 The Other Wing by Algernon Blackwood. It used to puzzle him that, after dark, someone would look in around the edge of the bedroom door and withdraw again too rapidly for him to see the face. When the nurse had gone away with the candle this happened. Good night, Master Tim," she said unusually, shading the light with one hand to protect his eyes. "'Dream of me and I'll dream of you.'" She went out slowly. The sharp-edged shadow of the door ran across the ceiling like a train. There came a whispered colloquy in the corridor outside, about himself, of course, and he was alone. He heard her steps going deeper and deeper into the bosom of the old country house. They were audible for a moment on the stone flooring of the hall, and sometimes the dull thump of the bay's door into the servants' quarters just reached him too. Then silence. But it was only when the last sound, as well as the last sign of her, had vanished that the face emerged from its hiding-place and flashed in upon him round the corner. As a rule, too, it came just as he was saying. "'Now I'll go to sleep. I won't think any longer. Good night, Master Tim, and happy dreams.' He loved to say this to himself. It brought a sense of companionship, as though there were two persons speaking. The room was on the top of the old house, a big, high-ceiling room, and his bed against the wall had an iron railing round it. He felt very safe and protected in it. The curtains at the other end of the room were drawn. He lay watching the firelight dancing on the heavy folds and their pattern showing a spaniel chasing a long-tailed bird towards a bushy tree interested and amused him. It was repeated over and over again. He counted the number of dogs and the number of birds and the number of trees, but could never make them agree. There was a plan somewhere in that pattern. If only he could discover it. The dogs and birds and trees would come out right. Hundreds and hundreds of times he had played this game, for the plan and the pattern made it possible to take sides, and the bird and dog were against him. They always won, however. Tim usually fell asleep just when the advantage was on his own side. The curtains hung steadily enough most of the time, but it seemed to him once or twice that they stirred. Hiding a dog or bird on purpose to prevent his winning. For instance, he had eleven birds and eleven trees, and fixing them in his mind by saying, That's eleven birds and eleven trees, but only ten dogs. His eyes started back to find the eleventh dog, when the curtain moved and threw all his calculations into confusion again. The eleventh dog was hidden. He did not quite like the movement. It gave him questionable feelings, rather, where the curtain did not move of itself. Yet usually he was too intent upon counting the dogs to feel positive alarm. Opposite to him was the fireplace, full of red and yellow coals, and lying with his head sideways on the pillow he could see directly in between the bars. When the coals settled with a soft and powdery crash he turned his eyes from the curtains to the grate, trying to discover exactly which bits had fallen. So long as the glow was there and the sound seemed pleasant enough, but sometimes he awoke later in the night, the room huge with darkness, the fire almost out, and the sound was not so pleasant then. It startled him. The coals did not fall of themselves. It seemed that someone poked them cautiously. The shadows were very thick before the bars. As with the curtains, moreover, the morning aspect of the extinguished fire, the ice-cold cinders that made a clinking sound like tin, caused no emotion whatever in his soul. And it was usually while he lay waiting for sleep, tired both of the curtain and the coal-games, on the point indeed of saying, I'll go to sleep now, that the puzzling thing took place. He would be staring drowsily at the dying fire, perhaps counting the stockings and flannel garments that hung along the high fender rail when, suddenly, a person looked in with lightning swiftness through the door and vanished again before he could possibly turn his head to sea. The appearance and disappearance were accomplished with amazing rapidity always. It was a head and shoulders that looked in, and the movement to combine the speed, the lightness and the silence of the shadow. Only it was not a shadow. A hand held the edge of the door. The face shot round, saw him, and withdrew like lightning. It was utterly beyond him to imagine anything more quick and clever. It darted. He heard no sound. It went. But! It had seen him. Looked him all over, examined him, noted what he was doing with that lightning glance. It wanted to know if he were awake still or asleep. Though it went off it still watched him from a distance. It waited somewhere. It knew all about him. Where! It waited no one could ever guess. It came probably, he felt, from beyond the house, possibly from the roof, but most likely from the garden or the sky. Yet though strange it was not terrible. It was a kindly and protective figure, he felt, and when it happened he never called for help, because the occurrence simply took his voice away. It comes from the nightmare passage, he decided, but it's not a nightmare. It puzzled him. Sometimes, moreover, it came more than once in a single night. He was pretty sure, not quite positive, that it occupied his room as soon as he was properly asleep. It took