow, I must have slept, because undoubtedly I was awakened. How much of what I experienced in the act of awakening was dream, how much imagination, and how much an utterly unreal reality, I don�t know, but I do know that from a dream or from dreamless sleep I awoke to the knowledge that there was a party in progress in the room. I must have been in the act of opening my eyes as I saw lights, the forms of men, heard speech and laughter; and what is more, noticed that it was slurred speech and over-noisy laughter.

So certain was I of this, that in the moment of sitting up and going to raise my mosquito-curtain once more, the feeling uppermost in my mind was one of indignation. What right had these fellows to come carousing and bingeing in my room at three or four o�clock in the morning? A most disgusting exhibition of caddish ill-manners, and I threw up the curtain, prepared to speak my mind to that effect.

Of course there were no bright lights; there was no sound of revelry by night.

But there was�.�.�.

They were trooping down the steps from the veranda to the garden. And as for a second I listened, now terrified rather than indignant, I knew that the merry party, instead of spreading itself over the garden with joyous whoops, drunken shouts and alcoholic song, turned in under the bungalow among the teangs, the great pillars of meribau wood that supported the house.

Distinctly I heard them. Distinctly I heard a crash, as of something heavy overturned. Distinctly I heard shouts and cries which were not merry nor amusing; and, finally, a sound such as I hope never to hear again. Those who have heard the scream of a wounded horse will have some idea of the blood-curdling horror of that dreadful cry, a clear-cut shocking shriek that seemed to freeze the marrow in my bones and cause the hair of my head to stand on end.

I had had enough.

Getting out of bed and pulling on my boots, I lit the Hitchcock lamp, turned it up until its flame was as high as it would go, and was thankful for its steady brilliance, and the fact that it needed neither globe nor chimney which might have blackened and broken and obscured the light.

And holding high my lamp, I crossed the veranda, descended the steps and boldly�� yes, boldly!�� plunged into the midst of whatever might be happening in the pillared gloom of the dreadful place beneath the bungalow.

For it was dreadful.

Not because of anything that was there, but because there was nothing there. No sign or sound of human being, animal, ghost or spirit briefly incarnate.

Save for the fact that it had no outer walls, the place was like a crypt, the big baulks of timber that supported the house suggesting Norman pillars of stone. Several feet above my head were the boards of the floor of the room from which I had just come. Beneath my feet was what had been hard-beaten earth, now in parts thinly covered by sickly weeds. No sign whatsoever of human visitation or occupation was there, save the collapsed timbers of what had been a big packing-case.

I was defeated: and promptly and willingly admitting defeat, fled from the place, mounted the steps and re-entered my bed-drawing-room.

Compared with the cellar-like place beneath the house, this horrible and haunted room seemed almost attractive; for inimical as was its atmosphere, it was not as fear-compelling as the other.

Here above, I felt fear. There below, I felt a horror and a terror fearful beyond fear.

A return to bed, somnolence, and an attitude of defenceless acquiescence were out of the question, and I began to dress, involuntarily glancing over my shoulder, swiftly turning about to see what was behind me, as I did so.

And on this occasion, as not infrequently before, I was glad that I was an extremely temperate person, and that for me, alcohol had no attraction. (Incidentally I really do not make this idiosyncrasy a cause for any self-approval. If I liked alcohol I should drink it.) I was glad because all that I had heard and the little I had seen, really had been heard and seen. There was no question of it. It was no alcohol-induced or drug-begotten fantasy. I had heard sounds when wide awake, as widely awake as I was now, doing up my buttons.

True, I had awakened suddenly to see lights and hear sounds that might have been part of a dream; but I felt absolutely convinced that they had also been part of waking experience.

Well, �There are more things in Heaven and earth�.�.�.�

And whether I had been imagining things, dreaming dreams and seeing visions, or not, one thing was certain: nothing on earth, absolutely nothing, would induce me to spend another night in this place; nay, nor another hour more than was necessary for my getting away from it.

Next night I camped in the jungle, a most unpleasant night of wind and rain and conditions that defeated even my accomplished Lao cook and jungle �boy�. A night that should have been memorable for its acute and complicated discomfort, but which, in point of fact, is memorable for its sweet peacefulness, a sweetness unsoured by cold driving rain and devilish plucking wind, a peace unbroken by the heaviest crashes of violent thunder-storms. Sweetness and peace, because this was the jungle, and not that fear-stricken, horror-infested bungalow.

What were tigers, leopards, king cobras, scorpions, leeches�� and the greatest of these is leeches�� compared with one sound, one sight, in that house of dread?

The following night I slept in a Wat.

We reached it at sundown, and it had an air of solid comfort very reassuring to me after what I had been through. It was but a small Wat situated at the end of a green path which led to it from the road, a distance of about two hundred yards. Its outer court or hall of stone was clean and had a well-cared-for air about it. This outer hall had no walls and its stone roof was supported on four heavy stone pillars. Near the entrance was an ancient sacred Boh-tree whose branches were so heavy that each one had to be supported by a pole resting on the earth.

The Wat was empty save for one poogni in a yellow robe, who was chanting before the stone image of Buddha, and he took no notice of me, until, presently departing, he gave me the usual greeting of �Sabai-ga?�[1] to which I answered the usual �Sabai!�[2]

In front of the enormous effigy of the Buddha were arranged the heterogeneous collection of offerings which are usually to be found in these Wats and which never cease to astonish one, by reason of their strange variety.

There were stone jam-jars containing dead flowers, cheap alarm-clocks, such as are found in the village-shops in England, bunches of dried flowers, brightly coloured feathers, celluloid or glass balls, bits of coloured china, tin and enamel mugs. There were also numerous candles stuck in the melted wax of others long-since burnt-out. These candles are only lit at festival times, when the villagers come to make their offerings.

Here in this place was Peace, for over it brooded the spirit of the Buddha, beneficent, well-wishing; and the pious founder of the temple had been one who fain would acquire merit.

In it I slept peacefully.

On the next day my �boy�, leading our little party, suddenly turned aside and took a path even narrower and fainter than that on which we were. Some little distance down this path was a bamboo pahng or sala, built in a clearing in the jungle. It is not unusual to find these shelters in various parts of the dense forests. They are quite unfurnished and empty, and may be used by any passing traveller who happens to know where they are situated. The walls and floor are made of split bamboo. While perfectly strong and adequate, the bamboo floor is apt to be rather disconcerting when one walks on one of them for the first time, for it springs up and down with every movement, and it is difficult to keep one�s balance until one becomes accustomed to the feeling of walking on springs.

This particular pahng was very charmingly situated. Behind it rose a steep hillside covered with small teak-trees which were in flower. There were also many shrubs, with leaves of various shades of red and gold. In front of the pahng was the clearing, beyond which were the tall trees of the forest, and growing up one side of the shelter itself was a thick bush of the pale pink Honolulu creeper which someone had, at some time or other, planted there�.�.�.

Here again I slept in peace, and on the following night reached the house of an American medical missionary.

Restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk of the population of the red brick district of the lower West Side. Homeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to furnished room, transients forever�� transients in abode, transients in heart and mind. They sing �Home, Sweet Home� in ragtime; they carry their lares et penates in a bandbox; their vine is entwined about a picture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree.

Hence the houses of this district, having had a thousand dwellers, should have a thousand tales to tell, mostly dull ones, no doubt; but it would be strange if there could not be found a ghost or two in the wake of ail these vagrant guests.

One evening after dark a young man prowled among these crumbling red mansions, ringing their bells. At the twelfth he rested his lean hand-baggage upon the step and wiped the dust from his hat-band and forehead. The bell sounded faint and far away in some remote, hollow depths.

To the door of this, the twelfth house whose bell he had rung, came a housekeeper who made him think of an unwholesome, surfeited worm that had eaten its nut to a hollow shell and now sought to fill the vacancy with edible lodgers.

He asked if there was a room to let.

�Come in,� said the housekeeper. Her voice came from her throat; her throat seemed lined with fur. �I have the third-floor back, vacant since a week back. Should you wish to look at it?�

The young man followed her up the stairs. A faint light from no particular source mitigated the shadows of the halls. They trod noiselessly upon a stair carpet that its own loom would have forsworn. It seemed to have become vegetable; to have degenerated in that rank, sunless air to lush lichen or spreading moss that grew in patches to the staircase and was viscid under the foot like organic matter. At each turn of the stairs were vacant niches in the wall. Perhaps plants had once been set within them. If so they had died in that foul and tainted air. It may be that statues of the saints had stood there, but it was not difficult to conceive that imps and devils had dragged them forth in the darkness and down to the unholy depths of some furnished pit below.

�This is the room,� said the housekeeper, from her furry throat. �It�s a nice room. It ain�t often vacant. I had some most elegant people in it last summer�� no trouble at all, and paid in advance to the minute. The water�s at the end of the hall. Sprowls and Mooney kept it three months. They done a vaudeville sketch. Miss B�retta Sprowls�� you may have heard of her�� Oh, that was just the stage names�� right there over the dresser is where the marriage certificate hung, framed. The gas is here, and you see there is plenty of closet room. It�s a room everybody likes. It never stays idle long.�

�Do you have many theatrical people rooming here?� asked the young man.

�They comes and goes. A good proportion of my lodgers is connected with the theatres. Yes, sir, this is the theatrical district. Actor people never stays long anywhere. I get my share. Yes, they comes and they goes.�

He engaged the room, paying for a week in advance. He was tired, he said, and would take possession at once. He counted out the money. The room had been made ready, she said, even to towels and water. As the housekeeper moved away he put, for the thousandth time, the question that he carried at the end of his tongue.

�A young girl�� Miss Vashner�� Miss Eloise Vashner�� do you remember such a one among your lodgers? She would be singing on the stage, most likely. A fair girl, of medium height, and slender, with reddish, gold hair and a dark mole near her left eyebrow.�

�No, I don�t remember the name. Them stage people has names they change as often as their rooms. They comes and they goes. No, I don�t call that one to mind.�

No. Always no. Five months of ceaseless interrogation and the inevitable negative. So much time spent by day in questioning managers, agents, schools and choruses; by night among the audiences of theatres from all-star casts down to music halls so low that he dreaded to find what he most hoped for. He who had loved her best had tried to find her. He was sure that since her disappearance from home this great, water-girt city held her somewhere, but it was like a monstrous quicksand, shifting its particles constantly, with no foundation, its upper granules of today buried tomorrow in ooze and slime.

The furnished room received its latest guest with a first glow of pseudo-hospitality, a hectic, haggard, perfunctory welcome like the specious smile of a demirep. The sophistical comfort came in reflected gleams from the decayed furniture, the ragged brocade upholstery of a couch and two chairs, a foot-wide cheap pier glass between the two windows, from one or two gilt picture frames and a brass bedstead in a corner.

The guest reclined, inert, upon a chair, while the room, confused in speech as though it were an apartment in Babel, tried to discourse to him of its divers tenantry.

