 Section 1 of A Master of Mysteries. Introduction. It so happened that the circumstances of fate allowed me to follow my own bent in the choice of a profession. Among my earliest youth the weird, the mysterious had an irresistible fascination for me. Having private means I resolved to follow my unique inclinations, and I am now well known to all my friends as a professional exposure of ghosts, and one who can clear away the mysteries of most haunted houses. Up to the present I have never had cause to regret my choice, but at the same time I cannot too strongly advise anyone who thinks of following my example to hesitate before engaging himself in tasks that entail time, expense, thankless labour, often ridicule, and not seldom great personal danger. To explain by the application of science phenomena attributed to spiritual agencies has been the work of my life. I have naturally gone through strange difficulties in accomplishing my mission. I propose in these pages to relate the histories of certain queer events enveloped at first in mystery and apparently dark with portent, but nevertheless when grappled with in the true spirit of science capable of explanation. CHAPTER I. THE MYSTERY OF THE CIRCULAR CHAMBER. One day in late September I received the following letter from my lawyer. My dear Belle, I shall esteem it a favour if you can make it convenient to call upon me at ten o'clock tomorrow morning on a matter of extreme privacy. At the appointed hour I was shown into Mr. Edgecombe's private room. I had known him for years. We were, in fact, old friends, and I was startled now by the look of worry, not to say anxiety, on his usually serene features. You are the very man I want, Belle, he cried. Sit down, I have a great deal to say to you. There is a mystery of a very grave nature which I hope you may solve for me. It is in connection with a house said to be haunted. He fixed his bright eyes on my face as he spoke. I sat perfectly silent, waiting for him to continue. In the first place, he resumed, I must ask you to regard the matter as confidential. Certainly, I answered. You know, he went on, that I have often laughed at your special hobby, but it occurred to me yesterday that the experience you have lived through may enable you to give me valuable assistance in this difficulty. I will do my best for you, Edgecombe, I replied. He lay back in his chair, folding his hands. The case is briefly as follows. He began. It is connected with the family of the Wentworths. The only son, Archibald, the artist, has just died under most extraordinary circumstances. He was, as you probably know, one of the most promising watercolor painters of the younger school, and his pictures in this year's academy met with universal praise. He was the heir to the Wentworth estates, and his death has caused a complication of claims from a member of a collateral branch of the family who, when the present squire dies, is entitled to the money. This man has spent the greater part of his life in Australia, is badly off, and evidently belongs to a rowdy set. He has been to see me two or three times, and I must say frankly that I am not taken with his appearance. Had he anything to do with the death, I interrupted. Nothing whatever, as you will quickly perceive, Wentworth has been accustomed from time to time to go alone on sketching tours to different parts of the country. He has tramped about on foot and visited odd out of the way nooks searching for subjects. He never took much money with him, and always traveled as an apparently poor man. A month ago he started off alone on one of these tours. He had a handsome commission from Barlow and Company, picture dealers in the Strand. He was to paint certain parts of the River Moran, and although he certainly did not need money, he seemed glad of an object for a good ramble. He parted with his family in the best of health and spirits, and wrote to them from time to time. But a week ago they heard the news that he had died suddenly at an inn on the Moran. There was, of course, an inquest and an autopsy. Dr. Miles Gordon, the Wentworth's consulting physician, was telegraphed for, and was present at the post-mortem examination. He is absolutely puzzled to account for the death. The medical examination showed Wentworth to be an apparently perfect health at the time. There was no lesion to be discovered upon which to base a different opinion, all the organs being healthy. Neither was there any trace of poison or marks of violence. The coroner's verdict was that Wentworth died of syncope, which, as you know, perhaps is a synonym for an unknown cause. The inn where he died is a very lonely one, and has the reputation of being haunted. The landlord seems to bear a bad character, although nothing has ever been proved against him. But a young girl who lives at the inn gave evidence which at first startled everyone. She said, at the inquest, that she had earnestly warned Wentworth not to sleep in the haunted room. She had scarcely told the coroner so before she fell to the floor in an epileptic fit. When she came to herself she was sullen and silent, and nothing more could be extracted from her. The old man, the innkeeper, explained that the girl was half-witted, but he did not attempt to deny that the house had the reputation of being haunted, and said that he had himself begged Wentworth not to put up there. Well, that is about the whole of the story. The coroner's inquest seems to deny the evidence of foul play, but I have my very strong suspicions. What I want you to do is to ascertain if they are correct. Will you undertake the case? I will certainly do so, I replied. Please let me have any further particulars and a written document to show, in case of need, that I am acting under your directions. Edgecomb agreed to this, and I soon afterwards took my leave. The case had the features of an interesting problem, and I hope that I should prove successful in solving it. That evening I made my plans carefully. I would go into Blankshire early on the following morning, assuming for my purpose the character of an amateur photographer. Having got all necessary particulars from Edgecomb, I made a careful mental map of my operations. First of all I would visit a little village of the name of Harkhurst, and put up at the inn the Crown and Thistle. Here Wentworth had spent a fortnight when he first started on his commission to make drawings of the River Moran. I thought it likely that I should obtain some information there. Circumstances must guide me as to my further steps, but my intention was to proceed from Harkhurst to the Castle Inn, which was situated about six miles further up the river. This was the inn where the tragedy had occurred. This evening on the following day I arrived at Harkhurst. When my carriage drew up at the Crown and Thistle, the landlady was standing in the doorway. She was a buxom-looking dame with a kindly face. I asked for a bed. Certainly, sir, she answered. She turned with me into the little inn, and taking me upstairs showed me a small room, quite clean and comfortable, looking out on the yard. I said it would do capital-ly, and she hurried downstairs to prepare my supper. After this meal, which proved to be excellent, I determined to visit the landlord in the bar. I found him chatty and communicative. "'This is a lonely place,' he said, "'we don't often have a soul staying with us for a month at a time.' As he spoke, he walked to the door, and I followed him. The shades of night were beginning to fall, but the picturesqueness of the little hamlet could not but commend itself to me. "'And yet this is a lovely spot,' I said. "'I should have thought tourists would have thronged to it. It is at least an ideal place for photographers.' "'You're all right there, sir,' replied the man, and although we don't have company to stay in the inn, now and then we have a stray artist. "'It's not three weeks back,' he continued, "'that we had a gentleman like you, sir, only a bit younger, to stay with us for a week or two.' He was an artist, and drew from morning till night. Ah, poor fellow. "'Why do you say that?' I asked. "'I have good cause, sir. Their wife,' continued the landlord, looking over his shoulder at Mrs. Johnson, the landlady, who now appear on the scene. "'This gentleman has been asking me questions about our visitor, Mr. Wentworth. But perhaps we ought not to inflict such a dismal story upon him to-night.' "'Pray do,' I said. "'What you have already hinted at arouses my curiosity. Why should you pity Mr. Wentworth?' "'He is dead, sir,' said the landlady in a solemn voice. I gave a pretended start, and she continued. "'And it was all his own fault. Ah, dear! It makes me almost cry to think of it. He was as nice a gentleman as I ever set eyes on, and so strong, hearty, and pleasant. Well, sir, everything went well, until one day he said to me, "'I'm about to leave you, Mrs. Johnson. I'm going to a little place called the Castle Inn, further up the Moran.' "'The Castle Inn?' I cried. "'No, Mr. Wentworth, that you won't. Not if you value your life.' "'And why not?' he said, looking at me with as merry blue eyes as ever you saw in anybody's head. "'Why should I not visit the Castle Inn? I have a commission to make some drawings of that special bend in the river.' "'Well, then, sir,' I answered. "'If that is the case, you'll just have a horse and trap from here, and drive over as often as you want to, for the Castle Inn ain't a fit place for a Christian to put up at.' "'What do you mean?' he asked of me. "'It is said to be haunted, sir, and what does happen in that house the Lord only knows, but there's not been a visitor at the Inn for some years, not since Bailiff Holt came by his death.' "'Came by his death?' he asked. "'And