possession, sitting perhaps before the dying fire, standing upright behind the heavy curtains, or even lying down in the empty bed his brother used when he was home from school. Perhaps it played the curtain game, perhaps it poked the coals. It knew at any rate where the eleventh dog had lain concealed. It certainly came in and out. Certainly too it did not wish to be seen. For more than once, on waking suddenly in the midnight blackness, Tim knew it was standing close beside his bed and bending over him. He felt, rather than heard, its presence. It glided quietly away. It moved with marvelous softness, yet he was positive it moved. He felt the difference, so to speak, it had been near him, now it was gone. It came back too, just as he was falling into sleep again. Its midnight coming and going, however, stood out sharply different from its first shy, tentative approach. For in the firelight it came alone, whereas in the black and silent hours it had with it others. And it was then he made up his mind that its swift and quiet movements were due to the fact that it had wings. It flew, and the others that came with it in the darkness were its little ones. He also made up his mind that all were friendly, comforting, protective, and that while positively not a nightmare, it yet came somehow along the nightmare passage before it reached him. You see, it's like this, he explained to the nurse. The big one comes to visit me alone, but it only brings its little ones when I'm quite asleep. Then the quicker you get to sleep the better, isn't it, Master Tim? He replied, rather I always do. Only I wonder where they come from. He spoke, however, as though he had an inkling. But the nurse was so dull about it that he gave her up and tried his father. Of course, replied this busy but affectionate parent, it's either nobody at all or else at sleep coming to carry you away to the land of dreams. He made the statement kindly but somewhat briskly, for he was worried just then about the extra taxes on his land and the effort to fix his mind on Tim's fanciful world was beyond him at the moment. He lifted the boy onto his knee, kissed and patted him as though he were a favorite dog, and planted him on the rug again with a flying sweep. Run and ask your mother, he added. She knows all that kind of thing. Then come back and tell me all about it. Another time. Tim found his mother in an armchair before the fire of another room. She was knitting and reading at the same time a wonderful thing the boy could never understand. She raised her head as he came in, pushed her glasses onto her forehead, and held her arms out. He told her everything, ending up with what his father said. You see, it's not Jackman or Thompson or anyone like that, he exclaimed. It's someone real. But nice, she assured him, someone who comes to take care of you and see that you're all safe and cozy. Oh yes, I know that, but I think your father's right, she added quickly. It's sleep, I'm sure, who pops in around the door like that. Sleep has got wings, I've always heard. Then the other thing, the little ones, he asked, are they just sorts of doses, you think? Mother did not answer for a moment. She turned down the page of her book, closed it slowly, and put it on the table beside her. More slowly still, she put her knitting away, arranging the wool and needles with some deliberation. Perhaps, she said, drawing the boy closer to her and looking into his big eyes of wonder, their dreams. Tim felt a thrill run through him as she said it. He stepped back a foot or so and clapped his hand softly. Dreams, he whispered with enthusiasm and belief. Of course, I never thought of that. His mother, having proved her sagacity, then made a mistake. She noted her success, but instead of leaving it there, she elaborated and explained. As Tim expressed it, she went on about it. Therefore he did not listen. He followed his train of thought alone, and presently he interrupted her long sentences with a conclusion of his own. Then I know where she hides, he announced with a touch of all. Where she lives, I mean, and without waiting to be asked, he imparted the information. It's in the other wing. Ah! said his mother, taken by surprise. How clever of you Tim, and thus confirmed it. Fenceforward this was established in his life. That sleep and her attendant dreams hid during the daytime in that unused portion of the great Elizabethan mansion called the other wing. This other wing was unoccupied, its corridors untrodden, its windows shuttered, and its rooms all closed. At various places green bay's doors led into it, but no one ever opened them. For many years this part had been shut up, and for the children, properly speaking, it was out of bounds. They never mentioned it as a possible place at any rate. In hide and seek it was not considered even. There was a hint of the inaccessible about the other wing. Those dust and silence had it to themselves. But Tim, having ideas of his own about everything, possessed special information about the other wing. He believed it was inhabited. Who occupied the immense series of empty rooms? Who trod the spacious corridors? Who passed to and fro behind the shuttered windows? He had not known exactly. He had called these occupants they, and the most important among them was the ruler. The ruler of the other wing was a kind of deity, powerful, far away, ever present, yet never seen. And