A polychromatic rug like some brilliant-flowered rectangular, tropical islet lay surrounded by a billowy sea of soiled matting. Upon the gay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the homeless one from house to house�� The Huguenot Lovers, The First Quarrel, The Wedding Breakfast, Psyche at the Fountain. The mantel�s chastely severe outline was ingloriously veiled behind some pert drapery drawn rakishly askew like the sashes of the Amazonian ballet. Upon it was some desolate flotsam cast aside by the room�s marooned when a lucky sail had borne them to a fresh port�� a trifling vase or two, pictures of actresses, a medicine bottle, some stray cards out of a deck.

One by one, as the characters of a cryptograph become explicit, the little signs left by the furnished room�s procession of guests developed a significance. The threadbare space in the rug in front of the dresser told that lovely women had marched in the throng. Tiny finger prints on the wall spoke of little prisoners trying to feel their way to sun and air. A splattered stain, raying like a shadow of a bursting bomb, witnessed where a hurled glass or bottle had splintered with its contents against the wall. Across the pier glass had been scrawled with a diamond in staggering letters the name �Marie�. It seemed that the succession of dwellers in the furnished room had turned in fury�� perhaps tempted beyond forbearance by its garish coldness�� and wreaked upon it their passions. The furniture was chipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs, seemed a horrible monster that had been slain during the stress of some grotesque convulsion. Some more potent upheaval had cloven a great slice from the marble mantel. Each plank in the floor owned its particular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual agony. It seemed incredible that all this malice and injury had been wrought upon the room by those who had called it for a time their home; and yet it may have been the cheated home instinct surviving blindly, the resentful rage at false household gods that had kindled their wrath. A hut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and cherish.

The young tenant in the chair allowed these thoughts to file, soft-shod, through his mind, while there drifted into the room furnished sounds and furnished scents. He heard in one room a tittering and incontinent, slack laughter; in others the monologue of a scold, the rattling of dice, a lullaby, and one crying dully; above him a banjo tinkled with spirit. Doors banged somewhere, the elevated trains roared intermittently; a cat yowled miserably upon a back fence. And he breathed the breath of the house�� a dank savour rather than a smell�� a cold, musty effluvium as from underground vaults mingled with the reeking exhalations of linoleum and mildewed and rotten woodwork.

Then, suddenly, as he rested there, the room was filled with the strong, sweet odour of mignonette. It came as upon a single buffet of wind with such sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a living visitant. And the man cried aloud: �What, dear?� as if he had been called, and sprang up and faced about. The rich odour clung to him and wrapped him around. He reached out his arms for it, all his senses for the time confused and commingled. How could one be peremptorily called by an odour? Surely it must have been a sound. But, was it not the sound that had touched, that had caressed him?

�She has been in this room,� he cried, and he sprang to wrest from it a token, for he knew he would recognize the smallest thing that had belonged to her or that she had touched. This enveloping scent of mignonette, the odour that she had loved and made her own�� whence came it?

The room had been but carelessly set in order. Scattered upon the flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins�� those discreet, indistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite of mood and uncommunicative of tense. These he ignored, conscious of their triumphant lack of identity. Ransacking the drawers of the dresser he came upon a discarded, tiny, ragged handkerchief. He pressed it to his face. It was racy and insolent with heliotrope; he hurled it to the floor. In another drawer he found odd buttons, a theatre programme, a pawnbroker�s card, two lost marshmallows, a book on the divination of dreams. In the last was a woman�s black satin hair-bow, which halted him, poised between ice and fire. But the black satin hair-bow also is femininity�s demure, impersonal, common ornament, and tells no tales.

And then he traversed the room like a hound on the scent, skimming the walls, considering the corners of the bulging matting on his hands and knees, rummaging mantel and tables, the curtains and hangings, the drunken cabinet in the corner, for a visible sign, unable to perceive that she was there beside, around, against, within, above him, clinging to him, wooing him, calling him so poignantly through the finer senses that even his grosser ones became cognisant of the call. Once again he answered loudly: �Yes dear!� and turned, wild-eyed, to gaze on vacancy, for he could not yet discern form and colour and love and outstretched arms in the odour of mignonette. Oh, God! whence that odour, and since when have odours had a voice to call? Thus he groped.

He burrowed in crevices and corners, and found corks and cigarettes. These he passed in passive contempt. But once he found in a fold of the matting a half-smoked cigar, and this he ground beneath his heel with a green and trenchant oath. He sifted the room from end to end. He found dreary and ignoble small records of many a peripatetic tenant; but of her whom he sought, and who may have lodged there, and whose spirit seemed to hover there, he found no trace.

And then he thought of the housekeeper.

He ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a door that showed a crack of light. She came out to his knock. He smothered his excitement as best he could.

�Will you tell me, madam,� he besought her, �who occupied the room I have before I came?�

�Yes, sir. I can tell you again. �Twas Sprowls and Mooney, as I said. Miss B�retta Sprowls it was in the theatres, but Missis Mooney she was. My house is well known for respectability. The marriage certificate hung, framed, on a nail over���

�What kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls�� in looks, I mean?�

�Why, black-haired, sir, short, and stout, with a comical face. They left a week ago Tuesday.�

�And before they occupied it?�

�Why, there was a single gentleman connected with the draying business. He left owing me a week. Before him was Missis Crowder and her two children, they stayed four months; and back of them was old Mr�Doyle, whose sons paid for him. He kept the room six months. That goes back a year, sir, and further I do not remember.�

He thanked her and crept back to his room. The room was dead. The essence that had vivified it was gone. The perfume of mignonette had departed. In its place was the old, stale odour of mouldy house furniture, of atmosphere in storage.

The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staring at the yellow, singing gaslight. Soon he walked to the bed and began to tear the sheets into strips. With the blade of his knife he drove them tightly into every crevice around windows and door. When all was snug and taut he turned out the light, turned the gas full on again and laid himself gratefully upon the bed.

They came to him only when he was by himself, as when he went into the garden to play or was sent up to bed in his little room. There were three of them, two boys and one girl. He accepted their presence naturally, almost as if they were part of him. Yet they did tend to boss him a little sometimes, and when he asked: �Why should I do what you say?� they would reply: �Because we�re older than you are.� Yet they didn�t look any older.

�I�m the oldest,� the dark boy told him, �he�s next,� pointing to the fair boy, �she�s next,� indicating the girl, �and you�re the baby.�

�But I�m not a baby,� Tim protested with the dignity of five years behind him.

�You�ll always be the baby to us,� said the girl, ���cos you�re�� the youngest.�

But it wasn�t often that they argued. Usually he just enjoyed the pleasure of their company. He was an only child, therefore a lonely child, and their presence blurred the edge of that loneliness. When he sat in the sun on the grass in the garden, he liked to see them hovering around, and when he was sent to bed early on summer nights it was good to have a chat with them before going to sleep.

He never mentioned them to his parents. He didn�t really know why but some deep awareness prevented him.

Mary Hesketh always said that the mist was responsible. How else explain what happened to her and Ralph? Especially since they were the last people in the world such a thing should happen to: solid, down to earth, prosperous, and recently grandparents for the first time.

It was the arrival of this first grandchild that had delayed their holiday, for naturally Mary could not think of leaving until Jane and the baby were safely settled in at home and had been supplied with every warning and comfort a grandmother could offer, notwithstanding Jane�s barely concealed preference for Dr�Spock. Then of course there had been a crisis in Ralph�s office�� a firm of civil engineers in Queen Anne�s Gate�� and before they could draw breath their son Peter returned from a student holiday in Spain with food poisoning. It was not surprising their own holiday was late.

Still, as Mary said, the great thing was that they were going. A contented, middle-aged couple with a good car, no worries and a fortnight�s freedom, even in October�� it was almost like a second honeymoon. She said so in her artless way to several friends and neighbours, whose degree of cynicism varied, but fortunately not their tact. Besides, it was generally agreed that the Heskeths were an asset to their community�� a Surrey village which had been taken over almost exclusively by people like themselves, and in which each detached house acted as a buffer for those adjacent against whatever was unacceptable in the world outside.

The Heskeths had driven north because, from London, there are only two directions the long-distance driver can take and Scotland in autumn struck them as a more desirable goal than Devon or Cornwall, which they already knew rather well. They had excused themselves for not going abroad, which in their circle was more or less expected, by pleading a lack of time to plan. In reality, they were ill at ease with food and languages that weren�t English, and believed that there were other things in life besides sun-tan.

It had been Ralph�s idea to spend a few days in Yorkshire, a county which he knew well although his wife did not. During the war he had served in the RAF and had been stationed at various bases up and down England�s eastern shires. He had never gone back (except once, to attend a civil engineering conference in Sheffield): there were too many memories he would rather leave interred. But twenty years had blunted his emotions and whetted his curiosity. He had a longing to revisit the old haunts.

Mary contentedly acquiesced, as she acquiesced in everything. She was a comfortable rather than a demanding wife. Her view of woman�s r�le was based on yesterday�s conventions, by which indeed she regulated her whole life. These taught her that there were things in a man�s life which it was not for a woman, even the most loyal and devoted woman, to share. So she withdrew to a distance when Ralph went into the RAF chapel in Lincoln Cathedral, or stood lost in reverie before the astronomical clock in York.

How handsome he looked, standing rather self-consciously to attention. And how thankful she was that he had been spared, when so many from these bases had not been. She smiled at him complicitly as he emerged. Until now she had not realized how much these moorlands and fenlands were dedicated to the RAF, having spent the war years in the secluded West of England, where both the children had been born. Ralph had not shared his Service life with her even in conversation, and she had not inquired into it, warned by some self-preserving instinct which told her that ignorance might well be bliss. Like every other woman with a serving husband, she had lived in ever-present expectation of widowhood, and had been both thankful and surprised when that fate failed to overtake her; she had always been premonitorily convinced that it would.

As though to emphasize that all such horrors were now behind them, the October weather was perfect�� so much so that Mary, for whom this venture into Ralph�s past had the attraction of great danger viewed from great safety, was eager for them to stay another day.

�We haven�t seen the Yorkshire coast,� she urged, �and I should so like to; and it�s not as if we�re due in Scotland at any particular time.�

So they spent a day of uninterrupted sunshine and turquoise sky and tranquil, sparkling sea, and left later than they intended, as dusk was falling, to drive from Whitby to their hotel near Pickering.

The bracken on the moorland plateau still gleamed redly, though whether in its own right or in the reflection of the setting sun it was impossible to say. It was a world of greyness and redness. The grey road lying like a folded ribbon across the red, flat, featureless moor; the red sun a disc against the soft yet solid greyness of distance and the western horizon. It was this greyness that caused Ralph to step on the accelerator and mutter about fog coming up.

The mist enveloped them suddenly in a slight hollow. In an instant it became impossible to see ahead, impossible to see behind or sideways, impossible�� or very nearly�� to see the grass verges of the road. Ralph slammed on the brakes and the car�s crawl added to the eeriness. The unfamiliar whine of the engine was the only sound. It was only eight miles to Pickering and their hotel lay just beyond it, but in fog so dense it seemed unlikely they would even get that far. An unfamiliar bumping warned them that they had left the metalled roadway. Ralph swore and pulled on the wheel. And then, as suddenly, they were in the clear and the fog patch lay like a solid wall behind them, and Ralph swore with the even greater violence of relief.