how was that?' "'God knows, but I don't,' I answered. "'At the coroner's inquest it was said that he died from syncope, whatever that means, but the folks round here said it was fright. "'Mr. Wentworth just laughed at me. He didn't mind a word I said, and next day, sir, he was off, carrying his belongings with him. "'Well, and what happened?' I asked, seeing that she paused. "'What happened, sir? Just what I expected. Two days afterwards came the news of his death. Poor young gentleman. He died in the very room where Holt had breathed his last, and oh, if there wasn't a fuss and to-do, for it turned out that, although he seemed quite poor to us, with little or no money, he was no end of a swell, and had rich relations, and big estates coming to him. And, of course, there was a coroner's inquest and all the rest, and great doctors came down from London, and our doctor Stanmore, who lives down the street, was sent for. And though they did all they could, and examined him as it were with a microscope, they could find no cause for death, and so they give it out that it was syncope, just as they did in the case of poor Holt. "'But, sir, it wasn't. It was fright, sheer fright. The place is haunted. It's a mysterious, dreadful house, and I only hope you won't have nothing to do with it.' She added a few more words, and presently left us. "'That's a strange story,' I said, turning to Johnson. Your wife has excited my curiosity. I should much like to get further particulars.' "'There don't seem to be anything more to tell, sir,' replied Johnson. "'It's true, what the wife says, that the Casaline has a bad name. It's not the first, no, nor the second death that has occurred there.' "'You mentioned your village doctor. Do you think he could enlighten me on the subject?' "'I am sure he would do his best, sir. He lives only six doors away in a red house. Maybe you wouldn't mind stepping down the street and speaking to him? "'You are sure he would not think it a liberty? Not he, sir. He'll only be too pleased to exchange a word with someone outside this sleepy little place.' "'Then I'll call on him,' I answered, and taking up my hat I strolled down the street. I was lucky in finding Dr. Stanmore at home, and the moment I saw his face I determined to take him into my confidence. "'The fact is this,' I said, when he had shaken hands with me. I should not dream of taking this liberty. Did I not feel certain that you could help me?' "'And in what way?' he asked, not stiffly, but with a keen inquiring, interested glance. "'I have been sent down from London to inquire into the Wentworth mystery,' I said. "'Is that so?' he said with a start. Then he continued gravely. "'I fear you have come on a wild goose chase. There was nothing discovered at the autopsy to account for the death. There were no marks on the body, and all the organs were healthy. I met Wentworth often when he was staying here, and he was as hearty and strong-looking a young man as I had ever come across. "'But the castle inn has a bad reputation,' I said. "'That is true. The people here are afraid of it. It is said to be haunted. But really, sir, you and I need not trouble ourselves about stupid reports of that sort. Old Bynloss, the landlord, has lived there for years, and there has never been anything proved against him. Is he alone?' "'No, his wife and a grandchild live there also.' "'A grandchild?' I said. "'Did not this girl give some startling evidence at the inquest?' "'Nothing of consequence,' replied Dr. Stanmore. She only repeated what Bynloss had already said himself, that the house was haunted, and that she had asked Wentworth not to sleep in the room. "'Has anything ever been done to explain the reason why this room is said to be haunted?' I continued. "'Not that I know of. Rats are probably at the bottom of it. But have not there been other deaths in the house? That is true. How many?' "'Well, I have myself attended to no less than three similar inquests.' "'And what was the verdict of the jury? In each case, the verdict was death from syncope. "'Which means, cause unknown,' I said, jumping impatiently to my feet. "'I wonder, Dr. Stanmore, that you are satisfied to leave the matter in such a state.' "'And pray, what can I do?' he inquired. "'I am asked to examine a body. I find all the organs in perfect health. I cannot trace the least appearance of violence, nor can I detect poison. What other evidence can I honestly give?' "'I can only say that I should not be satisfied,' I replied. "'I now wish to add that I have come down from London determined to solve this mystery. I shall put myself up at the Castle Inn.' "'Well?' said Dr. Stanmore, and sleep in the haunted room. "'Of course you don't believe in the ghost.' "'No, but I believe in foul play. Now, Dr. Stanmore, will you help me?' "'Most certainly, if I can. What do you wish me to do?' "'This. I shall go to the Castle Inn tomorrow. If at the end of three days I do not return here, will you go in search of me, and at the same time post this letter to Mr. Edgecomb, my London lawyer?' "'If you do not appear in three days, I'll kick up no end of a row,' said Dr. Stanmore. And, of course, post your letter.' Soon afterwards I shook hands with the doctor and left him. After an early dinner on the following day I parted with my good-natured landlord and his wife, and with my knapsack and Kodak strapped over my shoulders, started on my way. I took care to tell no one that I was going to the Castle Inn, and for this purpose doubled back through a wood, and so found the right road. The sun was nearly setting when at last I approached a broken-down signpost, on which, and half obliterated characters I could read the words, to the Castle Inn. I found myself now at the entrance of a small lane, which was evidently little frequented, as it was considerably grass-grown. From where I stood I could catch no sight of any habitation, but just at that moment a low, somewhat inconsequential laugh fell upon my ears. I turned quickly and saw a pretty girl, with bright eyes and a childish face, gazing at me with interest. I had little doubt that she was old Byneloss's granddaughter. What you kindly tell me, I asked, if this is the way to the Castle Inn? My remark evidently startled her. She made a bound forward, seized me by my hand, and tried to push me away from the entrance to the lane into the high road. Go away! she cried. We have no beds fit for gentlemen at the Castle Inn. Go! Go! she continued, and she pointed up the winding road. Her eyes were now blazing in her head, but I noticed that her lips trembled, and that very little would cause her to burst into tears. But I am tired and foot sore, I answered. I should like to be put up at the Inn for the night. Don't! she repeated. They'll put you into a room with a ghost. Don't go! Tain a place for gentlemen. Here she burst not into tears, but into a fit of high, shrill, almost idiotic laughter. She suddenly clapped one of her hands to her far head, and turning, flew almost as fast as the wind, down the narrow lane, and out of sight. I followed her quickly. I did not believe that the girl was quite as mad as she seemed, but I had little doubt that she had something extraordinary weighing on her mind. At the next turn I came in view of the Inn. It was a queer-looking old place, and I stopped for a moment to look at it. The house was entirely built of stone. There were two stories to the centre part, which was square, and at the four corners stood four round towers. The house was built right on the river, just below a large mill pond. I walked up to the door and pounded on it with my stick. It was shut, and looked as inhospitable as the rest of the place. After a moment's delay it was open two or three inches, and the surly face of an old woman peeped out. And what may you be wanting? she asked. A bed for the night, I replied. Can you accommodate me? She glanced suspiciously, first at me, and then at my camera. You're an artist, I make no doubt. She said, and we don't want no more of them here. She was about to slam the door in my face, but I pushed my foot between it and the lintel. I am easily pleased, I said. Can you not give me some sort of bed for the night? You had best have nothing to do with us, she answered. You go off to Harkhurst. They can put you up at the crown in Thistle. I have just come from there, I answered. As a matter of fact, I could not walk another mile. We don't want any visitors at the castle in, she continued. Here she peered forward and looked into my face. You had best be off, she repeated. They say the place is haunted. I uttered a laugh. You don't expect me to believe that, I said. She glanced at me from head to foot. Her face was ominously grave. You had best know all, sir, she said after a pause. Something happens in this house, and no living soul knows what it is, for they who have seen it have never yet survived to tell the tale. It's not more than a week back that a young gentleman came here. He was like you, bold as brass, and he too wanted a bed and would take no denial. I told him plain, and so did my man, that the place was haunted. He didn't believe no more than you mined. Well, he slept in the only room we have got for guests, and he, he died there. What did he die of, I asked. Right, was the answer, brief and laconic. Now do you want to come or not? Yes, I don't believe in ghosts. I want the bed, and I am determined to have it. The woman flung the door wide open. Don't say as I ain't warned you, she cried. Come in, if you must. She led me into the kitchen where a fire burned suddenly on the hearth. Sit you down, and I'll send for bimeloss, she said. I can only promise to give you a bed if bimeloss agrees. Liz, come along here this minute. A quick young step was heard in