about this ruler he had a wonderful conception for a little boy. He connected her, somehow, with deep thoughts of his own, the deepest of all. When he made of adventures to the moon, to the stars, or to the bottom of the sea, adventures that he lived inside himself, as it were. To reach them he must invariably pass through the chambers of the other wing. Those corridors and halls, the nightmare passage among them, lay along the route. Over the first stage of the journey. Once the green bay's doors swung to behind him and the long dim passage stretched ahead, he was well on his way into the adventure of the moment. The nightmare passage once passed he was safe from capture, but once the shutters of a window had been flung open he was free of the gigantic world lay beyond, for then light poured in and he could see his way. The conception for a child was curious. It established a correspondence between mysterious chambers of the other wing and the occupied but unguessed chambers of his inner being. Through these chambers, through the darkened corridors along a passage sometimes dangerous or at least questionable repute, he must pass to find all adventures that were real. The light, when he pierced far enough to take the shutters down, was discovery. Tim did not actually think, much less say, all this. He was aware of it, however. He felt it. The other wing was inside himself as well as through the green bay's doors. His inner map of wonder included both of them. But now, for the first time in his life, he knew who lived there and who the ruler was. A shutter had fallen of its own accord, light poured in, he made a guess, and mother had confirmed it. Sleep and her little ones, the host of dreams with the daylight occupants, they stole out when the darkness fell. All adventures in life began and ended by a dream, discoverable by first passing through the other wing. 2. And, having settled this, his one desire now was to travel over the map upon journeys of exploration and discovery. The map inside himself he knew already, but the map of the other wing he had not seen. His imagination knew it. He had a clear mental picture of rooms and halls and passages, but his feet had never shrouded the silent floors where dust and shadows hid the flock of dreams by day. The mighty chambers where sleep ruled he longed to stand in, to see the ruler face to face. He made up his mind to get into the other wing. To accomplish this was difficult, but Tim was a determined youngster and he meant to try, he meant also to succeed. He deliberated. At night he could not possibly manage it. In any case, the ruler and her host all left it after dark to fly about the world. The wing would be empty, and the emptiness would frighten him. Therefore he must make a daylight visit, and it was a daylight visit he decided on. He deliberated more. There were roles and risks involved. It meant going out of bounds, the danger of being seen, the certainty of being questioned by some idle and inquisitive grown-up. Where in the world have you been all this time? And so forth. These things he thought out carefully, and though he arrived at no solution, he felt satisfied that it would be all right. That is, he recognized the risks. To be thus prepared was half the battle, for nothing then could take him by surprise. The notion that he might slip in from the garden was soon abandoned. The red bricks showed no openings, there was no door. From the courtyard also entrance was impractical. Even on tiptoe he could barely reach the broad window-sills of stone. When playing alone or walking with the French governess, he examined every outside possibility. None offered. Butters, supposing he could reach them, were thick and solid. Meanwhile, when opportunity offered, he stood against the tight red bricks, the towers and gables of the wing rose overhead. He heard the wind go whispering along the eaves. He imagined tiptoe movements and a sound of wings inside. Sleep and her little ones were busily preparing for their journeys after dark. They hid, but they did not sleep. In this unused wing, vaster alone than any other country house he had ever seen, sleep taught and trained her flock of feathered dreams. It was very wonderful. They probably supplied the entire county. But more wonderful still was the thought that the ruler herself should take the trouble to come to his particular room and personally watch over him all night long. That was amazing, and it flashed across his imaginative, quieting mind. Perhaps they take me with them the moment I'm asleep. That's why she comes to see me. Yet his chief preoccupation was how sleep got out. Through the green bay's doors, of course, by a process of elimination he arrived at a conclusion. He too must enter through a green bay's door and risk detection. Of late the lightning visits had ceased. The silent, darting figure had not peeped in and vanished as it used to do. He fell asleep too quickly now, almost before Jackman reached the hall and long before the fire began to die. Also the dogs and birds upon the curtains always matched the trees exactly, and he won the curtain game quite easily. There was never a dog or bird too many. The curtain never stirred. It had been thus ever since his talk with mother and father, and so he came to make a second discovery. His parents did not really believe in his figure. She kept away on that account. They doubted