Mary patted him. �It�s all right, darling. It�s over.�

�Yes, but God knows when we�re going to hit the next.�

The moorland seemed all at once to have lost its colour. Grey grass and bracken blended with a much nearer sky. All the horizons had contracted. Whichever way they looked it was a blank�� a blank with soft, sinister, shifting edges, which without warning closed about them once again.

It was as they came out of this second fog patch that they saw the young man on the road. They saw him first in the yellow glare of the fog lamp, which seemed absurd in what was now relatively fog-free air.

Ralph switched it off and glanced inquiringly at Mary. �Shall we offer this laddie a lift?�

�Yes,� Mary said, influenced as much by the fact that he was the height and build of Peter as by considerations of weather and the loneliness of the road.

The young man turned round as he heard the car approaching, but he made no hitch-hiker�s sign. They had a glimpse of a white, strained face above the turned-up collar of a sheepskin flying-jacket. Then the RAF-blue legs marched stolidly yet clumsily on. His step had a martial rhythm. They could hear the left-right, left-right as Ralph slowed the car and wound down the window on his side.

�Want a lift?�

A pair of startled eyes regarded him as though a lift were something unheard of. Then suddenly the young man smiled.

He had a dazzling smile. It lit up a face that was unmistakably good-looking, despite being tired and drawn.

�Jolly decent of you, sir.�

The voice was rich and pleasing�� a good accent, Mary noted as she leaned back to open the door.

The young man climbed in and she took a closer look at him: dark eyes and hair, and lean, slightly aquiline face. Under the flying-jacket he was wearing a zipped-up RAF battle-blouse. There were heavy flying-boots on his feet. This of course explained the clumsiness of his marching. It seemed an extraordinary garb to choose for walking over the North York moors. Mary was curious; but Ralph was already asking the young man where he wanted to go.

�Back home�� to the camp if you�re going anywhere near it, sir. It�s about five miles from here. We shall pass the entrance on the left.�

It was touching that he thought of the camp as �home�, Mary decided. She asked politely, �Did you miss the bus?�

�You could put it that way.� The young man clenched his hands till the knuckles whitened.

�Will you get into trouble for being late?�

�I shouldn�t think so. Not in the circumstances. They�re more likely to give me a gong.�

Ralph laughed. �You mustn�t pull my wife�s leg�� she won�t understand you. Try mine instead; I�m ex-RAF, so that�s fair.�

�Are you really, sir?� The boy looked doubtful. �But I assure you, I wasn�t pulling anyone�s leg.�

�All right, all right,� Ralph said hastily. �I see from the outfit that you�re air-crew. What�s your line?�

�Pilot.�

�We ought to get together�� I was a navigator. What kind of crate do you fly?�

�All sorts. It�s a Wellington at the moment.�

�Don�t tell me the RAF still use those! They were obsolete when I came out, and that�s some time ago, I can tell you.�

�On our field we use them a lot.�

�Hear that, Mary? All these millions on defence and these boys have to make do with old equipment. Still, I like your loyalty�� not letting the RAF down.�

�I�ve let �em down all right tonight.�

�Checking in late isn�t all that serious, is it?�

�I ought to have made it. I ought.�

Surprised by the intensity in the boy�s voice, Mary turned. He was leaning forward, and his clenched fists beat on his knees.

�I�m sure they�ll understand,� she said soothingly.

�Oh yes.� His voice was bitter. �But the boys who trusted me won�t. They can�t. They were so sure I could make it. I was sure too. I almost did. And then, just at the end�.�.�.� A tear glistened on his cheek.

Mary leaned back and placed a hand over the clenched fist, which was cold and rigid. �Don�t torture yourself. I�m sure they know you did the best you could.�

�I wonder. It would make it easier to think so.�

�Weren�t you expecting a gong for it?� Ralph asked.

�I just said that because it shows the stupidity of medals. I get it and they�ve earned it. Is that fair?�

�I used to ask the same sort of questions. Now I know that even to ask them isn�t fair, since it puts the burden of replying on one person rather than another.�

�I beg your pardon?�

�I wasn�t meaning myself. I�ve nothing to complain of. Life�s been pretty good to me. But why me, for Christ�s sake? What have I done to deserve a whole skin, a good job, a wife and kids and now a grandchild?�

�I envy you the wife and kids.�

�Plenty of time. You don�t want to settle down too early; at least, that�s what I tell my son.�

Mary turned back to him. �And how old were you when you married? Fifty?�

�You heard me say I was a lucky man.�

�And I�m a lucky woman. That makes two of us. And this young man is lucky we gave him a lift.�

He was indeed, Mary reflected, for the fog was closing in. There had been no further solid patches on the road, but visibility had decreased sharply. The headlights cut a path like machetes through jungle. The young man eyed them with appreciation. �Wizard car,� he observed.

She was a Humber Hawk, and the Heskeths had had her less than a year and were still proud of her. Even so, they were so used to blas� remarks from Peter that the comment caused them surprise.

�She�s not bad,� Ralph admitted.

�Had her long?�

�Eight months.�

�I suppose they had her in stock.� The young man sighed enviously. �She�s got everything, hasn�t she? A reminder of what motoring�s all about.�

Suspecting flattery, perhaps mockery, Ralph said shortly, �She�s not a blueprint, you know.�

Mary felt it was time to intervene. �Do you have a car?� she asked their new acquaintance, who smiled and shook his head.

�Not now. I did when I was up at Oxford.�

�Oh!� Mary exclaimed. �Were you there?�

�I did a year.�

Mary faltered. The boy had evidently been sent down. She had heard Peter mention such tragedies, accepting them phlegmatically in the way of the very young. Whereas she never lost an opportunity to enlarge upon them: the waste the shame of it, the disappointment to all concerned. And indeed she meant every word of these monitory expostulations, so vividly could she imagine her own feelings if Peter should bring disgrace upon her.

Now she was in the same car with one of these unfortunates, and she did not know what to say. She could imagine so easily what had happened: the wildness carried too far, the bitter consequences, the parental upbraidings, the enlisting in penance or defiance, or both.

She asked with all the tact she could muster: �Are you making the Royal Air Force your career?�

The young man grinned, but without humour. �I dare say it will be,� he said.

�And what were you reading at Oxford?�

�History.�

�Fancy! Our son is up there now doing that. Ralph, did you hear? This young man read history at Oxford.�

�Really? Which college?� Ralph inquired.

Upon being told the name, Mary exclaimed afresh. �Why, that�s Peter�s college! Tell me, do you know our son? Our name is Hesketh.�

The young man pronounced it, considering. �No, but then it�s four years since I left.�

�Still, you must know some of the same people. Peter�s tutor is Bernard Williams. Who was yours?�

�Bernard Williams? Must be a new man. I suppose most of the younger chaps have gone. Mine won�t have done because he�s got shocking eyesight. His name�s Appleby.�

The name registered with both the Heskeths.

�Not Sir David?� Ralph asked, awed.

�I don�t know about the �Sir�. His name�s David. Don�t tell me they�ve made him a KBE!�

�Yes. I�d no idea it was so recent. I thought he�d been Sir David for years.�

�Not in my day he wasn�t.�

�That just goes to show that time is deceptive. Which reminds me�� where�s this camp of yours?�

�We�re not there yet. You�ll see an arrow pointing to the turning.�

�You don�t think we�ve missed it in this fog?�

�I�m certain we haven�t. I know every inch of this moorland.�

�Yet you�re not a native of these parts.�

�No, but I�ve a friend who lives locally. We go out walking. She�s taught me to know my way around.� He stopped, blushing to have betrayed the friend�s sex so quickly, then went on: �It�s thanks to her I knew which road to take tonight. And it�s thanks to you I�m going to make it. I should never have done it alone.�

�Oh, surely. We�ve come no distance. Although I suppose the fog makes it seem farther than it is.�

�No, by the time you found me, I�d bought it.�

�Had you been wandering for hours?�

�I don�t know. My watch packed it in when the kite pranged.�

�Good God!� Ralph came sharply to attention. �You don�t mean you were forced down in this?� He indicated the grey trails of vapour that moved against the windscreen.

The young man looked at them also. �I couldn�t quite make it,� he said.

�I suppose you radioed your field?�

�The radio was out of action.�

�You mean they don�t know where you are?�

�I was over the North Sea when the radio packed it in. They�ll probably conclude I�m in the drink.�

�Good God!� Ralph said again. �No wonder you�re anxious to make it. But you know, this damn fog�s getting worse. And I haven�t a clue where I am except that I must still be on the road to Pickering because there hasn�t been another road to turn off.�

�There�s one now,� Mary said. Through the murk it was dimly apparent that the edges of the road diverged. Ralph stopped abruptly and stalled the engine. The silence was absolute. It did not seem possible they were within a few miles of human habitation, of lights, streets, houses, shops�� a town.

�Isn�t it deserted!� Mary had said that morning as they drove in sunlight. They knew the meaning of deserted now. On these moors there was nothing, not even sheep, only thin soil and bracken, a road that looped from one horizon to the other, and in the distance the clifflike scars of former subsidence. This morning there had been larks and puffy cloudlets. Now the sky had fallen, enfolding the earth. There were drops of moisture on the bracken fronds and on the windscreen wipers. Everything was static, immobile, as under an enchanter�s spell.

�You take the left-hand fork,� the young pilot said quietly.

There was so much confidence in his tone that Ralph started the engine and edged the car over without any further ado, although normally his navigator�s training led him to query anyone else�s directions and some degree of argument ensued.

Mary, impressed by the young man�s quiet confidence, turned round again to talk. �I�m sure you�re a good pilot. I can sense it. How many medals have you got?�

�They don�t give medals to good pilots. They might as well issue them with your kit.�

�No, but seriously�� you have got a medal, haven�t you?�

�I�d rather not discuss it, if you don�t mind.�

�It�s pretty difficult to get gonged, except in wartime,� Ralph put in warningly.

Mary switched her line of attack. �Tell me about your girlfriend,� she commanded.

�What is there to say about her?�

�What does she look like? Is she tall or short, fat or thin, dark or fair?�

�Something in between all three.�

�Are you engaged?�

�Not officially. Her father thinks she�s too young. And he doesn�t consider an RAF pilot a very secure means of support. You know�� here today and gone tomorrow. I must say I see his point of view. I said we�d wait, but I guess I stuck my neck out too far in saying it. I�m not sure if we�ll be able to.� He added, without changing his tone. The camp entrance is on the left here, sir. That�s it. Well navigated. Bang on.�

Ralph pulled up. �I don�t see any entrance.�

The young man pointed to where a narrow road turned off in the darkness, with the familiar metal Air Force directing arrow: RAF Hillingdale.

�That�s not the entrance to an RAF camp,� Ralph objected.

�Not the main entrance, no. But it�s the nearest and will get me home soonest. It�s only a quarter of a mile down the road.�

�Then let us drive you there. You�re in no fit state to walk it. You look all in.�

�The lane�s too narrow to turn and you�d have to back. Don�t risk it. I�ll manage all right from here.�

As he spoke, the young man opened the car door. He climbed out and stood, already shadowy, beside Ralph�s window. The mist swirled into the car, and the young man�s figure seemed to sway with it. Unless he were swaying on his feet.