the passage, and the pretty girl whom I had seen at the top of the lane entered. Her eyes sought my face, her lips moved as if to say something, but no sound issued from them. Go and find your grandad, said the old woman. Tell him there is a gentleman here that wants a bed. Ask him what's to be done. The girl favored me with a long and peculiar glance, then turning on her heel she left the room. As soon as she did so the old woman peered forward and looked curiously at me. I am sorry here, Stan. Don't forget as I warned you. Remember this ain't a proper inn at all. Once it was a mill, but that was a for bimeloss day in mine. Gents would come in the summer and put up for the fishing, but then the story of the ghost got abroad, and lately we have no visitors to speak of. Only an odd one now and then, who ain't wanted. No, he ain't wanted. You'll see there was three desks here. Yes. She held up one of her skinny hands and began to count on her fingers. Yes, three up to the present. Three, that's it. Here comes bimeloss. A shuffling step was heard in the passage and an old man bent with age and wearing a long white beard entered the room. We have no beds for strangers, he said, speaking in an aggressive and loud tone. Hasn't the wife said so? We don't let out beds here. As that is the case you have no right to have that signpost at the end of the lane, I retorted. I am not in a mood to walk eight miles for a shelter in a country I know nothing about. Can you not put me up somehow? I've told the man everything, Sam, said the wife. He is just for all the world like young Mr. Wentworth and not a bit frightened. The old landlord came up and faced me. Look, you're here, he said. You stay on at your peril. I don't want you nor do the wife. Now is it yes or no? It is yes, I said. There's only one room you can sleep in. One room is sufficient. It's the one Mr. Wentworth died in. How did you best take up your traps and be off? No, I shall stay. Then there's no more to be said. A run, Liz, said the woman, and light the fire in the pallor. The girl left the room, and the woman, taking up a candle, said she would take me to the chamber where I was to sleep. She led me down a long and narrow passage, and then opening a door down two steps into the most extraordinary looking room I had ever seen. The walls were completely circular, covered with a paper of a staring grotesque pattern. A small iron bedstead projected into the middle of the room, which was uncarpeted except for a slip of matting beside it. A cheap deal wash handstand, a couple of chairs, and a small table with a blurred looking glass stood against the wall beneath a deep embrasure in which there was a window. This was evidently a room in one of the circular towers. I had never seen less inviting quarters. Air supper will be ready directly, sir, said the woman, and placing the candle on the little table she left me. The place felt damp and drafty, and the flame of the candle flickered about, causing the tallow to gutter to one side. There was no fireplace in the room, and above the walls converged to a point, giving the whole place the appearance of an enormous extinguisher. I made a hurried and necessarily limited toilet, and went into the parlor. I was standing by the fire, which was burning badly, when the door opened, and the girl Liz came in, bearing a tray in her hand. She laid the tray on the table, and came up softly to me. Fools, come to this house, she said, and you are one. Pray let me have my supper, and don't talk, I replied. I am tired and hungry, and want to go to bed. Liz stood perfectly still for a moment. Taint worth it, she said. Then, in a meditative voice, no, taint worth it, but I'll say no more. Folks will never be warned. Her grandmother's voice calling her caused her to bound from the room. My supper proved better than I had expected, and having finished it, I strolled into the kitchen, anxious to have a further talk with the old man. He was seated alone by the fire, a great mastiff lying at his feet. Can you tell me why the house is supposed to be haunted? I asked suddenly, stooping down to speak to him. How should I know? he cried hoarsely. The wife and me have been here twenty years, and have never seen nor heard anything, but for certain folks do die in the house. It's mortal unpleasant for me, for the doctors come along in the coroner, and there's an inquest and no end of fuss. The folks die, although no one has ever laid a finger on them. The doctors can't prove why they're dead, but dead they be. Well, there ain't no use saying any more. You are here, and maybe you'll pass the one night all right. I shall go to bed at once, I said, but I should like some candles. Can you supply me? The man turned and looked at his wife, who at that moment entered the kitchen. She went to the dresser, opened a wooden box, and taking out three or four tallow candles, put them into my hand. I rose, simulating a yawn. Good night, sir, said the old man. Good night. I wish you well. A moment later I had entered my bedroom, and having shut the door, proceeded to give it a careful examination. As far as I could make out, there was no entrance to the room except by the door, which was shaped to fit the circular walls. I noticed, however, that there was an unaccountable draught, and this I at last discovered came from below the oak wainscooting of the wall. I could not in any way account for the draught, but it existed to an unpleasant extent. The bed I further saw was somewhat peculiar. It had no casters on the four legs, which were let down about half an inch or so into sockets provided for them in the wooden floor. This discovery excited my suspicions still further. It was evident that the bed was intended to remain in a particular position. I saw that it directly faced the little window sunk deep into the thick wall, so that anyone in bed would look directly at the window. I examined my watch, found that it was past eleven, and placing both the candles on a tiny table near the bed, I lay down without undressing. I was on the alert to catch the slightest noise, but the hours dragged on and nothing occurred. In the house all was silence, and outside the splashing and churning of the water falling over the wheel came distinctly to my ears. I lay awake all night, but as morning dawned fell into an uneasy sleep. I awoke to see the broad daylight streaming in at the small window. Making a hasty toilet I went out for a walk, and presently came in to breakfast. It had been laid for me in the big kitchen, and the old man was seated by the hearth. Well, said the woman, I hope you slept comfortable, sir. I answered in the affirmative, and now perceived that old Beinloss and his wife were in the humour to be agreeable. They said that if I was satisfied with the room, I might spend another night at the inn. I told them that I had a great many photographs to take, and would be much obliged for the permission. As I spoke I looked round for the girl, Liz. She was nowhere to be seen. Where is your granddaughter? I asked of the old woman. She has gone away for the day, was the reply. It's too much for Liz to see strangers. She gets excited, and then the fits come on. What sort of fits? I can't tell what they're called, but they're bad, and weaken her poor thing. Liz ought never to be excited. Here Beinloss gave his wife a warning glance. She lowered her eyes, and going across to the range began to stir the contents of something in a saucepan. CHAPTER ONE PART TWO That afternoon I borrowed some lines from Beinloss, and taking an old boat which was moored to the bank of the mill pond, set off under the pretense of fishing for pike. The weather was perfect for the time of year. Waiting for my opportunity, I brought the boat up to land on the bank that dammed up the stream, and getting out walked along it in the direction of the mill wheel, over which the water was now rushing. As I observed it from this side of the bank, I saw that the tower in which my room was placed must at one time have been part of the mill itself, and I further noticed that the masonry was comparatively new, showing that alterations must have taken place when the house was abandoned as a mill and was turned into an inn. I clambered down the side of the wheel, holding onto the beams, which were green and slippery, and peered through the paddles. As I was making my examination, a voice suddenly startled me. What are you doing down there? I looked up. Old Beinloss was standing on the bank, looking down at me. He was alone, and his face was contorted with a queer mixture of fear and passion. I hastily hoisted myself up and stood beside him. What are you poking around down there for? He said, pushing his ugly old face into mine as he spoke. You fool! If you had fallen, you would have been drowned. No one could swim a stroke in that mill race. And then there would have been another death and all the old fuss over again. Look here, sir. We have the goodness to get out of the place. I don't want you here anymore. I intend to leave tomorrow morning, I answered in a pacifying voice, and I am really very much obliged to you for warning me about the mill. You had best not go near it again, he said in a menacing voice, and then he turned hastily away. I watched him as he climbed up a steep bank and disappeared from view. He was going in the opposite direction from the house. Seizing the opportunity of his absence, I once more approached the mill. Was it possible that Wentworth had been hurled into it? But had this been the case there would have been signs and marks on the body. Having reached the wheel, I clamored boldly down. It was now getting dusk, but I could see that a prolongation of the axle entered the wall of the tower. The fittings were also in