her. She hid. Here was still another incentive to go and find her out. He ached for her. She was so kind, she gave herself so much trouble, just for his little self in the big and lonely bedroom. Yet his parents spoke of her as though she were of no account. He longed to see her face to face and tell her that he believed in her and loved her, for he was positive she would like to hear it. She cared. Though he had fallen asleep of late too quickly for him to see her flash in at the door, he had known nicer dreams than in his life before, travelling dreams, and it was she who sent them. More. He was sure she took him out with her. One evening in the dusk of a March day his opportunity came, and only just in time for his brother Jack was expected home from school on the morrow, and with Jack in the other bed no figure would ever care to show itself. Also it was Easter, and after Easter, though Tim was not aware of it at the time, he was to say goodbye fondly to governesses and become a day-border at a preparatory school for Wellington. The opportunity offered itself so naturally, moreover that Tim took it without hesitation. It never occurred to him to question much less to refuse it. Everything was obviously meant to be, for he found himself unexpectedly in front of a green bay's door, and the green bay's door was swinging. Somebody therefore had just passed through it. It had come about in this wise. Father, away in Scotland, at Inglomer, the shooting place, was expected back next morning. Mother had driven over to the church upon some Easter business or other, and the governess had been allowed her holiday at home in France. Tim, therefore, had the run of the house, and in the hour between tea and bedtime he made good use of it. Fully able to defy such second-rate obstacles as nurses and butlers, he explored all manner of forbidden places with ardent thoroughness, arriving finally in the sacred precincts of his father's study. This wonderful room was the very heart and centre of the whole big house. He had been birched here long ago. Here, too, his father had told him with a grave yet smiling face. You've got a new companion, Tim, a little sister. You must be very kind to her. Also it was the place where all the money was kept. What he called Father's jolly smell was strong in it, papers, tobacco, books, flavoured by hunting crops and gunpowder. At first he felt odd, standing motionless just inside the door, but presently recovering equilibrium he moved cautiously on Timtoe towards the gigantic desk where important papers were piled in untidy patches. These he did not touch, but beside them his quick eye noted the jagged piece of iron shell his father brought home from his Crimean campaign and now used as a letterweight. It was difficult to lift, however. He climbed into the comfortable chair and swung round and round. It was a swivel chair and he sank down among the cushions in it, staring at the strange things on the great desk before him as if fascinated. Next he turned away and saw the stick-rock in the corner. This he knew he was allowed to touch. He had played with these sticks before. There were twenty, perhaps all told, with curious carved handles brought from every corner of the world, many of them cut by his father's own hand in queer and distant places. And among them Tim fixed his eye upon a cane with an ivory handle, a slender, polished cane that he had always coveted tremendously. It was the kind he meant to use when he became a man. It bent, it quivered, and when he swished it through the air it trembled like a riding whip and made a whistling noise. Yet it was very strong in spite of its elastic qualities, a family treasure. It was also an old-fashioned relic. It had been his great-grandfather's walking stick. Something of another century clung visibly about it still. It had dignity and grace and leisure in its very aspect, and it suddenly occurred to him, how great-grand-papa must miss it! Wouldn't he just love to have it back again? How it happened exactly Tim did not know, but a few minutes later he found himself walking about the deserted halls and passages of the house with the air of an elderly gentleman of a hundred years ago, proud as a courtier, flourishing the stick like an eighteenth-century dandy in the mall. That the cane reached to his shoulder made no difference. He held it accordingly, swaggering on his way. He was off upon an adventure. He dived down through the biways of the other wing inside himself, as though the stick transported him to the days of the old gentleman who had used it in another century. It may seem strange to those who dwell in smaller houses, but in this rambling Elizabethan mansion there were whole sections that, even to Tim, were strange and unfamiliar. In his mind the map of the other wing was clearer by far than the geography of the part he travelled daily. He came to passages and dimlet halls, long quarters of stone beyond the pitcher gallery, narrow, wane-scotted, connecting channels with four steps down and the, little later, two steps up, deserted chambers with arches guarding them, all hung with the soft marched twilight, and all bewilderingly unrecognized. With a sense of adventure born of naughtiness he went carelessly along, farther and farther into the heart of this unfamiliar country, swinging the cane, one thumb stuck into the armpit of his blue-surge suit, whistling softly