�Thanks for the lift.� He bent down and they had a last glimpse of the handsome, aquiline face, grey in the greyness, and the flash of white teeth in the familiar dazzling smile. Then he was gone and they heard his awkward marching, left-right, left-right, fading away along the narrow road to the left.

Slowly the sun had climbed up the hard white downs, till it broke with little of the mysterious ritual of dawn upon a sparkling world of snow. There had been a hard frost during the night, and the birds, who hopped about here and there with scant tolerance of life, left no trace of their passage on the silver pavements. In places the sheltered caverns of the hedges broke the monotony of the whiteness that had fallen upon the coloured earth, and overhead the sky melted from orange to deep blue, from deep blue to a blue so pale that it suggested a thin paper screen rather than illimitable space. Across the level fields there came a cold, silent wind which blew a fine dust of snow from the trees, but hardly stirred the crested hedges. Once above the skyline, the sun seemed to climb more quickly, and as it rose higher it began to give out a heat that blended with the keenness of the wind.

It may have been this strange alternation of heat and cold that disturbed the tramp in his dreams, for he struggled for a moment with the snow that covered him, like a man who finds himself twisted uncomfortably in the bed-clothes, and then sat up with staring, questioning eyes. �Lord! I thought I was in bed,� he said to himself as he took in the vacant landscape, �and all the while I was out here.� He stretched his limbs, and, rising carefully to bis feet, shook the snow off his body. As he did so the wind set him shivering, and he knew that his bed had been warm.

�Come, I feel pretty fit,� he thought �I suppose I am lucky to wake at all in this. Or unlucky�� it isn�t much of a business to come back to.� He looked up and saw the downs shining against the blue like the Alps on a picture-postcard. That means another forty miles or so, I suppose,� he continued grimly. �Lord knows what I did yesterday. Walked till I was done, and now I�m only about twelve miles from Brighton. Damn the snow, damn Brighton, damn everything!� The sun crept higher and higher, and he started walking patiently along the road with his back turned to the hills.

�Am I glad or sorry that it was only sleep that took me, glad or sorry, glad or sorry?� His thoughts seemed to arrange themselves in a metrical accompaniment to the steady thud of his footsteps, and he hardly sought an answer to his question. It was good enough to walk to.

Presently, when three milestones had loitered past, he overtook a boy who was stooping to light a cigarette. He wore no overcoat, and looked unspeakably fragile against the snow. �Are you on the road, guv�nor?� asked the boy huskily as he passed.

�I think I am,� the tramp said.

�Oh I then I�ll come a bit of the way with you if you don�t walk too fast. It�s a bit lonesome walking this time of day.� The tramp nodded his head, and the boy started limping along by his side.

�I�m eighteen,� he said casually. �I bet you thought I was younger.�

�Fifteen, I�d have said.�

�You�d have backed a loser. Eighteen last August, and I�ve been on the road six years. I ran away from home five times when I was a little �un, and the police took me back each time. Very good to me, the police was. Now I haven�t got a home to run away from.�

�Nor have I,� the tramp said calmly.

�Oh, I can see what you are,� the boy panted; �you�re a gentleman come down. It�s harder for you than for me.� The tramp glanced at the limping, feeble figure and lessened his pace.

�I haven�t been at it as long as you have,� he admitted.

�No, I could tell that by the way you walk. You haven�t got tired yet. Perhaps you expect something the other end?�

The tramp reflected for a moment. �I don�t know,� he said bitterly, �I�m always expecting things.�

�You�ll grow out of that,� the boy commented. �It�s warmer in London, but it�s harder to come by grub. There isn�t much in it really.�

�Still, there�s the chance of meeting somebody there who will understand���

�Country people are better,� the boy interrupted. �Last night I took a lease of a barn for nothing and slept with the cows, and this morning the farmer routed me out and gave me tea and toke because I was so little. Of course, I score there; but in London, soup on the Embankment at night, and all the rest of the time coppers moving you on.�

�I dropped by the roadside last night and slept where I fell. It�s a wonder I didn�t die,� the tramp said. The boy looked at him sharply.

�How do you know you didn�t?� he said.

�I don�t see it,� the tramp said, after a pause.

�I tell you,� the boy said hoarsely, �people like us can�t get away from this sort of thing if we want to. Always hungry and thirsty and dog-tired and walking all the time. And yet if anyone offers me a nice home and work my stomach feels sick. Do I look strong? I know I�m little for my age, but I�ve been knocking about like this for six years, and do you think I�m not dead? I was drowned bathing at Margate, and I was killed by a gypsy with a spike; he knocked my head right in, and twice I was froze like you last night, and a motor cut me down on this very road, and yet I�m walking along here now, walking to London to walk away from it again, because I can�t help it. Dead! I tell you we can�t get away if we want to.�

The boy broke off in a fit of coughing, and the tramp paused while he recovered.

�You�d better borrow my coat for a bit, Tommy,� he said. Your cough�s pretty bad.�

�You go to hell!� the boy said fiercely, puffing at his cigarette; �I�m all right. I was telling you about the road. You haven�t got down to it yet, but you�ll find out presently. We�re all dead, all of us who�re on it, and we�re all tired, yet somehow we can�t leave it. There�s nice smells in the summer, dust and hay and the wind smack in your face on a hot day; and it�s nice waking up in the wet grass on a fine morning. I don�t know, I don�t know��� he lurched forward suddenly, and the tramp caught him in his arms.

�I�m sick,� the boy whispered�� �sick.�

The tramp looked up and down the road, but he could see no houses or any sign of help. Yet even as he supported the boy doubtfully in the middle of the road a motor car suddenly flashed in the middle distance, and came smoothly through the snow.

�What�s the trouble?� said the driver quietly as he pulled up. �I�m a doctor.� He looked at the boy keenly and listened to his strained breathing.

�Pneumonia,� he commented. �I�ll give him a lift to the infirmary, and you, too, if you like.�

The tramp thought of the workhouse and shook his head �I�d rather walk,� he said.

The boy winked faintly as they lifted him into the car.

�I�ll meet you beyond Reigate,� he murmured to the tramp. �You�ll see.� And the car vanished along the white road.

All the morning the tramp splashed through the thawing snow, but at midday he begged some bread at a cottage door and crept into a lonely barn to eat it. It was warm in there, and after his meal he fell asleep among the hay. It was dark when he woke, and started trudging once more through the slushy roads.

Two miles beyond Reigate a figure, a fragile figure, slipped out of the darkness to meet him.

�On the road, guv�nor?� said a husky voice. �Then I�ll come a bit of the way with you if you don�t walk too fast. It�s a bit lonesome walking this time of day.�

�But the pneumonia!� cried the tramp, aghast.

�I died at Crawley this morning,� said the boy.

�No,� said Jackson, with a deprecatory smile, �I�m sorry. I don�t want to upset your game. I shan�t be doing that because you�ll have plenty without me. But I�m not playing any games of hide-and-seek.�

It was Christmas Eve, and we were a party of fourteen with just the proper leavening of youth. We had dined well; it was the season for childish games; and we were all in the mood for playing them�� all, that is, except Jackson. When somebody suggested hide-and-seek there was rapturous and almost unanimous approval. His was the one dissentient voice.

It was not like Jackson to spoil sport or refuse to do as others wanted. Somebody asked him if he were feeling seedy.

�No,� he answered, �I feel perfectly fit, thanks. But,� he added with a smile which softened without retracting the flat refusal, �I�m not playing hide-and-seek.�

One of us asked him why not. He hesitated for some seconds before replying.

�I sometimes go and stay at a house where a girl was killed through playing hide-and-seek in the dark. She didn�t know the house very well. There was a servants� staircase with a door to it. When she was pursued she opened the door and jumped into what she must have thought was one of the bedrooms�� and she broke her neck at the bottom of the stairs.�

We all looked concerned, and Mrs�Fernley said:

�How awful! And you were there when it happened?�

Jackson shook his head very gravely.

�No,� he said, �but I was there when something else happened. Something worse.�

�I shouldn�t have thought anything could be worse.�

�This was,� said Jackson, and shuddered visibly. �Or so it seemed to me.�

I think he wanted to tell the story and was angling for encouragement. A few requests, which may have seemed to him to lack urgency, he affected to ignore and went off at a tangent.

�I wonder if any of you have played a game called �Smee�? It�s a great improvement on the ordinary game of hide-and-seek. The name derives from the ungrammatical colloquialism, �It�s me.� You might care to play if you�re going to play a game of that sort. Let me tell you the rules.

�Every player is presented with a sheet of paper. All the sheets are blank except one, on which is written �Smee.� Nobody knows who is �Smee� except �Smee� himself�� or herself, as the case may be. The lights are then turned out and �Smee� slips from the room and goes off to hide, and after an interval the other players go off in search, without knowing whom they are actually in search of. One player meeting another challenges with the word �Smee,� and the other player, if not the one concerned, answers �Smee.�

The real �Smee� makes no answer when challenged, and the second player remains quietly by him. Presently they will be discovered by a third player who, having challenged and received no answer, will link up with the first two. This goes on until all the players have formed a chain, and the last to join is marked down for a forfeit. It�s a good noisy, romping game, and in a big house it often takes a long time to complete the chain. You might care to try it; and I�ll pay my forfeit and smoke one of Tim�s excellent cigars here by the fire, until you get tired of it.�

I remarked that it sounded a good game and asked Jackson if he had played it himself.

�Yes,� he answered; �I played it in the house I was telling you about.�

�And she was there? The girl who broke���

�No, no,� Mrs�Fernley interrupted. �He told us he wasn�t there when it happened.�

Jackson considered.

�I don�t know if she were there or not. I�m afraid she was. I know that there were thirteen of us and there ought only to have been twelve. And I�ll swear that I don�t know her name, or I think I should have gone clean off my head when I heard that whisper in the dark. No, you don�t catch me playing that game, or any other like it, any more. It spoilt my nerve quite a while, and I can�t afford to take long holidays. Besides, it saves a lot of trouble and inconvenience to own up at once to being a coward.�

Tim Vouce, the best of hosts, smiled around at us, and in that smile there was a meaning which is sometimes vulgarly expressed by the slow closing of an eye.

�There�s a story coming,� he announced.

�There�s certainly a story of sorts,� said Jackson, �but whether it�s coming or not���

He paused and shrugged his shoulders.

�Well, you�re going to pay a forfeit instead of playing?�

�Please. But have a heart and let me down lightly. It�s not just a sheer cussedness on my part.�

�Payment in advance,� said Tim, �ensures honesty and promotes good feeling. You are therefore sentenced to tell the story here and now.�

And here follows Jackson�s story, unrevised by me and passed on without comment to a wider public:

Nathaniel Dodd, the steward who had served our family for as long as I could remember and who had not seen me for close on five years, stared disapprovingly over the roll of parchment in his hand. His eyes, squinting in the sunlight that danced through the window to make a mockery of the sullen atmosphere, became mere pinpricks that tried to pierce my thoughts. His stare moved from my tanned features to the buff coat of my officer�s uniform, travelled down the sleeve and paused on the edge of plain linen at my wrist. Involuntarily, and immediately ashamed of the action, I curved my fingers under my gloves so that he would not notice the nails I had split that morning while mending a broken bridle. From my hands the stare glided to my sword, slid from hilt to tip and came to rest on the spurs of my muddied riding-boots.