wonderfully good order, and the bolt that held the great wheel only required to be drawn out to set it in motion. That evening during supper I thought very hard. I perceived that Bindloss was angry, also that he was suspicious and alarmed. I saw plainly that the only way to really discover what had been done to Wentworth was to cause the old Ruffian to try similar means to get rid of me. This was a dangerous expedient, but I felt desperate and my curiosity as well as interests were keenly aroused. Having finished my supper I went into the passage preparatory to going into the kitchen. I had on felt slippers and my footfall made no noise. As I approached the door I heard Bindloss saying to his wife, He's been poking about the mill-wheel. I wish he would make himself scarce. Oh, he can't find out anything, was the reply. You keep quiet, Bindloss. He'll be off in the morning. That says may be, was the answer. And then there came a harsh and a very disagreeable laugh. I waited for a moment and then entered the kitchen. Bindloss was alone now. He was bending over the fire, smoking. I shall leave early in the morning, I said. So please have my bill ready for me. I then seated myself near him, drawing up my chair close to the blaze. He looked as if he resented this, but said nothing. I am very curious about the deaths which occur in this house, I said after a pause. How many did you say there were? That is nothing to you, he answered. We never wanted you here and you can go when you please. I shall go tomorrow morning, but I wish to say something now. And what may that be? I don't believe in that story about the place being haunted. Oh, you don't, don't you? He dropped his pipe and his glittering eyes gazed at me with a mixture of anger and ill-concealed alarm. No. I paused, then I said slowly and emphatically. I went back to the mill even after your warning and— What? he cried starting to his feet. Nothing, I answered, only I don't believe in the ghost. His face turned not only white, but livid. I left him without another word. I saw that his suspicions had been much strengthened by my words. This I intended. To induce the Ruffian to do his worst was the only way to wring his secret from him. My hideous room looked exactly as it had done on the previous evening. The grotesque pattern on the walls seemed to start out in bold relief. Some of the ugly lines seemed at that moment, to my imagination, almost to take human shape, to convert themselves into ogre-like faces and to grin at me. Was I too daring? Was it wrong of me to risk my life in this manner? I was terribly tired and curious as it may seem. My greatest fear at that crucial moment was the dread that I might fall asleep. I had spent two nights with scarcely any repose, and felt that at any moment, notwithstanding all my efforts, slumber might visit me. In order to give Bindloss full opportunity for carrying at his scheme, it was necessary for me to get into the bed and even to feign sleep. In my present exhausted condition the pretense of slumber would easily lapse into the reality. This risk, however, which really was a very grave one, must be run. Without undressing I got into bed, pulling the bedclothes well over me. In my hand I held my revolver. I deliberately put out the candles and then lay motionless, waiting for events. The house was quiet as the grave. There was not a stir, and gradually my nerves, excited as they were, began to calm down. As I had fully expected, overpowering sleepiness seized me, and notwithstanding every effort I found myself drifting away into the land of dreams. I began to wish that whatever apparition was to appear would do so at once and get it over. Gradually but surely I seemed to pass from all memory of my present world, and to live in a strange and terrible phantasmagoria. In that state I slept. In that state I also dreamt, and dreamt horribly. I thought that I was dancing a waltz, with an enormously tall woman. She towered above me, clasping me in her arms, and began to whirl me round and round, at a giddy speed. I could hear the crashing music of a distant band, faster and faster, round and round some great empty hall I was whirled. I knew that I was losing my senses, and screamed to her to stop, and let me go. Suddenly there was a terrible crash close to me. Good God! I found myself awake, but I was still moving. Where was I? Where was I going? I leapt up on the bed, only to reel and fall heavily backwards upon the floor. What was the matter? Why was I sliding, sliding? Had I suddenly gone mad, or was I still suffering from some hideous nightmare? I tried to move, to stagger to my feet. Then by slow degrees my senses began to return, and I knew where I was. I was in the circular room, the room where Wentworth had died, but what was happening to me I could not divine. I only knew that I was being whirled round and round at a velocity that was every moment increasing. By the moonlight that struggled in through the window I saw that the floor and the bed upon it was revolving, but the table was lying on its side, and its fall must have awakened me. I could not see any other furniture in the room. By what mysterious manner had it been removed? Making a great effort I crawled to the center of this awful chamber, and seizing the foot of the bed struggled to my feet. Here I knew there would be less motion, and I could just manage to see the outline of the door. I had taken the precaution to slip the revolver into my pocket, and I still felt that if human agency appeared I had a chance of selling my life dearly. But surely the horror I was passing through was invented by no living man. As the floor of the room revolved in the direction of the door I made a dash for it, but was carried swiftly past and again fell heavily. When I came round again I made a frantic effort to cling to one of the steps, but in vain the head of the bedstead caught me as it flew round and tore my arms away. In another moment I believe I should have gone raving mad with terror. My head felt as if it would burst. I found it impossible to think consecutively. The only idea which really possessed me was a mad wish to escape from this hideous place. I struggled to the bedstead, and dragging the legs from their sockets pulled it into the middle of the room away from the wall. With this out of the way I managed at last to reach the door in safety. The moment my hand grasped the handle I leapt upon the little step and tried to wrench the door open. It was locked, locked from without. It defied my every effort. I had only just standing room for my feet. Below me the floor of the room was still racing round with terrible speed. I dared scarcely look at it, for the giddiness in my head increased each moment. The next instant a soft footstep was distinctly audible and I saw a gleam of light through a chink of the door. I heard a hand fumbling at the lock. The door was slowly opened outwards and I saw the face of bind-loss. For a moment he did not perceive me, for I was crouching down on the step, and the next instant with all my force I flung myself upon him. He uttered a yell of terror. The lantern he carried dropped and leant out, but I had gripped him round the neck with my fingers, driving them deep down into his lean, sinewy throat. With frantic speed I pulled him along the passage up to a window through which the moonlight was shining. Here I released my hold of his throat, but immediately covered him with my revolver. Down on your knees are your a dead man, I cried. Confess everything or I shoot you through the heart. His courage had evidently forsaken him. He began to whimper and cry bitterly, spare my life, spare my life, he cried. I will tell you everything, only spare my life. Be quick about it, I said. I am in no humour to be merciful, out with the truth. I was listening anxiously for the wife-step, but except for the low hum of machinery and the splashing of the water I heard nothing. Speak, I said, giving the old man a shake. His lips trembled, his words came out falteringly. It was Wentworth's doing, he panted. Wentworth, not the murdered man, I cried. No, no, his cousin, the ruffian who has been the curse of my life. Owing to that last death he inherits the property. He is the real owner of the mill, and he invented the revolving floor. There were deaths, oh yes, oh yes, it was so easy, and I wanted the money. The police never suspected, nor did the doctors. Wentworth was bitter-hard on me and I got into his power. Here he choked and sobbed, I'm a miserable man, sir. He gasped. So you killed your victims for the sake of money, I said, grasping him by the shoulder. Yes, he said yes. The bailiff had twenty pounds all in gold, no one ever knew. I took it and was able to satisfy Wentworth for a bit. And what about Archibald Wentworth? That was his doing, and I was to be paid. And now finally you wanted to get rid of me? Yes, for you suspected. As I spoke I perceived by the ghastly light of the moon another door near. I opened it and saw that it was the entrance to a small dark lumber room. I pushed the old man in, turned the key in the lock, and ran downstairs. The wife was still unaccountably absent. I opened the front door, and trembling, exhausted, drenched in perspiration, found myself in the open air. Every nerve was shaken. At that terrible moment I was not in the least master of myself. My one desire was to fly from the hideous place. I had just reached the little gate when a hand, light as a feather, touched my arm. I looked up. The girl Liz stood before me. You are saved, she said. Thank God! I tried all I could to stop the wheel. See, I am drenched to the skin. I could not manage it. But at least I locked Granny up. She's in the kitchen, sound asleep. She drank a lot of gin. Where were