to himself, excited yet keenly on the alert, and suddenly found himself opposite a door that checked all further advanced. It was a green bay's door, and it was swinging. He stopped abruptly, facing it. He stared. He gripped his cane more tightly. He held his breath. The other wing, he gasped in a swallowed whisper. It was an entrance, but an entrance he had never seen before. He thought he knew every door by heart, but this one was new. He stood motionless for several minutes, watching it. The door had two halves, but one half only was swinging. Each swing shorter than the one before. He heard the little puffs of air it made. It settled finally. The last movement's very short and rapid. It stopped. And the boy's heart, after similar rapid strokes, stopped also, for a moment. "'Someone's just gone through,' he gulped. And even as he said it, he knew who the someone was. The conviction just dropped into him. It's great-grand-papa. He knows I've got his stick. He wants it.' On the hills of this flashed instantly another amazing certainty. He sleeps in there. He's having dreams. That's what being dead means. His first impulse then took the form of, I must let father know. It'll make him first for joy. But his second was for himself, to finish his adventure. And it was this, naturally enough, that gained the day. He could tell his father later. His first duty was plainly to go through the door into the other wing. He must give the stick back to its owner. He must hand it back. The test of will and character came now. Tim had imagination, and so knew the meaning of fear. But there was nothing craven in him. He could howl and scream and stamp like any other person of his age when the occasion called for such behavior, but such occasions were due to temper aroused by a thwarted will, and the histrionics were half-pretended to produce a calculated effect. There was no one to thwart his will at present. He also knew how to be afraid of nothing, to be afraid without a sensible cause, that is, which was merely nerves. He could have the shutters with the best of them. But when a real thing faced him, Tim's character emerged to meet it. He would clench his hands, brace his muscles, set his teeth, and wish to heaven he was bigger. But he would not flinch. Being imaginative, he lived the worst a dozen times before it happened, yet in the final crash he stood up like a man. He had that highest pluck, the courage of a sensitive temperament, and at this particular juncture somewhat ticklish for a boy of eight or nine, it did not fail him. He lifted the cane and pushed the swinging door wide open, then he walked through it, into the other wing. 3. The green bay's door swung to behind him. He was even sufficiently master of himself to turn and close it with a steady hand, because he did not care to hear the series of muffled thuds its lessening swings would cause, but he realized clearly his position, knew he was doing a tremendous thing. Holding the cane between fingers very tightly clenched, he advanced bravely along the corridor that stretched before him, and all fear left him from that moment replaced it seemed, by a mild and exquisite surprise. His footsteps made no sound, he walked on air. Instead of darkness or the twilight he expected, a diffused and gentle light that seemed like the silver on the lawn when a half-moon sails a cloudless sky lay everywhere. He knew his way, moreover, knew exactly where he was and whither he was going. The corridor was as familiar to him as the floor of his own bedroom. He recognized the shape and length of it. It agreed exactly with the map he had constructed long ago, though he had never, to the best of his knowledge, entered it before. He knew with intimacy its every detail. And thus the surprise he felt was mild and far from disconcerting. I'm here again, was the kind of thought he had. It was how he got here that caused the faint surprise, apparently. He no longer swaggered, however, but walked carefully and half on tiptoe holding the ivory handle of the cane with a kind of affectionate respect. And as he advanced the light closed softly up behind him, obliterating the way by which he had come. But this he did not know because he did not look behind him. He only looked in front, where the corridor stretched at silvery length towards the great chamber where he knew the cane must be surrendered. The person who had preceded him down this ancient corridor, passing through the green bay's door just before he reached it, this person, his father's grandfather, now stood in that great chamber waiting to receive his own. Tim knew it as surely as he knew he breathed. At the far end he even made out a larger patch of silvery light which marked its gaping doorway. There was another thing he knew as well, that this corridor he moved along between rooms with fast closed doors was the nightmare corridor, often and often he had traversed it. Each room was occupied. This is the nightmare passage, he whispered to himself. But I know the ruler. It doesn't matter. None of the nightmares can get out or do anything. He heard them nonetheless inside as he passed by. He heard them scratching to get out. The feeling of security made him reckless. He took unnecessary risks, he brushed the panels as he passed, and the love of keen sensation for its own sake, the desire to fill an awful thrill, tempted him once so sharply that he suddenly raised