�I left as soon as I received your message,� I began in weak apology for my unkempt looks, and feeling momentarily like the refractory schoolboy he still considered me to be.

The squinting eyes swung from my boots to my face again.

�You may sit down,� he said.

Four cold words; not �Good day� or any remark on the change in my appearance which the half decade of soldiering with the Parliamentary Army must have made. I checked the rising comment, for I had no wish to make a greater enemy of the man who was the sole link with my family who had disowned me.

What had I done? Rebelled. The only one of my parents� four children who had dared to disobey their wishes. My two brothers had, not willingly, directed their lives into the ways chosen for them and my sister, at an early age, had been given in marriage to an elderly landowner of wealth in order to provide him with much-wanted heirs. But I, at fifteen as I then was, had seen little glamour or excitement in the life of a priest when I learned that I was destined for the Church. Glamour, life, excitement were to my mind to be found in my youthful pleasures, my sword, my horse, and the prospect of fighting; but not fighting for King Charles, who had just raised his standard at Nottingham, and who was head of that very Church from which I wished to escape.

A few months after I had run away from home I was tracked down by Nathaniel Dodd. That was the first time I was summoned to receive his disapproving stare and the four cold words�� �You may sit down.� On that occasion I had remained standing, a silent but defiant fifteen-year-old, my hair cropped as short as the most fanatical Roundhead�s, determined to retain my freedom. It was not my freedom that Master Dodd wanted. It was to tell me that I could go the way I had chosen and live on the meagre pay of a common soldier because my family had disowned me, and there would never be any forgiveness for me.

�Callous young puppy,� Nathaniel Dodd had hissed at my apparent composure.

�What do you expect me to say?� I had asked, goaded into speech by his contempt. �If I show sorrow now for the distress I have caused my parents for not entering the Church, you will be the first to tell me my repentance is too late. The Church is not for me. Why should a boy�s life be stunted to suit his parents� whim? If they prefer to exile me and make me homeless, they are to blame for their own unhappiness now, not I.�

They were hard words, and they came from a heart that was steeling itself to do without kindred and home for the bitter years of civil war.

Now, five years later, Nathaniel Dodd had sent for me again saying that he had important family matters to divulge. By this time there was a lull in the fighting and I, no longer a common soldier but a captain of a troop of horse in the New Model Army, was able to leave my quarters without a moment�s delay. Believing that my father or both my parents were dying, if not dead, I covered the many miles to Master Dodd in two hot summer days, to arrive tired and travel-stained on a well-nigh lamed horse in the mid-afternoon.

�You may sit down.� The words were repeated.

�Thank you,� I replied, and obeyed, flinging my hat and gloves on the floor beside me.

For an instant the pinprick eyes wavered, then dropped to the parchment and began to read. I was conscious that, at the end of every line, Master Dodd�s attention wandered from the black script to my relaxed figure, noting my hair, now long like an ordinary officer�s, not shorn like a fanatic�s, and the air of maturity and experience.

�Are my parents well?� I asked.

He started as if he had not expected me to have the temerity to address him first.

�In exceptional health, I believe,� he said, and there was a hint of acidity in his voice showing that neither I nor what he read on the parchment was to his liking.

�This is your uncle�s will,� he continued in the same sour tone. �Your father�s only brother Edward Knapton, who, until within a few months of his death, fought loyally at the King�s side.� He glared at me over the parchment again and I wondered why he was at pains to tell me this. �He has left his fortune, which was considerable, not to your father, your brothers or your sister�� but�� to a rebellious, ill-favoured, traitorous��� and here his list of adjectives failed him�� �ne�er-do-well�� to yourself.� He tossed the document in contempt on to the table in front of him.

I hid my amazement at his news and replied with as little sarcasm as possible that my uncle must have known the others were well provided for. If Master Dodd had been a common soldier he would have spat out his disgust.

�The man was mad,� he exploded, �mad! He destroyed his previous will and made that�� that travesty�� only a short while ago.� His fingers quivering with fury, he pulled some keys from a drawer and went to a small coffer under the window. �If you need money now I can let you have some, and the rest can be sent when and where you want it later. The house can be sold and then I���

�What house?� I interrupted.

�Your uncle�s,� he barked. �Now yours. A new house��� And he named a village deep in a part of the West Country which had been torn by the campaigns during the early years of the war. �He finished building it this spring and planned to live in it at once, but��� He hesitated, lifting the lid of the chest and burying his hand in its contents. �It�s no place for anyone and you�ll not be needing a house when you are on the march all the time�� you chose to give up one Royalist home and this will only be another. It will fetch a good price and���

�I do not wish to sell it,� I replied firmly. His ready acceptance of the fact that I neither needed nor wanted the house roused my obstinate nature, although I was not really inclined to be saddled with the property. �You can give me the keys and I will go down there.�

He straightened up, his eyes blinking nervously.

�You�ll not like it. Your uncle could not abide it in the end.�

�No doubt that was why he left it to me,� I said. �If he had been fond of it he would have given it to a more worthy recipient. In any case, I should like to see the servants. They might not be willing to serve a rebel master after a Royalist one.�

�There are no servants.� He spoke slowly in order to convey some deeper meaning. The place is empty, no one will stay there. Your uncle was driven from it�� by some power, some evil�� he believed the place was haunted.�

�Haunted?� I laughed. �What�� a house not a year old with a ghost? Who is it? One of the bricklayers fallen from the scaffolding or did they wall up the master carpenter in the chimney because of his prying ways?�

Nathaniel Dodd eyed me with awe and a strange fascination.

�Heaven be praised you never entered the Church,� he muttered. �The supernatural is to be feared not mocked.�

He passed a bag of money and some keys from the coffer to my outstretched hand. Then smoothed his glistening forehead with a damp palm.

�I shall be ready to sell the property when you have changed your mind,� he said.

I slipped the bag and keys into my pouch, swung my hat and gloves from the floor, and bowed my thanks.

�Maybe I won�t change my mind,� I smiled, and I was conscious of the shaft of sunlight dancing joyously across the sombre room. �For perhaps Master Ghost and I will become well acquainted.�

A very odd thing happened to my uncle, Mr�Watson, of Haddlestone; and to enable you to understand it, I must begin at the beginning.

In the year 1822, Mr�James Walshawe, more commonly known as Captain Walshawe, died at the age of eighty-one years. The Captain in his early days, and so long as health and strength permitted, was a scamp of the active, intriguing sort; and spent his days and nights in sowing his wild oats, of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible stock.

Captain Walshawe was very well known in the neighbourhood of Wauling, and very generally avoided there. He had quitted the service in 1766, at the age of twenty-five, immediately previous to which period his debts had grown so troublesome that he was induced to extricate himself by running away with and marrying an heiress. He was quartered in Ireland, at Clonmel, where was a nunnery, in which, as pensioner, resided Miss O�Neill, or as she was called in the country, Peg O�Neill, the heiress.

Her situation was the only ingredient of romance in the affair, for the young lady was decidedly plain, though good-humoured looking, with that style of features which is termed potato; and in figure she was a little too plump, and rather short. But she was impressible; and the handsome young English lieutenant was too much for her monastic tendencies, and she eloped. They took up their abode at Wauling, in Lancashire.

Here the Captain amused himself after his fashion, sometimes running up, of course, on business to London. He spent her income, frightened her out of her wits, with oath and threats, and broke her heart.

Latterly she shut herself up pretty nearly altogether in her room. She had an old, rather grim, Irish servant-woman in attendance upon her. This domestic was tall, lean, and religious, and the Captain knew instinctively she hated him; and he hated her in return, and often threatened to put her out of the house, and sometimes even to kick her out of the window.

Years passed away, and old Molly Doyle remained still in her original position. Perhaps he thought that there must be somebody there, and that he was not, after all, very likely to change for the better.

He tolerated another intrusion, too, and thought himself a paragon of patience and easy good-nature for so doing. A Roman Catholic clergyman, in a long black frock, with a low standing collar, and a little white muslin fillet round his neck�� tall, sallow, with blue chin, and dark steady eyes�� used to glide up and down the stairs, and through the passages; and the Captain sometimes met him in one place and sometimes in another. But by a caprice incident to such tempers he treated this cleric exceptionally, and even with a surly sort of courtesy, though he grumbled about his visits behind his back.

Well, the time came at last, when poor Peg O�Neill�� in an evil hour Mrs�James Walshawe�� must cry, and quake, and pray her last. The doctor came from Penlynden, and was just as vague as usual, but more gloomy, and for about a week came and went oftener. The cleric in the long black frock was also daily there. And at last came that last sacrament in the gates of death, when the sinner is traversing those dread steps that never can be retraced.

The Captain drank a great deal of brandy and water that night, and called in Farmer Dobbs, for want of better company, to drink with him; and told him all his grievances, and how happy he and �the poor lady upstairs� might have been had it not been for liars, and pick-thanks, and tale-bearers, and the like, who came between them�� meaning Molly Doyle�� whom, as he waxed eloquent over his liquor, he came to curse and rail at by name, with more than his accustomed freedom. And he described his own natural character and amiability in such moving terms that he wept maudlin tears of sensibility over his theme; and when Dobbs was gone, drank some more grog, and took to railing and cursing again by himself; and then mounted the stairs unsteadily to see �what the devil Doyle and the other �� old witches were about in poor Peg�s room.�

When he pushed open the door, he found some half-dozen crones, chiefly Irish, from the neighbouring town of Hackleton, sitting over tea and snuff, etc., with candles lighted round the corpse, which was arrayed in a strangely cut robe of brown serge. She had secretly belonged to some order�� I think the Carmelite, but I am not certain�� and wore the habit in her coffin.

�What the d�� are you doing with my wife?� cried the Captain, rather thickly. �How dare you dress her up in this�� trumpery, you�� you cheating old witch; and what�s that candle doing in her hand?�

I think he was a little startled, for the spectacle was grisly enough. The dead lady was arrayed in this strange brown robe, and in her rigid fingers, as in a socket, with the large wooden beads and cross wound round it, burned a wax candle, shedding its white light over the sharp features of the corpse. Molly Doyle was not to be put down by the Captain, whom she hated, and accordingly, in her phrase, �he got as good as he gave.� And the Captain�s wrath waxed fiercer, and he plucked the wax taper from the dead hand, and was on the point of flinging it at the old serving-woman�s head.

�The holy candle, you sinner!� cried she.

�I�ve a mind to make you eat it, you beast,� cried the Captain.