you all day yesterday? I asked. Locked up in a room in the further tower. But I managed to squeeze through the window, though it half killed me. I knew if you stayed they would try it on to-night. Thank God you are saved! Well, don't keep me now, I said. I have been saved as by a miracle. You are a good girl and I am much obliged to you. You must tell me another time how you managed to live through all these horrors. Ain't I all but mad? Was her pathetic reply. Oh my God! What I suffer! She pressed her hand to her face. The look in her eyes was terrible. But I could not wait now to talk to her further. I hastily left the place. How I reached Harkhurst I can never tell. But early in the morning I found myself there. I went straight to Dr. Stanmore's house, and having got him up I communicated my story. He and I together immediately visited the superintendent of police. Having told my exciting tale, we took a trap and all three returned to the castle in. We were back there before eight o'clock on the following morning. But as the police officer expected, the place was empty. Bindloss had been rescued from the dark closet, and he and his wife and the girl Liz had all flown. The doctor, the police officer and I all went up to the circular room. We then descended to the basement, and after a careful examination we discovered a low door through which we crept. We then found ourselves in a dark vault which was full of machinery. By the light of a lantern we examined it. Here we saw an explanation of the whole trick. The shaft of the mill-wheel, which was let through the wall of the tower, was continuous as the axle of a vertical cogged wheel, and by a multiplication action turned a large horizontal wheel into which a vertical shaft descended. This shaft was let into the center of four crossbeams, supporting the floor of the room in which I had slept. All round the circular edge of the floor was a steel rim which turned in a circular socket. It needed but a touch to set this hideous apparatus in motion. The police immediately started in pursuit of bind-loss, and I returned to London. That evening Edgecomb and I visited Dr. Miles Gordon. Hard-headed old physician that he was, he was literally aghast when I told him my story. He explained to me that a man placed in the position in which I was when the floor began to move would by means of centrifugal force suffer from enormous congestion of the brain. In fact, the revolving floor would induce an artificial condition of apoplexy. If the victim were drugged, or even only sleeping heavily, and the floor began to move slowly, insensibility would almost immediately be induced, which would soon pass into coma and death, and a post-mortem examination some hours afterward would show no cause for death, as the brain would appear perfectly healthy, the blood having again left it. From the presence of Dr. Miles Gordon, Edgecomb and I went to Scotland Yard, and the whole affair was put into the hands of the London Detective Force. With the clue which I had almost sacrificed my life to furnish, they quickly did the rest. Wentworth was arrested, and under pressure was induced to make a full confession, but old bind-loss had already told me the gist of the story. Wentworth's father had on the mill, had gotten to trouble with the law, and changed his name. In fact, he had spent five years in penal servitude. He then went to Australia and made money. He died when his son was a young man. This youth inherited all the father's vices. He came home, visited the mill, and being of a mechanical turn of mind, invented the revolving floor. He changed the mill into an inn, put bind-loss, one of his pals, into possession with the full intention of murdering unwary travelers from time to time for their money. The police, however, wanted him for a forged bill, and he thought it best to fly. Blind-loss was left in full possession. Worried by Wentworth, who had him in his power for a grave crime committed years ago, he himself on two occasions murdered a victim in the circular room. Meanwhile, several unexpected deaths had taken place in the older branch of the Wentworth family. An archibald Wentworth alone stood between his cousin and the great estates. Wentworth came home, and with the aid of bind-loss got archibald into his power. The young artist slept in the fatal room, and his death was the result. At this moment Wentworth and bind-loss are committed for trial at the Old Bailey, and there is no doubt what the result will be. The ghost mystery in connection with the castle inn has, of course, been explained away for ever. End of Chapter 1 Section 3 of A Master of Mysteries This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Master of Mysteries by L. T. Mead and Robert Eustis Chapter 2 The Warder of the Door If you don't believe it, you can read it for yourself, said Alan Clinton, climbing up the steps and searching among the volumes on the top shelf. I lay back in my chair, the beams from the sinking sun shown upon the stained glass of the windows of the old library, and dyed the rows of black leather volumes with bands of red and gold. Here, Belle, I took a musty volume from Alan Clinton, which he had unearthed from its resting place. It's about the middle of the book, he continued eagerly. You will see it in big black, old English letters. I turned over the pages containing the family tree and other archives of the Clintons, till I came to the one I was seeking. It contained the curse which rested on the family since 1400. Slowly and with difficulty I deciphered the words of this terrible denunciation. And in this cell it's coffin lyeth, the coffin which hath not human shape, for which reason no holy ground receiveth it. Here shall it rest to curse the family of ye Clintons, from generation to generation. And for this reason, as soon as the soul shall pass from the body of each first born which is the heir, it shall become the water of the door by day and by night. Day and night shall his spirit stand by the door, till the son shall release the spirit of the father from the watch and take his place, till his son in turn shall die. And whoso entereth into the cell shall be the prisoner of the soul that guardeth the door till it shall let him go. What a ghastly idea, I said, glancing up at the young man who was watching me as I read. But as you say, this cell has never been found. I should say its existence was a myth, and, of course, the curse on the soul of the first born, to keep the door shut as water, is absurd, matter does not obey witchcraft. The odd part of it is, replied Allen, that every other detail of the abbey referred to in this record has been identified, but this cell with its horrible contents has never been found. It was certainly a curious legend, and I allow it made some impression on me. I fancied, too, that somewhere I had heard something similar, but my memory failed to trace it. I had come down to Clinton Abbey three days before for some pheasant shooting. It was now Sunday afternoon. The family, with the exception of Sir Henry, Allen and myself, were at church. Sir Henry, now nearly eighty years of age and a chronic invalid, had retired to his room for his afternoon sleep. The younger Clinton and I had gone out for a stroll round the grounds, and since we returned our conversation had run upon the family history till it arrived at the legend of the family curse. Presently the door of the library was slowly opened, and Sir Henry, in his black velvet coat, which formed such a striking contrast to his snowy white beard and hair, entered the room. I rose from my chair, and giving him my arm assisted him to his favorite couch. He sank down into its luxurious depths with a sigh, but as he did so his eyes caught the old volume which I had laid on the table beside it. He started forward, took the book in his hand, and looked across at his son. Did you take this book down? He said sharply. Yes, Father, I got it out to show Belle. He is interested in the history of the Abbey, and then return it to its place at once, interrupted the old man. His black eyes blazing was sudden passion. You know how I disliked having my books disranged, and this one above all. Stay, give it to me. He struggled from the couch, and taking the volume locked it up in one of the drawers of his writing table, and then sat back again on the sofa. His hands were trembling, as if some sudden fear had taken possession of him. Did you say that Phyllis Curzon is coming to-morrow? asked the old man presently of his son in an irritable voice. Yes, Father, of course, don't you remember? Mrs. Curzon and Phyllis are coming to stay for a fortnight, and by the way, he added, starting to his feet as he spoke, that reminds me, I must go and tell Grace. The rest of the sentence was lost in the closing of the door. As soon as we were alone, Sir Henry looked across at me for a few moments without speaking. Then he said, I am sorry I was so short just now. I am not myself. I do not know what is the matter with me. I feel all to pieces. I cannot sleep. I do not think my time is very long now, and I am worried about Alan. The fact is, I would give anything to stop this engagement. I wish he would not marry. I am sorry to hear you say that, Sir, I answered. I should have thought you would have been anxious to see your son happily married. Most men would, was the reply, but I have my reasons for wishing things otherwise. What do you mean? I could not help asking. I cannot explain myself. I wish I could. It would be best for Alan to leave the old family die out. There perhaps I am foolish about it, and of course I cannot really stop the marriage, but I am worried and troubled about many things. I wish I could help you, Sir, I said impulsively. If there is anything I