his stick and poked a fast shut door with it. He was not prepared for the result, but he gained a sensation and the thrill. For the door opened with instant swiftness half an inch, a hand emerged, caught the stick, and tried to draw it in. Tim sprang back as if he had been struck. He pulled at the ivory handle with all his strength, but his strength was less than nothing. He tried to shout, but his voice had gone. A terror of the moon came over him, for he was unable to loosen his hold of the handle. His fingers had become a part of it. An appalling weakness turned him helpless. He was dragged inch by inch toward the fearful door. The end of the stick was already through the narrow crack. He could not see the hand that pulled, but he knew it was gigantic. He understood now why the world was strange, why horses galloped furiously, and why trains whistled as they raced through stations. All the comedy and terror of nightmare gripped his heart with pincers made of ice. The disproportion was abominable. The final collapse rushed over him when, without a sign of warning, the door slammed silently, and between the jam and the wall the cane was crushed as flat as if it were a bulrush. So irresistible was the force behind the door that the solid stick just went flat as the stock of a bulrush. He looked at it. It was a bulrush. He did not laugh. The absurdity was so distressingly unnatural. The horror of finding a bulrush where he had expected a polished cane, this hideous and appalling detail held the nameless horror of the nightmare. It betrayed him utterly. Why had he not always known really that the stick was not a stick, but a thin and hollow reed? Then the cane was safely in his hand, unbroken. He stood looking at it. The nightmare was in full swing. He heard another door opening behind his back, a door he had not touched. There was just time to see a hand thrusting and waving dreadfully, horribly at him through the narrow crack. Just time to realize that this was another nightmare acting in a trotious concert with a first, when he saw closely beside him, cowering to the ceiling the protective, kindly figure that visited his bedroom. In the turning movement he made to meet the attack, he became aware of her. And his terror passed. It was a nightmare terror merely. The infinite horror vanished, only the comedy remained. He smiled. He saw her dimly only, she was so vast, but he saw her, the ruler of the other wing at last, and knew that he was safe again. He gazed with a tremendous love and wonder, trying to see her clearly, but the face was hidden far loft and seemed to melt into the sky beyond the roof. He discerned that she was larger than the night, only far, far softer with wings that folded above him more tenderly even than his mother's arms, that there were points of light like stars among the feathers, and that she was vast enough to cover millions and millions of people all at once. Moreover, she did not fade or go so far as he could see, but spread herself in such a way that he lost sight of her. She spread over the entire wing. And Tim remembered that this was all quite natural, really. He had often and often been down this corridor before. The nightmare corridor was no new experience. It had to be faced as usual. Once knowing what hid inside the rooms, he was bound to tempt them out. They drew, enticed, attracted him. This was their power. It was their special strength that they could suck him helplessly towards them, and that he was obliged to go. He understood exactly why he was tempted to tap with the cane upon their awful doors, but, having done so, he had accepted the challenge and could now continue his journey quietly and safely. The ruler of the other wing had taken him in charge. A delicious sense of carelessness came on him. There was softness as of water in the solid things about him. Nothing that could hurt a bruise. Holding the cane firmly by its ivory handle, he went forward along the corridor, walking as on air. The end was quickly reached. He stood upon the threshold of the mighty chamber where he knew the owner of the cane was waiting. The long corridor lay behind him. In front he saw the spacious dimensions of a lofty hall that gave him the feeling of being in the Crystal Palace, Houston Station, or St. Paul's. High narrow windows cut deeply into the wall stood in a row upon the other side, an enormous open fireplace of burning logs was on his right, thick tapestries hung from the ceiling to the floor of stone, and in the center of the chamber was a massive table of dark shining wood, great chairs with carved stiff backs set here and there beside it, and in the biggest of these throne-like chairs there sat a figure looking at him gravely, the figure of an old, old man. Yet there was no surprise in the boy's fast-beating heart. There was a thrill of pleasure and excitement only, a feeling of satisfaction. He had known quite well the figure would be there. And also it would look like this exactly. He stepped forward onto the floor of stone without a trace of fear or trembling, holding the precious king in two hands now before him, as though to present it to its owner. He felt proud and pleased. He had run risks for this. And the figure rose quietly to meet him, advancing in a stately manner over the hard stone floor. The eyes looked gravely, sweetly down at him, the aquiline nose stood out. Tim knew him perfectly, the