But I think he had not known before what it was, for he subsided a little sulkily, and he stuffed his hand with the candle (quite extinct by this time) into his pocket, and said he:

�You know devilish well you had no business going on with y-y-your d�� witchcraft about my poor wife, without my leave�� you do�� and you�ll please to take off that d�� brown pinafore, and get her decently into her coffin, and I�ll pitch your devil�s waxlight into the sink.�

And the Captain stalked out of the room.

�An� now her poor sowl�s in prison, you wretch, be the mains o� ye; an� may yer own be shut into the wick o� that same candle, till it�s burned out, ye savage.�

�I�d have you ducked for a witch, for twopence,� roared the Captain up the staircase, with his hand on the banisters, standing on the lobby. But the door of the chamber of death clapped angrily, and he went down to the parlour, where he examined the holy candle for a while, with a tipsy gravity, and then with something of that reverential feeling for the symbolic, which is not uncommon in rakes and scamps, he thoughtfully locked it up in a press, where were accumulated all sorts of obsolete rubbish�� soiled packs of cards, disused tobacco-pipes, broken powder-flasks, his military sword, and a dusky bundle of the Flash Songster and other questionable literature.

�He�s a strange man,� said Nesta.

�Strange in what way?� I asked.

�Oh, just neurotic. He has a fire-complex or something of the kind. He lies awake at night thinking that a spark may have jumped through the fireguard and set the carpet alight. Then he has to get up and go down to look. Sometimes he does this several times a night, even after the fire has gone out.�

�Does he keep an open fire in his own house?� I asked.

�Yes, he does, because it�s healthier, and other people like it, and he doesn�t want to give way to himself about it.�

�He sounds a man of principle,� I observed.

�He is,� my hostess said. �I think that�s half the trouble with Victor. If he would let himself go more he wouldn�t have these fancies. They are his sub-conscious mind punishing him, he says, by making him do what he doesn�t want to. But somebody has told him that if he could embrace his neurosis and really enjoy it���

I laughed.

�I don�t mean in that way,� said Nesta severely. �What a mind you have, Hugo! And he conscientiously tries to. As if anyone could enjoy leaving a nice warm bed and creeping down cold passages to look after a fire that you pretty well know is out!�

�Are you sure that it is a fire he looks at?� I asked. �I can think of another reason for creeping down a cold passage and embracing what lies at the end of it.�

Nesta ignored this.

�It�s not only fires,� she said, �it�s gas taps, electric light switches, anything that he thinks might start a blaze.�

�But seriously, Nesta,� I said, �there might be some method in his madness. It gives him an alibi for all sorts of things besides love-making: theft, for instance, or murder.�

�You say that because you don�t know Victor,� Nesta said. �He�s almost a Buddhist�� he wouldn�t hurt a fly.�

�Does he want people to know about his peculiarity?� I asked. �I know he�s told you���

�He does and he doesn�t,� Nesta answered.

�It�s obvious why he doesn�t. It isn�t so obvious why he does,� I observed.

�It�s rather complicated,� Nesta said. �I doubt if your terre-�-terre mind would understand it. The whole thing is mixed up in his mind with guilt���

�There you are!� I exclaimed.

�Yes, but not real guilt. And he thinks that if someone caught him prowling about at night they might���

�I should jolly well think they would!�

�And besides, he doesn�t want to keep it a secret, festering. He would rather people laughed at him.�

�Laugh!� I repeated. �I can�t see that it�s a laughing matter.�

�No, it isn�t really. It all goes back to old �dipus, I expect. Most men suffer from that, more or less. I expect you do, Hugo.�

�Me?� I protested. �My father died before I was born. How could I have killed him?�

�You don�t understand,� said Nesta, pityingly. �But what I wanted to say was, if you should hear an unusual noise at night���

�Yes?�

�Or happen to see somebody walking about���

�Yes?�

�You�ll know it�s nothing to be alarmed at. It�s just Victor, taking what he calls his safety precautions.�

�I�ll count three before I fire,� I said.

The west coast of Cornwall is celebrated for the rugged grandeur of its scenery, rudely hewn into bold buttresses, reverberating caverns and boulder-strewn coves by that tireless sculptor, the Atlantic Ocean. At intervals along this granite rampart are breaks in the formidable coastline where beaches of smooth, firm sand, spangled with delicate shells and backed by marram-bound dunes, form a grateful contrast to the stern cliffs on either hand. In a comparatively sheltered corner at the southern end of one of these bays huddles the hamlet and harbour of Tribbens Cove, the inhabitants of which eke out an existence by fishing for pilchard, pollack and mackerel, by maintaining unkempt fowls of uncertain pedigree, and, in the summer months, by providing visitors with teas, plain or cream, and crab or lobster salads.

From the cluster of cottages clinging limpet-like to the steep hillside, two or three footpaths and a road lead up to the �church town�, over three hundred feet higher than the Cove. The church town consists of rows of granite-built houses along each side of the main street, a general store and post office, an inn, a square-towered church which is a landmark for many miles across the moors, and the inevitable non-conformist chapel.

In one of the more pretentious of the houses, distinguished by bow windows which command a view along the street in both directions, there lived Miss Harriet Hendra, known as Aunt Harry to her numerous nephews and nieces, who was regarded as rather superior in social status by reason of her father having been a well-to-do mining �captain�. As the local lady bountiful and convener of the ladies� sewing meeting, the old lady was held in affectionate regard.

Although the churches may dominate the landscape, in Cornwall it is the chapels that dominate the hearts of the people. The social life of the fisherfolk and farmers centres in the chapel, and the various official posts in the chapel society are as eagerly coveted by the ambitious as political advancement or ecclesiastical preferment in more exalted spheres. This too often leads to jealous rivalry and heartburning ill calculated to further the spiritual welfare of the contestants. In petty personal aspirations, the cardinal precepts which it is the object of a religious organization to inculcate tend to be forgotten, so the chapel may deteriorate into a hotbed of rancour and bitterness ill becoming those who call themselves Christians.

The smallness of the chapel community at Tribbens tended to intensify and bring to a focus any jealous animosities. In the years immediately following the first world war, the two most prominent men in the chapel were John Trevithal, a married fisherman who lived down at the Cove, and William Thomas Polhigey, a bachelor of some forty summers, the owner of Penavern Farm, some two miles away across the moor. The rivalry between these two was of almost lifelong standing. The fatal spark had been kindled when, at the age of five, Johnny Trevithal was given a bigger book than Willy Polhigey, aged six, for a Sunday school prize, and was fanned into a flame destined to consume them both when seven-year-old Willy was selected to recite in preference to Johnny at the Sunday school anniversary celebrations.

Throughout youth and early manhood their mutual antipathy grew as their religious activities increased. Polhigey became a Sunday school teacher before Trevithal, but the latter was the first to be honoured as a sidesman. Polhigey was a fully-accredited local preacher while Trevithal was still �on trial�, but the latter anticipated him in being promoted class-leader. So on through the gamut of chapel offices: the glory of each fresh eminence attained by Polhigey�� poor steward, chapel steward, society steward�� would be tarnished by the advancement of his rival along the heavenly path�� his success as a speaker in the society class, his eloquence at prayer meetings, or his popularity as a preacher. The soul of each man became shrivelled to a cinder by the scorching flame of their jealous ambition, and in their hearts there lurked a bitter hatred which would have sorely astounded the weaker brethren, accustomed to look up to these twin pillars of the faith. Outwardly, however, all was harmony. Only Mrs�Trevithal suspected the existence of this mordant canker of the soul.

The most responsible office normally tenable by a layman is that of circuit steward, a position of dignity and importance second only to that of the minister. In the Tribbens circuit this office chanced to fall vacant in the early summer of the year 19�, and so a new officer had to be appointed at the June quarterly meeting. The nomination of circuit steward lies with the superintendent minister, whose nominee is usually accepted without question by those entitled to vote at the quarterly meeting. It so happened that the minister in charge of the circuit at this time was on particularly friendly terms with John Trevithal, whom he regarded, largely on his exceptional ability as a preacher, as being a most capable and worthy man, eminently fitted for high office. There can be no question that the minister was quite justified in his selection so far as his knowledge of the man went, though had he been gifted with the power of insight into the mind, his choice must have been different. The nomination was duly put forward and acclaimed, whereupon Trevithal entered upon his duties and dignity as circuit steward.

This appointment came as the breaking point for Polhigey, who had long aspired to the honour of this office. As the meeting adjourned, placing a hand on Trevithal�s shoulder, he warmly congratulated him on his preferment. �John, the minister could not have made a better choice, we all hoped and expected it would be you, and your old friend must be the first to wish you well.�

�Thank you kindly, William. I value nobody�s opinion more highly than yours,� replied the new circuit steward, �and I know I can safely rely on your wise guidance and support if any problems arise.� But there was no warmth in either man�s regard as they bade each other goodnight.

As he drove back to his lonely farm on that peaceful June evening, between flowery hedges and across the sunlit moor, the demon of murder entered into the heart of William Thomas Polhigey.

In August the pilchard shoals migrate northwards from the Mediterranean, where they have passed their youth as sardines, and travel to the coasts of Cornwall. Then comes a period of intense activity on the part of the fishermen, for the season for reaping this harvest of the sea is short, though the fish are abundant for a few weeks. The boats are constantly at sea, with brief intervals ashore for rest and disposing of the catch, and rough indeed must be the weather to render the pilchard fishers idle. But however plentiful the fish, no fisherman will stay out later than midnight on Saturday. The boats might be surrounded by fish begging to be caught, but on Saturday evening nets are hauled in and the boats make for port. Were the Sabbath to be broken, there is no telling what dire misfortune might overtake the ungodly fisherman. So Sunday is a day of rest for men and fish, and the boats ride idle in the little harbour until the early hours of Monday morning.

Shortly before midnight on the second Sunday in the month of August following the quarterly meeting at which Trevithal had received his appointment, a watcher by the harbour, had there been one, would have observed a stealthy figure making his way cautiously down the steep path to the Cove, past the sleeping cottages, and on to the sands, left bare at ebb tide. Very circumspectly this nocturnal prowler approaches, peering circumspectly around, and clutching some article concealed beneath his coat. He makes his way to one of the boats left stranded by the quayside and clambers inside. His work is skilfully and swiftly accomplished. A faint sound of sawing may reach the slumbering herring gulls on the seawall, but no other noise betrays the fell handiwork in Trevithal�s boat. His design executed, the carpenter of darkness emerges and makes his way back up the hillside. His footprints are soon obliterated by the flowing tide. So well has his evil task been done that in calm weather no trace of his workmanship will be detected�� but in the stress of a rough sea, woe betide him who trusts his life to that once staunch craft that has rendered such true and faithful service!

The watchdog at Penavern challenged as someone entered the farmyard at about one o�clock that morning, but crept quietly back into his kennel on recognizing his master�s footstep. Not for him to wonder what business took his lord abroad at that unholy hour.

Throughout the following week little or no wind disturbed the unruffled ocean, seldom so still even in the calmest weather. Using their auxiliary engines, the boats ventured much farther out than usual, and Trevithal and his two partners made long trips for such small craft and returned heavily laden.