can possibly do, you know you only have to ask me. Thank you, Belle. I know you would, but I cannot tell you. Someday I may, but there I am afraid, horribly afraid. The trembling again seized him, and he put his hands over his eyes, as if to shut out some terrible sight. Don't repeat a word of what I have told you to Alan or anyone else. He said suddenly, It is possible that someday I may ask you to help me, and remember, Belle, I trust you. He held out his hand which I took. In another moment the butler entered with the lamps, and I took advantage of the interruption to make my way to the drawing-room. The next day the curzon's arrived, and a hasty glance showed me that Phyllis was a charming girl. She was tall, slightly built, with a figure both upright and graceful, and a handsome, somewhat proud face. When in perfect repose her expression was somewhat haughty, but the moment she spoke her face became vivacious, kindly, charming to an extraordinary degree. She had a gay laugh, a sweet smile, a sympathetic manner. I was certain she had the kindness of hearts, and was sure that Alan had made an admirable choice. A few days went by, and at last the evening before the day when I was to return to London arrived. Phyllis's mother had gone to bed a short time before, as she had complained of headache, and Alan suddenly proposed, as the night was a perfect one, that we should go out and enjoy a moonlight stroll. Phyllis laughed with glee at the suggestion, and ran at once into the hall to take a wrap from one of the pegs. Alan, she said to her lover, who was following her, you and I will go first. No, young lady, on this occasion you and I will have that privilege, said Sir Henry. He had also come into the hall, and to our astonishment announced his intention of accompanying us in our walk. Phyllis bestowed upon him a startled glance, then she laid her hand lightly on his arm, nodded back at Alan with a smile, and walked on in front somewhat rapidly. Alan and I followed in the rear. Now what does my father mean by this? said Alan to me. He never goes out at night, but he has not been well lately. I sometimes think he grows queerer every day. He is far from well, I am certain, I answered. We stayed out for about half an hour, and returned home by a path which led into the house through a side entrance. Phyllis was waiting for us in the hall. Whereas my father, asked Alan, going up to her. He is tired and has gone to bed, she answered. Good night, Alan. Won't you come into the drawing-room? he asked in some astonishment. No, I am tired. She nodded to him without touching his hand. Her eyes, I could not help noticing, had a queer expression. She ran upstairs. I saw that Alan was startled by her manner, but as he did not say anything, neither did I. The next day at breakfast I was told that the curson's had already left the abbey. Alan was full of astonishment, and I could see a good deal annoyed. He and I breakfasted alone in the old library. His father was too ill to come downstairs. An hour later I was on my way back to London. Many things there engaged my immediate attention, and Alan, his engagement, Sir Henry and the old family curse, sank more or less into the background of my mind. Three months afterwards, on the 7th of January, I saw to my sorrow in the Times the announcement of Sir Henry Clinton's death. From time to time in the interim I had heard from the son, saying that his father was failing fast. He further mentioned that his own wedding was fixed for the twenty-first of the present month. Now, of course, it must be postponed. I felt truly sorry for Alan, and wrote immediately a long letter of condolence. On the following day I received a wire from him, imploring me to go down to the abbey as soon as possible, saying that he was in great difficulty. I packed a few things hastily, and arrived at Clinton Abbey at six in the evening. The house was silent and subdued. The funeral was to take place the next day. Clinton came into the hall and gripped me warmly by the hand. I noticed at once how worn and worried he looked. This is good of you, Belle, he said. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for coming. You are the one man who can help me. For I know you have had much experience in matters of this sort. Come into the library, and I will tell you everything. We shall dine alone this evening, as my mother and the girls are keeping to their own apartments for tonight. As soon as we were seated he plunged at once into his story. I must give you a sort of prelude to what has just occurred, he began. You remember, when you were last here, how abruptly Phyllis and her mother left the Abbey? I nodded. I remembered well. On the morning after you had left us I had a long letter from Phyllis, continued Allen. In it she told me of an extraordinary request my father had made to her during that moonlight walk, nothing more nor less than an earnest wish that she would herself terminate our engagement. She spoke quite frankly, as she always does, assuring me of her unalterable love and devotion, but saying that under the circumstances it was absolutely necessary to have an explanation. Frantic with almost ungovernable rage I sought my father in his study. I lay Phyllis's letter before him and asked him what it meant. He looked at me with the most unutterable expression of weariness and pathos. Yes, my boy, I did it, he said. Phyllis is quite right. I did ask of her as earnestly as a very old man could plead that she would bring the engagement to an end. But why, I asked, why? That I am unable to tell you, he replied. I lost my temper and said some words to him which I now regret. He made no sort of reply. When I had done speaking, he said slowly, I make all allowance for your emotion, Allen. Your feelings are no more than natural. You have done me a very sore injury, I retorted. What can Phyllis think of this? She will never be the same again. I am going to see her today. He did not utter another word, and I left him. I was absent from home for about a week. It took me nearly that time to induce Phyllis to overlook my father's extraordinary request, and to let matters go on exactly as they had done before. After fixing our engagement, if possible, more firmly than ever, and also arranging the date of our wedding, I returned home. When I did so, I told my father what I had done. As you will, he replied, and then he sank into great gloom. From that moment, although I watched him day and night and did everything that love and tenderness could suggest, he never seemed to rally. He scarcely spoke, and remained, whenever we were together, bowed in deep and painful reverie. A week ago he took to his bed. Here Allen paused. I now come to the events, up to date, he said. Of course as you may suppose, I was with my father to the last. A few hours before he passed away, he called me to his bedside, and to my astonishment began once more talking about my engagement. He implored me with the utmost earnestness, even now at the eleventh hour, to break it off. It was not too late, he said, and added further that nothing would give him ease in dying, but the knowledge that I would promise him to remain single. Of course I tried to humor him. He took my hand, looked me in the eyes with an expression which I shall never forget, and said, Allen, make me a solemn promise that you will never marry. This I naturally had to refuse, and then he told me that, expecting my obstinacy, he had written me a letter which I should find in his safe, but I was not to open it till after his death. I found it this morning. Bell, it is the most extraordinary communication, and either it is entirely a figment of his imagination, for his brain powers were failing very much at the last. Or else it is the most awful thing I have ever heard of. Here is the letter. Read it for yourself. I took the paper from his hand, and read the following batter in shaky, almost illegible writing. My dear boy, when you read this I shall have passed away. For the last six months my life has been a living death. The horror began in the following way. You know what a deep interest I have always taken in the family history of our house. I have spent the latter years of my life in verifying every detail, and my intention was, had health been given me, to publish a great deal of it in a suitable volume. On the special night to which I am about to elude, I sat up late in my study, reading the book which I saw you show to Bell a short time ago. In particular I was much attracted by the terrible curse, which the old abbot in the fourteenth century had bestowed upon the family. I read the awful words again and again. I knew that all the other details in the volume had been verified, but that the vault with the coffin had never yet been found. Presently I grew drowsy, and I suppose I must have fallen asleep. In my sleep I had a dream. I thought that someone came into the room, and touched me on the shoulder, and said, Come. I looked up and a tall figure beckoned to me. The voice and the figure belong to my late father. In my dream I rose immediately, although I did not know why I went nowhere I was going. The figure went on in front. It entered the hall. I took one of the candles from the table and the key of the chapel, unbolted the door and went out. Still the voice kept saying, Come. Come. And the figure of my father walked in front of me. I went across the quadrangle, unlocked the chapel door, and entered. A death-like silence was around me. I crossed the nave to the North Isle. The figure still went in front of me. It entered a great pew, which is said to be haunted, and walked straight up to the effigy of the old Abbot who had pronounced the curse. This, as you know, is built into the opposite wall, bending