knee-breaches of shining satin, the gleaming buckles on the shoes, the neat dark stockings, the lace and ruffles about the neck and wrists, the colored waistcoat opening so widely. All the details of the picture over father's mental piece, where it hung between two crummy and bayonets, were reproduced in life before his eyes at last. Only the polished cane with the ivory handle was not there. Tim went three steps nearer to the advancing figure and held out both his hands with the cane laid crosswise on them. I've brought it, great-grand-papa. He said in a faint but clear and steady tone, here it is. And the other stooped a little, put out three fingers half concealed by falling lace, and took it by the ivory handle. He made a curtly bow to Tim. He smiled, but though there was pleasure, it was a grave, sad smile. He spoke then. The voice was slow and very deep. There was a delicate softness in it, the suave politeness of an older day. Thank you, he said. I value it. It was given to me by my grandfather. I forgot it when I. His voice grew indistinct a little. Yes, said Tim. When I left, the old gentleman repeated. Oh, said Tim, thinking how beautiful and kind the gracious figure was. The old man ran his slender fingers carefully along the cane, feeling the polished surface with satisfaction. He lingered specially over the smoothness of the ivory handle. He was evidently very pleased. I was not quite myself. Uh, at the moment. He went on gently. My memory failed me somewhat. He sighed as though an immense relief was in him. I forget things, too, sometimes. Tim mentioned sympathetically. He simply loved his great-grandfather. He hoped, for a moment, he would be lifted up and kissed. I'm awfully glad I brought it, he added, that you've got it again. The other turned his kind, gray eyes upon him. The smile on his face was full of gratitude as he looked down. Thank you, my boy. I am truly and deeply indebted to you. You courted danger for my sake. Others have tried before. But the nightmare passage, uh, he broke off. He tapped the stick firmly on the stone flooring as though to test it. Bending a trifle, he put his weight upon it. Ah, he exclaimed with a short sigh of relief. I can now— His voice again grew indistinct. Tim did not catch the words. Yes, he asked again, aware for the first time that a touch of awe was in his heart. Get about again. The other continued very low. Without my cane, he added the voice falling with each word, the old lips uttered, I could not, possibly, allow myself to be seen. It was indeed deplorable, unpardonable of me, to forget in such a way. Sound, sir! I—I— His voice sank away suddenly into a sound of wind. He straightened up, tapping the iron feral of his cane on the stones in a series of loud knocks. Tim felt a strained sensation creep into his legs. The queer words frightened him a little. The old men took a step towards him. He still smiled, but there was a new meaning in the smile. A sudden earnestness had replaced the courtly, leisurely manner. The next words seemed to blow down upon the boy from above as though a cold wind brought them from the sky outside. Yet the words he knew were kindly meant and very sensible. It was only the abrupt change that startled him. My grandpa, after all, was but a man. This distant sound recalled something in him to that outside world from which the cold wind blew. My eternal thanks to you! He heard while the voice and face and figure seemed to withdraw deeper and deeper into the heart of the mighty chamber. I shall not forget your kindness and your courage. It is a debt I can, fortunately, one day repay. But now you would best return, and with dispatch. For your head and arm lie heavily on the table. The documents are scattered. There is a cushion fallen, and my son's son is in the house. Farewell. You had best leave me quickly. See? SHE stands behind you, waiting. Go with her! Go now!" The entire scene had vanished even before the final words were uttered. Tim felt empty space about him. A vast, shadowy figure bore him through it as with mighty wings. He flew, he rushed, he remembered nothing more, until he heard another voice and felt a heavy hand upon his shoulder. Tim, you rascal, what are you doing in my study? And in the dark like this? He looked up into his father's face without a word. He felt dazed. The next moment his father had caught him up and kissed him. Braggamuffin, how did you guess I was coming back to-night? He shook him playfully and kissed his tumbling hair. And you've been asleep, too, into the bargain. Well, how's everything at home, eh? Jack's coming back from school tomorrow, you know, and— Four. Jack came home, indeed, the following day. And when the Easter holidays were over, the governess stayed broad, and Tim went off to adventures of another kind in the preparatory school for Wellington. Life slipped rapidly along with him. He grew into a man, his mother and father died, Jack followed them within a little space. Tim inherited, married, settled down into his great possessions, and opened up the other wing. The dreams of imagine of boyhood had all faded. Perhaps he had merely put them away, or perhaps he had forgotten them. At any rate he never spoke of such things now, and when his Irish wife mentioned her belief that the old country house possessed a family ghost, even declaring that she had met an eighteenth-century figure of a man in the