On Saturday evening the weather broke, sooner than the forecasts had predicted. A strong north-westerly breeze sprang up, rising rapidly to near gale force, and some of the boats had difficulty in making harbour. Considerable anxiety was felt when two of the boats, one of which was Trevithal�s, failed to return as usual before midnight, and apprehension increased when no sign of them had been reported up to Sunday evening, the storm still raging with unabated violence.

That evening, Trevithal was supposed to preach in Tribbens chapel, but as he failed to return, Polhigey took his place. One or two odd events occurred during the service, which were related to me later by Miss Hendra, whose veracity is unimpeachable.

A social call on Miss Hendra is a �must� whenever one is in West Cornwall, and she was entertaining me to tea one summer afternoon a year after the period of this narrative. From her parlour window there was a view of the wrinkled sea, glittering in the sunshine, the Lighthouse Rocks off the headland, and a smudge on the horizon which was the Isles of Scilly. The parlour was a Victorian museum piece, unchanged since Miss Hendra�s parents� time. On one wall hung a portrait of the late �Captain� Hendra, in the bay window flourished a luxuriant maidenhair fern, and a stuffed raven of sinister aspect stood on the sideboard. On the table were displayed a plate of Cornish splits, another of saffron buns, and an imposing Dundee cake as a centre piece. It was made quite clear, however, that this cake was to be admired but on no account to be cut, as it had been made for a sewing meeting tea.

�You know I always go to chapel twice every Sunday,� said Miss Hendra, �and sit in the same pew, the third from the back on the south side. Well, it was shortly after seven o�clock, towards the end of his sermon, that I noticed the preacher hesitate, become confused and turn pale. His eyes were fixed on the Trevithals� pew, which is just behind my own, near the door. As the fisherman�s family were down at the Cove awaiting his return, the pew was unoccupied. Mr�Polhigey gazed at the pew for some seconds with a scared expression, then lamely concluded his address and gave out the closing hymn:

�As the verses of this great mariners� hymn were sung with more than usual fervour, the man in the pulpit grew more and more agitated and stared continuously, with a distraught expression, at the Trevithals� pew. At the same time there seemed to be a strong smell of seawater or seaweed, and as I left my pew at the end of the service I was surprised to see damp patches on the seat and floor of the Trevithals� pew, as though someone in soaking wet clothes had just been sitting there. By the close of the hymn Mr�Polhigey was so overcome that he could with difficulty pronounce the blessing. He straightway hurried from the chapel, speaking to no one, and set off alone across the moor to Penavern.�

Another odd incident was related by Mr�Penrose, who kept the village shop-cum-post office, which thus was a natural clearing-house for local gossip. �A courting couple,� so he told me, �returning arm-in-arm the same evening along a fieldpath which passes Penavern, met Polhigey together with another man, who both were certain was Trevithal, walking swiftly from the direction of Tribbens. Their greeting was not returned, and they thought Polhigey looked far from well, while the girl added that there was something wrong about Trevithal too. However, they were forced to the conclusion that they must have made a mistake in identity so far as the latter was concerned, when they heard the tidings brought back from sea next day.�

On Monday morning the wind dropped, and soon after dawn the coastguard espied a fishing-boat passing the Lighthouse Rocks, making heavy weather of it. He phoned down to the Cove, and the entire village was on the quay to greet the returning fishermen. It was not Trevithal�s boat, but the other missing one. Besides her own crew, there disembarked Trevithal�s two partners. It was at once apparent that a tragedy had occurred out on those stormy wastes, and there was a poignant scene, as Trevithal�s family had assembled on the quay. When the men from the boat, who were exhausted with fatigue and exposure, were in a fit state to give an account of themselves, they related how the sea had claimed its victim.

When the wind rose on Saturday evening both boats were fishing close together some ten miles south of the Runnel Stone. On the first signs of a change in the weather they hauled in their nets and made for home. The sea quickly became rough and choppy, and as the freshening breeze was dead against them they made slow progress. When the petrol for the auxiliary engines began to run short their plight became serious. Throughout that night and next day they struggled grimly on, and by seven o�clock on Sunday evening were rounding Landmark Head. All of a sudden there were shouts and cries for help from Trevithal�s boat, which seemed to be in difficulties. In a remarkably short time it sank and two of of its occupants were struggling in the sea. Trevithal himself became entangled in the rigging and was dragged under as the craft foundered. His two companions were with great difficulty rescued by the other boat.

The men were quite unable to account for the disaster. It is true the sea was uncomfortably rough, but there was no sign of undue strain. The tight little ship had weathered worse gales in her time. Without warning, a rending crack had been heard under the forward locker and, before they had realized that there was anything amiss, water poured in. Within what seemed like a few seconds they were swimming for their lives. The only suggestion they could offer to explain this baffling mystery was that there must have been an unsuspected weakness in the planks somewhere.

For what follows I again rely on the testimony of the estimable Miss Hendra, whose word no one who has had the privilege of acquaintanceship with that lady would ever dream of doubting.

�On the Sunday evening after the tragic death of John Trevithal,� Miss Hendra told me, �as I was entering the chapel, I chanced to meet Mr�Polhigey in the vestibule. He seemed much changed since I saw him a week before and had a haggard, careworn look. I inquired if he was quite well, as he had appeared out of sorts in the pulpit last Sunday. He started at this and asked brusquely what I meant. What had I seen? This struck me as an odd sort of question, but as the man was clearly upset about something, I replied evasively that perhaps the heat had been too much for him�� forgetting for the moment that the previous Sunday had been cool and stormy. Mr�Polhigey affirmed emphatically that there was nothing whatever the matter with him, and we entered the chapel together.

�Throughout the service I kept a watchful eye on Mr�Polhigey, who sat some pews in front on the other side of the aisle. He was evidently ill at ease, and kept turning round to glance at the Trevithal pew, where sat the mourning widow and her children, possibly finding some consolation for their grief in the publicity it brought them. The minister, he on whose recommendation John Trevithal had been appointed circuit steward, preached an eloquent and emotional obituary sermon, extolling the virtues of the deceased, which reduced most of the feminine part of the congregation to tears.

�Seven o�clock passed, and a thoroughly miserable time was being enjoyed by all, when the door of Mr�Polhigey�s pew opened for no apparent reason. Immediately an alarming change came over the farmer. He turned abruptly half round, his face assumed an expression of startled horror, and he slid along to the other end of the seat. For the remainder of the sermon he sat crouched in the far corner in a state bordering on collapse, his face buried in his hands. When the closing hymn was announced,

he rose hurriedly, left his pew as though he were pushing past somebody sitting there, and almost ran out of the chapel. The pew door, slammed behind him, swung open again. That was the last occasion but one that William Thomas Polhigey was seen in Tribbens chapel.�

The following Thursday, John Trevithal�s body was washed ashore at Gazells Cove, and was brought back to Tribbens in Carrallack�s van, passing Penavern on the way. The carrier told me how he drew rein on seeing Mr�Polhigey, whom he knew well, leaning on the farmyard gate, and prepared to enter in anticipation of refreshment, but such an alarming change came over the farmer when he learnt of the grim burden in the vehicle, that he was glad to betake himself and his solitary passenger off at top speed.

The funeral took place in the chapel cemetery at Tribbens on Saturday afternoon. As it was not customary in those days for women to attend funerals, my source for what took place is the chapel-keeper, Ned Chirgwin. The entire chapel community, including Polhigey, who seemed to have grown into an old man in the past fortnight, was gathered in the graveyard. The farmer�s face was drawn and careworn, and there was a furtive, hunted expression in his normally bold and fearless eyes. The committal service proceeded with all its sad solemnity, and the coffin was lowered gently into the grave.

As Tom Skewjack, the sexton, threw the ritual handful of soil on top of the lid, Polhigey uttered a strangled cry and pointed wildly across the open grave. �Look, look, he�s calling me! He�s beckoning me in with him! Oh, my God!� and pushing his way frantically through the throng of mourners, he fled as one demented from the cemetery and tore headlong down the road.

That evening, shortly after seven o�clock, as old Tom was giving the finishing pats to the mound over Trevithal�s grave, he saw two men approaching at a brisk walk. They entered through the gate which gave access to both the graveyard and the chapel. The sexton dropped his spade and fled from that consecrated ground as though from the gates of hell, for one of those men was Polhigey, while the other was John Trevithal.

When Ned Chirgwin entered the chapel early on Sunday to get ready for the morning service, he was astounded to find Polhigey kneeling with bowed head at the communion rail. He received no reply when he addressed the crouching figure, which was scarcely remarkable�� for the farmer was cold and rigid in death. When Ned had summoned assistance from neighbours, the body was removed. It was then seen that a saw was grasped tightly in the right hand, and where the dead man had knelt there lay a square of board, such as might have been cut out of the bottom of a boat.

As I thanked Miss Hendra for her hospitality and bade farewell on that summer evening, she remarked, �Perhaps the oddest thing of all is that Mr�Polhigey, in a will dated a week before he died, left all he possessed to John Trevithal�s widow.�

Martin Drake was considered to be clairvoyant from a little child. At the age of ten he had dreamed of a drowning fatality in the brook on his uncle�s farm, and the very next morning they had found his grandfather lying face downwards in the ditch. His clothes were sodden with water, and he was dead, as Martin had seen him in his dream.

Two years later Martin, in the cold grey dawn in his waking hours, had seen, as clearly as if it had happened before him, the horse on which Lord Karney was riding stumble and fall, with its rider thrown under it. And when they picked him up Lord Karney�s neck was found to be broken.

Martin�s mother, susceptible to her boy�s gifts, which were looked upon with disfavour by his father, who gave all his affection to his firstborn Michael, took the vision as an evil omen. She had not been through the tragedy of her father�s suicide for nothing. She rushed down to the Manor, asked to see Lord Karney himself, and begged him not to ride to hounds that morning. He scoffed at the superstition of his steward�s wife who listened to the precocious prattling of her younger boy, and rode to the meet in the market-place. Three hours later his horse fell clumsily and rolled over upon its master. They carried Lord Karney home upon a hurdle�� Karney with his broken neck and his mouth gaping. And Martin had felt a strange thrill of pleasure when he had been told. It was as he had predicted.

He became a person of some importance in the village after that. The schoolmaster, who dabbled in Spiritualism, suggested that Martin was mediumistic. The vision was, in his opinion, not due to the boy�s clairvoyance, but to some spirit control. The child should be watched. Eminent research students who were investigating psychic phenomena should have an opportunity of talking with him. Mr�Drake, however, was indignant, and refused to consider �such an infamous piece of humbug�. His wife�s pleading left him adamant. The boy was a prig, and should be thrashed until he dropped his posing. And, when old women from the village tried to encourage Martin to have premonitions about themselves and their own concerns, Mr�Drake let it be understood that there was to be no more nonsensical talk of the kind. Perhaps his anger merely veiled his fear. Nothing Martin ever did could please his father, but any suggestion of the boy�s supernatural powers merely infuriated him.

And so during the next few years Martin�s clairvoyance�� call it what you will�� was discouraged, although his mother, convinced of her boy�s uncanny powers, secretly regaled the ladies� sewing meeting with talk that brought a gleam to the eyes of the least susceptible and made the superstitious experience a curdling of the blood.