forward the figure pressed the eyes of the old monk, and immediately a stone started out of its place, revealing a staircase behind. I was about to hurry forward, when I must have knocked against something. I felt a sensation of pain and suddenly awoke. What was my amazement to find that I had acted on my dream, had crossed the quadrangle, and was in the chapel? In fact, was standing in the old pew. Of course, there was no figure of any sort visible. But the moonlight shed a cold radiance over all the place. I felt very much startled and impressed, but was just about to return to the house in some wonder at the curious vision which I had experienced. When raising my startled eyes, I saw that part of it, at least, was real. The old monk seemed to grin at me from his marble effigy, and beside him was a blank open space. I hurried to it, and saw a narrow flight of stairs. I cannot explain what my emotions were, but my keenest feeling at that moment was a strong and horrible curiosity. Holding the candle in my hand, I went down the steps. They terminated at the beginning of a long passage. This I quickly traversed, and at last found myself beside an iron door. It was not locked, but hasped, and was very hard to open. In fact, it required nearly all my strength. At last I pulled it open towards me, and there, in a small cell, lay the coffin, as the words of the curse said, I gazed at it in horror. I did not dare to enter. It was a wedge-shaped coffin studded with great nails. But as I looked, my blood froze within me. For slowly, very slowly, as if pushed by some unseen hand, the great heavy door began to close, quicker and quicker, until with a crash that echoed and re-echoed through the empty vault, it shut. Terror stricken, I rushed from the vault, and reached my room once more. Now I know that this great curse is true, that my father's spirit is there to guard the door and close it. For I sought with my own eyes, and while you read this know that I am there. I charge you therefore not to marry. Bring no child into the world to perpetuate this terrible curse. Let the family die out if you have the courage. It is much I know to ask. But whether you do or not, come to me there, and if by sign or word I can communicate with you, I will do so. But hold the secret safe. Meet me there before my body is laid to rest, when body and soul are still not far from each other. Fair well. Your loving father, Henry Clinton. I read this strange letter over carefully, twice, and laid it down. For a moment I hardly knew what to say. It was certainly the most uncanny thing I had ever come across. What do you think of it, asked Allen at last. Well, of course there are only two possible solutions, I answered. One is that your father not only dreamt the beginning of this story, which remember he allows himself, but the whole of it. And the other, asked Allen, seeing that I paused. The other, I continued, I hardly know what to say yet. Of course we will investigate the whole thing. That is our only chance of arriving at a solution. It is absurd to let matters rest as they are. We had better try tonight. Clinton winced and hesitated. Something must be done, of course, he answered. But the worst of it is Phyllis and her mother are coming here early to-morrow, in time for the funeral, and I cannot meet her. No, I cannot, poor girl, while I feel as I do. We will go to the vault tonight, I said. Clinton rose from his chair and looked at me. I don't like this thing at all, Belle, he continued. I am not by nature in any sense of the word a superstitious man, but I tell you frankly, nothing would induce me to go alone into that chapel tonight. If you will come with me, that, of course, alters matters. I know the pew my father refers to well. It is beneath the window of St. Sebastian. Soon afterwards I went to my room and dressed. And Allen and I dined, teta-teta, in the great dining-room. The old butler waited on us with funereal solemnity, and I did all I could to lure Clinton's thoughts into a more cheerful and healthier channel. I cannot say that I was very successful. I further noticed that he scarcely ate anything, and seemed altogether to be in a state of nervous tension, painful to witness. After dinner we went into the smoking-room, and at eleven o'clock I proposed that we should make a start. Clinton braced himself together and we went out. He got the chapel keys, and then going to the stables we borrowed a lantern, and a moment afterwards found ourselves in the sacred edifice. The moon was at her full, and by the pale light which was diffused through the south windows the architecture of the interior could be faintly seen. The gothic arches that flanked the central aisle with their quaint pillars, each with a carved figure of one of the saints, were quite visible, and further in the darkness of the chancel the dim outlines of the choir and altar table with its white marble rurados could just be discerned. We closed the door softly, and Clinton leading the way with the lantern we walked up the center aisle paved with the brasses of his dead ancestors. We trod gently on tiptoe as one instinctively does at night. Turning beneath the little pulpit we reached the north transep, and here Clinton stopped and turned round. He was very white, but his voice was quiet. This is the pew, he whispered. It has always been called the haunted pew of Sir Hugh Clinton. I took the lantern from him, and we entered. I crossed the pew immediately, and went up to the effigy of the old abbot. Let us examine him closely, I said. I held up the lantern, getting it to shine on each part of the face, the vestments, and the figure. The eyes, although vacant, as an all-statuary, seemed to me at that moment to be uncanny and peculiar. Giving Alan the lantern to hold, I placed a finger firmly on each. The next moment I could not refrain from an exclamation. A stone at the side immediately rolled back, revealing the steps which were spoken of by the old man in his narrative. It is true, it is true! cried Clinton excitedly. It certainly looks like it, I remarked. But never mind, we have the chance now of investigating this matter thoroughly. Are you going down? asked Clinton. Certainly I am, I replied. Let us go together. Immediately afterwards we crept through the opening and began to descend. There was only just room to do so in single file, and I went first with the lantern. In another moment we were in the long passage, and soon we were confronted by a door in an archstone framework. Up until now Clinton had shown little sign of alarm, but here, at the tristing place to which his father's soul had summoned him, he suddenly seemed to lose his nerve. He lent against the wall, and for a moment I thought he would have fallen. I held up the lantern and examined the door and walls carefully. Then, approaching, I lifted the iron latch of the heavy door. It was very hard to move, but at last, by seizing the edge, I dragged it open to its full against the wall of the passage. Having done so I peered inside, holding the lantern above my head. As I did so, I heard Clinton cry out. Look! Look! he said, and turning I saw that the great door had swung back against me, almost shutting me within the cell. Telling Clinton to hold it back by force, I stepped inside, and saw at my feet the ghastly coffin. The legend then, so far, was true. I bent down and examined the queer, misshapen thing with great care. Its shape was that of an enormous wedge, and it was apparently made of some dark old wood, and was bound with iron at the corners. Having looked at it all round, I went out, and flinging back the door which Clinton had been holding open, stood aside to watch. Slowly, very slowly, as we both stood in the passage, slowly as if pushed by some invisible hand, the door commenced to swing round, and increasing in velocity, shut with a noisy clang. Seizing it once more, I dragged it open, and, while Clinton held it in that position, made a careful examination. Up to the present I saw nothing to be much alarmed about. There were fifty ways in which a door might shut of its own accord. There might be a hidden spring, or tilted hinges. Draft, of course, was out of the question. I looked at the hinges, they were of iron, and set in the solid masonry. Nor could I discover any spring or hidden contrivance, as when the door was wide open there was an interval of several inches between it and the wall. We tried again and again with the same result, and at last, as it was closing, I seized it to prevent it. I now experienced a very odd sensation. I certainly felt as if I were resisting an unseen person who was pressing hard against the door at the other side. Directly it was released it continued its course. I allow I was quite unable to understand the mystery. Suddenly an idea struck me. What does the legend say, I asked, turning to Clinton, that the soul is to guard the door to close it upon the coffin? Those are the words, answered Allen, speaking with some difficulty. Now if that is true, I continued, and we take the coffin out, the spirit won't shut the door. If it does shut it, it disproves the whole thing at once, and shows it to be merely a clever mechanical contrivance. Come, Clinton, help me to get the coffin out. I dare not, Bill. He whispered hoarsely, I dare not go inside. Nonsense man, I said, feeling now a little annoyed at the whole thing. Here, put the lantern down and hold the door back. I stepped in, and getting behind the coffin, put out all my strength and shoved it into the passage. Now then, I cried, I'll bet you fifty pounds to five, the door will shut just the same. I dragged the coffin clear of the door, and told him to let go. Clinton had scarcely done so, before, stepping back, he clutched my arm. Look! he whispered, do you see that it will not shut now? My father is waiting for the coffin to be put back. This is awful! I gazed at the door in horror. It was perfectly true. It remained wide open, and quite still. I sprang forward, seized it, and now endeavored to close it. It was as if someone was trying to hold it open. It required considerable force to stir it. And it was only with difficulty I could move it at all. At last I managed to shut it, but the moment I let go, it swung back open of its own accord and struck against the wall, where it remained just as before. In the dead silence that followed I could hear Clinton breathing quickly behind me, and I knew he was holding himself for all he was worth. At that moment there suddenly came over me a sensation, which I had once experienced before, and which I was twice destined to experience again. It is impossible to describe it, but it seized me, laying siege to my brain till I felt like a child in its power. It was as if I were slowly drowning in the great ocean of silence that enveloped us. Time itself seemed to have disappeared. At my feet lay the misshapen thing, and the lantern behind it cast a fantastic shadow of its distorted outline on the cell wall before me. Speak, speak, say something, I cried to Clinton. The sharp sound of my voice broke the spell. I felt myself again, and smiled at the trick my nerves had played on me. I bent down and once more laid my hands on the coffin. But before I had time to push it back into its place, Clinton had gone up the passage, like a man who is flying to escape a hurled javelin. Exerting all my force to prevent the door from swinging back by keeping my leg against it, I had just got the coffin into the cell and was going out, when I heard a shrill cry, and Clinton came tearing back down the passage. I can't get out! The stone has sunk into its place! We are locked in! He screamed, and wild with fear he plunged headlong into the cell, upsetting me in his careen before I could check him. I sprang back to the door as it was closing. I was too late. Before I could reach it it had shut with a loud clang in obedience to the infernal witchcraft. You have done it now, I cried angrily. Do you see why, man, we are buried alive in this ghastly hole? The lantern I had placed just inside the door, and by its dim light as I looked at him I saw the terror of a madman creep into Clinton's eyes. Buried alive, he shouted with appeal a hysterical laughter. Yes, and Belle, it's your doing! You are a devil in human shape! With a wild paroxym of fury he flung himself upon me. There was a ferocity of a wild beast in his spring. He upset the lantern and left us in total darkness. The struggle was short. We might be buried alive, but I was not going to die by his hand, and seizing him by the throat I pinned him against the wall. Keep quiet, I shouted. It is your thunderings, dupity that has caused all this. Stay where you are until I strike a match. I luckily had some vestes in the little silver box which I always carry on my watch chain, and striking one I relit the lantern. Clinton's paroxysm was over, and sinking to the floor he lay there shivering and cowering. It was a terrible situation, and I knew that our only hope was for me to keep my presence of mind. With a great effort I forced myself to think calmly over what could be done. To shout for help would have been but a useless waste of breath. Suddenly an idea struck me. Have you got your father's letter? I cried eagerly. I have, he answered, it is in my pocket. My last ray of hope vanished. Our only chance was that if he had left it at the house someone might discover the letter and come to our rescue by its instructions. It had been a faint hope, and it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come to me. Without it no one would ever find the way to the vault that had remained a secret for ages. I was determined, however, not to die without a struggle for freedom. Taking the lantern I examined every nook and cranny of the cell for some other exit. It was a fruitless search. No sign of any way out could I find. And we had absolutely no means to unfasten the door from the inner side. Taking a few short steps I flung myself again and again at the heavy door. It never budged an inch, and bruised and sweating at every pore I sat down on the coffin and tried to collect all my faculties. Clinton was silent and seemed utterly stunned. He sat still, gazing with a vacant stare at the door. The time dragged heavily and there was nothing to do but to wait for a horrible death from starvation. It was more than likely, too, that Clinton would go mad. Already his nerves were strained to the utmost. Altogether I had never found myself in a worse plight. It seemed like an eternity that we sat there, neither of us speaking a word. Over and over again I repeated to myself the words of the terrible curse. And whoso entereth into the cell shall be the prisoner of the soul that guardeth the door, till it shall let him go. When would the shapeless form that was inside the coffin let us go? Doubtless when our bones were dry. I looked at my watch. It was half past eleven o'clock. Surely we had been more than ten minutes in this awful place. We had left the house at eleven, and I knew that it must have been many hours ago. I glanced at the second hand. The watch had stopped. What time is it, Clinton? I asked. My watch has stopped. What does it matter? he murmured. What is time to us now? The sooner we die the better. He pulled out his watch as he spoke and held it to the lantern. Twenty-five minutes past eleven he murmured dreamily. Good heavens! I cried, starting up. Has your watch stopped, too? Then, like a leap of a lightning flash, an idea struck me. I have got it! I have got it! My God! I believe I have got it! I cried, seizing him by the arm. Got what? he replied, staring wildly at me. Why the secret? The curse? The door? Don't you see? I pulled out the large knife I always carry by a chain and swivel in my trouser pocket, and telling Clinton to hold the lantern, open the little blade saw, and attack the coffin with it. I believe the secret of our deliverance lies in this, I panted, working away furiously. In ten minutes I had sawn half through the wooden edge. Then, handing my tool to Clinton, I told him to continue the work while I rested. After a few minutes I took the knife again, and at last, after nearly half an hour had gone by, succeeded in making a small hole in the lid. Inserting my two fingers, I felt some rough, uneven masses. I was now fearfully excited. Tearing at the opening like a madman, I enlarged it and extracted what looked like a large piece of coal. I knew in an instant what it was. It was magnetic iron ore. Holding it down to my knife, the blade flew to it. Here is the mystery of the soul, I cried. Now we can use it to open the door. I had known a great conjurer once, who had deceived and puzzled his audience, with a box-trick on similar lines. The man opening the box from the inside by drawing down the lock with a magnet. Would this do the same? I felt that our lives hung on the next moment. Taking the mass, I pressed it against the door just opposite the hasp, and slid it up against the wood. My heart leapt as I heard the hasp fly up outside, and with a push the door opened. We are saved, I shouted. We are saved by a miracle. Belle, you are a genius, gasp, poor Clinton. But now, how about the stone at the end of the passage? We will soon see about that, I cried, taking the lantern. Half the danger is over, at any rate, and the worst half, too. We rushed along the passage and up the stair until we reached the top. Why, Clinton, I cried, holding up the lantern, the place was not shut at all. Nor was it. In his terror he had imagined it. I could not see in the dark, and I was nearly dead with fright, he said. Oh, Belle, let us get out of this as quickly as we can. We crushed through the aperture, and once more stood in the chapel. I then pushed the stone back into its place. Dawn was just breaking when we escaped from the chapel. We hastened across to the house. In the hall the clock pointed to five. Well, we have had an awful time, I said, as we stood in the hall together. But at least, Clinton, the end was worth the ghastly terror. I have knocked the bottom out of your family legend forever. I don't even now quite understand, he said. Don't you? But it is so easy. That coffin never contained a body at all, but was filled, as you perceive, with fragments of magnetic iron ore. For what diabolical purposes the cell was intended, it is, of course, impossible to say, but that it must have been meant as a human trap there is little doubt. The inventor certainly exercised no small ingenuity when he devised his diabolical plot, for it was obvious that the door, which was made of iron, would swing towards the coffin wherever it happened to be placed. Thus the door would shut if the coffin were inside the cell, and would remain open if the coffin were brought out. A cleverer method for simulating a spiritual agency it would be hard to find. Of course the monk must have known well that magnetic iron ore never loses its quality, and would ensure the deception remaining potent for ages. But how did you discover that by means of our watches? asked Clinton. Anyone who understands magnetism can reply to that, I said. It is a well-known fact that a strong magnet plays havoc with watches. The fact of both of our watches going wrong first gave me a clue to the mystery. Later in the day the whole of this strange affair was explained to Miss Curzon, and not long afterwards the passage and entrance to the chapel were bricked up. It is needless to add that six months later the pair were married, and I believe are as happy as they deserve.