When he was twenty-four Martin�s father died. Mrs�Drake, a sensitive woman who had experienced a good deal of sorrow, lived on in the old house, because Michael had followed in his father�s footsteps and been made steward of the present Lord Karney�s estate.

A will, made several years before his death, left the entire estate to the elder son, since the widow had money of her own. In due course the will was proved, and Mrs�Drake grieved secretly because the bitterness of her husband for her younger son had lived on in his heart throughout his life, had outlived his body. It was as if the father�s evil, bitter spirit towards her boy�� their boy�� brooded about the house, even stronger in death than it had been in life. Once she spoke to Martin about it.

�I couldn�t understand your father as he got older,� she said. �When I married him I saw only the gentle side of his nature. He was loving and kind. But he faced all kinds of trouble, and he couldn�t weather the storms. He was a bitter man�� a cruel man. He did you a grievous wrong, my boy. He hated you in his lifetime, and his hate lives on. If he has any consciousness in that place where the dead go he may come to be sorry. Perhaps it will trouble him. I can�t rest at night in the room where we used to sleep. Perhaps you wouldn�t mind changing bedrooms with me, my boy. It�s silly, I know.�

�Your nerves are going to pieces. Mother,� he said. �I�ll change rooms with you.�

He did as she bade him, and he too had many sleepless nights.

He gave them the shock of their lives at breakfast-time on the anniversary of his father�s death.

�I couldn�t sleep last night,� he told them. �I knew there was something strange about the place. I knew, too, what I should see. It was that old power working in me. I dreaded to see my father.�

His mother shuddered, her lips trembling, a strange sound whistling through her teeth. It was what she, too, had feared. But she dreaded still more that anyone should ever learn her secret, should know that her love for her man had slowly turned to hate and dread. She had trembled before him in his lifetime. She feared him still in death. It was terrible that, having hated him so much, she had been forced to give him her body. The horror of it had seared her mind. But what was her boy saying now?

She looked at him, drawing his hand through his long, straight brown hair. His face looked distorted, as she watched him through narrowing eyes.

�I dreaded seeing him,� Martin said in strange, thick tones. �He hated me so. I could feel his hate wrapping round me. The air seemed to be full of it. I couldn�t breathe. I thought I should choke where I lay.�

�You must have had a nightmare,� his brother interjected, but his mother hung upon every word, and then she turned her face aside and put her hand over her eyes so that they should not look into her soul.

�It was awful,� he went on. �It was like a poisoned gas in the air, physical as well as spiritual, if you see what I mean. I tried to sit up and then fell back exhausted. I was sick to the heart and horribly afraid. And I can remember those trivial things which do stand out on days like this. I heard the cuckoo-clock in the hall, just as I heard it a few minutes before he died. I can remember noticing the awful ticking of my own watch, which lay on the dressing-table beside me and ticked with a terrifying insistence, seeming to get louder and louder.

�I could hear the leaves tapping on the window, and the head of Abraham Lincoln on the table looked strange in the moonlight. Even the knobs on the bedstead, with my dressing-gown thrown over the rail, were unnerving. I shall never forget it�� the insistence upon my consciousness of all these things; and yet I knew that something terrifying was going to happen, that I was a prisoner, numb with cold, yet suffocating slowly.�

�Go on!� his mother screamed, and they were both shocked by her voice, hollow and toneless. But Martin�s voice was deep, and what he said seemed inevitable. People might cry, batter themselves against Fate; these things were true, unalterable.

�I noticed the Thing near the window at first. Then it moved sickeningly towards the cupboard as though it could not see, but must feel its way. And then it swung round and faced me. And I saw my father�s face with hollows where the eyes used to be�� like a skull.�

�A skull! Oh, my God!�

�The face was white as he never was even in death. I can�t remember what clothes he had, or if he had any, but he wrung his hands, and a terrible dry sobbing came from his lips. I tried to scream out, but I couldn�t make a sound. I sat up in bed and clutched the sheets. And slowly I could understand what he meant. It was a voice all right, but the words were strange�� like someone trying to speak who has been dumb for years.�

�Oh, God!�

�And he shot out one hand towards me, and although it didn�t touch me I had the sensation of something icy-cold. �I�ve done you a wrong, my boy,� he said. �Look in my old coat�.�.�. open the family Bible. You�ll find it in Genesis.� And then he turned aside and wailed and wrung his hands.

�I watched him as he went; he seemed to merge into the dusk. He was like light�� thin, white, transparent�� but he seemed to fade away into the darkness, or else became lost in the moonbeam. I got out of bed when I could. I wanted to say something, but I couldn�t find him. I got back into bed, and cold sweat poured off me.�

�I don�t wonder,� said Michael, shocked to the depths but trying to make a pretence of calm.

�What do you think he meant?� cried the mother.

Martin�s long fingers played nervously with his lips.

�How should I know?�

�You say he mentioned his old coat?�

He nodded.

�I wanted to give it to Johnson two days before he died,� said the widow. �It was so shabby, but he would cling to it. There was a scene.�

�Where is it now?� asked Michael. �Couldn�t you, with your powers, tell us that, Martin, old boy?�

Mrs�Drake spoke quickly before her elder son could notice that his brother was not prepared to reply.

�In the cupboard with all his other old clothes. I left them untouched after he died.�

�He went towards the cupboard first,� said Martin.

They looked at each other significantly, as people do when they think they have found a clue.

�We must go up at once,� said Mrs�Drake.

Michael took her arm. Martin followed them.

They entered the bedroom where she had known so many unhappy nights. She knocked against the dressing-table and bruised one hip in her hurry. Then she crossed to the built-in cupboard beside the fireplace and flung open the doors. Some old clothes of her own, three or four pairs of shoes, an old hat or two met her gaze. She took them out, threw them upon the floor, took down her husband�s frock-coat which had done duty at funerals, and, though very old, was not to be despised even now. Then she produced a dressing-gown, and lastly, from among a number of old garments, the coat in question. The outside pockets gave no clue. Then as Michael, sitting on the floor, ran his fingers over it, he heard a crackling, and felt something in a breast-pocket. He took out a thin sheet of notepaper.

Kneeling on the floor together among the debris of the wardrobe, they read it.

�Just as he said,� put in Martin.

�You didn�t say anything about a will,� said his brother.

�He didn�t exactly mention the word. But I remember him saying look in Genesis.�

�Where is it. Mother?�

�It�s such a heavy book,� said Mrs�Drake. �We never use it now. It�s got all your ages written upon the flyleaf. I remember your father�s Cousin Jane would do it.�

�Silly old girl!� said Michael.

�What does it matter?� sighed Martin.

Mrs�Drake went carefully through a pile of books in the cupboard, but could find no trace of the family Bible. They found it at last in the bottom drawer of the chiffonier in the dining-room. And between the pages of Genesis they found the will. It had been drawn up three years before and witnessed by Cousin Jane and Henry Deane. The premonition of death had evidently come to the strong man not a few days before he actually died, as they had at first supposed, but during a severe attack of influenza three years earlier.

�I remember now he was very nervous about himself,� said the widow.

�Strong men always are when they�re ill,� said Martin.

In the will the property was to be divided equally between the two brothers.

�I�m glad your father didn�t forget you, after all,� went on Mrs�Drake.

�But the will�s already been proved,� said Michael.

�The last will must stand,� his mother interposed. �You�ll share and share alike now. It�s only just. Your father regretted his bitterness�� and to think I never knew!�

Her eyes strayed to the printed page of the Bible.

�And Esau said unto his father, Hast thou but one blessing, my father? Bless me, even me also, O my father. And Esau lifted up his voice, and wept.�

It was the poignant story of Jacob and Esau. Her husband must have read that when he was ill. It had brought him to a new state of mind.

Walk down any busy street. Sit in a crowded restaurant. Take a seat in a well-filled cinema. In particular, board a packed train. The chances are that somewhere in the immediate vicinity is a ghost. An actual, visible, audible, and�� heaven help us�� a solid ghost.

This is an unpalatable truth, that would be greeted with derision were it widely broadcast. Certainly, Percy Fortesque would have become gravely embarrassed if such a possibility had been presented to him as an undeniable fact, his assumption being he was either in the presence of a crank or a madman.

He was therefore totally unprepared when he saw the face of his dead wife staring at him from a window of the five-forty-five train which was standing at Platform 16 at Waterloo Station. She was sitting in the corner seat, wearing that blank, long-suffering look he remembered so well, and her steel-rimmed glasses reflected the light from an overhead platform lamp, so that they resembled miniature suns.

Percy�s heart gave one violent thump and the shock froze his reasoning powers into icy splinters of fear, so that he could only keep walking and finally seat himself in the compartment next to the driver�s cab. Then his brain gradually resumed its natural function and thoughts came tripping over one another in a vain effort to present a rational theory.

�That woman could not possibly have been Doris.� He repeated this comforting assertion over and over again, and was delighted to note a marked improvement in his morale. He then moved on to list a number of excellent reasons why a defunct wife could not possibly be travelling on the five-forty-five from Waterloo. �One, she�s dead. I was with her when she died. She said: �Oh, dear,� and died. Two, she was cremated and her ashes sprinkled under a rosebush.� Percy was very pleased now that he had decided on cremation. The fire was so final. Old-fashioned burial meant the component parts were still around. The bones still in existence. The skull intact. And�.�.�. goodness gracious�.�.�. sealed up in a wooden box, she could still be in one piece. But the cremation oven disintegrated; it was as though she had never been. She did not exist.

Then his nasty, inquiring brain recalled the memory of that face framed in a train window and began to go over the salient points. She had been wearing that awful blue hat that Percy had so detested; and�.�.�. oh, good Lord�.�.�. there had been that little wen on the left side of her chin. The comforting thought of a Doris double began to fade. Surely the arm of coincidence could not be that long? But what was the alternative? Percy shifted uneasily and a dour-faced woman to his left shot him a suspicious glance. A Doris-ghost on a rush-hour train? An apparition on the five-forty-five? Percy giggled and the dour-faced woman tried to edge away.

When he alighted at Richmond he had to have a second look. His heart once again began to beat unnaturally fast and anticipation made icy fingers to trail down his spine�� but he had to seek reassurance. Surely a second look would prove beyond doubt that he had been mistaken. Been deceived by a trick of light. Deluded by a quirk of imagination.

He walked slowly along the platform, daring to look into each window, and disinterested faces stared back at him. Newspapers were rustled, one saucy-eyed girl winked at him, but so far there was no sign of the face. A whistle blew, a voice shouted: �Right, Charlie!� and the train began to draw away. Percy stopped and faced the train as the carriages flashed by. Then, just as hope was maturing into blessed relief, he had a glimpse of Doris�s face. Blue hat, steel-rimmed glasses, wen and all. He had the impression that just as the carriage tore out of his line of view, she turned her head so as to get a last look at him.

It really was too much. He fainted on the platform and a porter revived him with a cup of tea from the station buffet.

�Are you well?�

�Quite well.�

Big cupboard or wardrobe.