corridors— An old, old man, who bends down upon a stick! Tim only laughed and said, That says it ought to be! And if these awful land taxes force us to sell some day, a respectable ghost will increase the market value. But one night he woke and heard a tapping on the floor. He sat up in bed and listened. There was a chilly feeling down his back. Belief had long since gone out of him. He felt uncannily afraid. The sound came nearer and nearer. There were light footsteps with it. The door opened. It opened a little wider, that is, for it already stood ajar, and there upon the threshold stood a figure that it seemed he knew. He saw the face as with all the vivid sharpness of reality. There was a smile upon it, but a smile of warning and alarm. The arm was raised. Tim saw the slender hand, lace falling down upon the long, thin fingers, and in them tightly gripped a polished cane. Having the cane twice to and fro in the air, the face thrust forward, spoke certain words, and vanished. But the words were inaudible, for though the lips distinctly moved, no sound apparently came from them. And Tim sprang out of bed. The room was full of darkness. He turned the light on. The door, he saw, was shut as usual. He had, of course, been dreaming. But he noticed a curious odor in the air. He sniffed it once or twice, then grasped the truth. It was a smell of burning. Fortunately, he woke just in time. He was acclaimed a hero for his promptitude. After many days, when the damage was repaired and nerves had settled down once more into the calm routine of country life, he told the story to his wife, the entire story. He told the adventure of his imaginative boyhood with it. She asked to see the old family cane. And it was this request of hers that brought back to memory a detail Tim had entirely forgotten all these years. He remembered it suddenly again. The loss of the cane, the hubbub his father kicked up about it, the endless futile search, for the stick had never been found, and Tim, who was questioned very closely concerning it, swore with all his might that he had not the smallest notion where it was, which was, of course, the truth. And of The Other Wing, recording by Sudane Vox. The Secret of Gorstorp Grange by Arthur Conan Doyle. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, nor to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. The Secret of Gorstorp Grange by Arthur Conan Doyle. I am sure that nature never intended me to be a self-made man. There are times when I can hardly bring myself to realize that 20 years of my life were spent behind the counter of a grocer's shop in the east end of London, and that it was through such an avenue that I reached a wealthy independence and the possession of Gorstorp Grange. My habits are conservative, and my tastes refined and aristocratic. I have a soul which spurns the vulgar herd. Our family, the odds date back to a prehistoric era, as is to be inferred from the fact that their advent into British history is not commented on by any trustworthy historian. Some instinct tells me that the blood of a crusader runs in my veins. Even now, after the lapse of so many years, such exclamations as, by your lady, rise naturally to my lips, and I feel that should circumstances require it, I am capable of rising in my stirrups and dealing in infidel a blow, say, with a mace, which would considerably astonish him. Gorstorp Grange is a futile mansion, or so it was termed in the advertisement which originally brought it under my notice. It's right to this adjective had a most remarkable effect upon the price, and the advantages gained may possibly be more sentimental than real. Still, it is soothing to me to know that I have slits in my staircase through which I can discharge arrows, and there is a sense of power in the fact of possessing a complicated apparatus by means of which I am enabled to pour molten lead upon the head of the casual visitor. These things chime in with my peculiar humor, and I do not grudge to pay for them. I am proud of my battlements and of the circular uncovered sewer which girds me round. I am proud of my portcullis and donjon and keep. There is but one thing wanting to round off the medievalism of my abode and to render it symmetrically and completely antique. Gorstorp Grange is not provided with a ghost. Any man with old-fashioned tastes and ideas as to how such establishments should be conducted would have been disappointed at the omission. In my case, it was particularly unfortunate. From my childhood, I had been an earnest student of the supernatural and a firm believer in it. I have reveled in ghostly literature until there is hardly a tale bearing upon the subject which I have not perused. I learned the German language for the sole purpose of mastering a book upon demonology. When an infant, I have secreted myself in dark rooms in the hope of seeing some of those bogies with which my nurse used to threaten me, and the same feeling is as strong in me now as then. It was a proud moment when I felt that a ghost was one of the luxuries which my money might command. It is true that there was no mention of an apparition in the advertisement. On reviewing the mildewed walls, however, and the shadowy corridors, I had taken it for granted that there was such a thing on the premises, as the presence of a kennel presupposes that of a dog. So I imagined that it was impossible that such desirable quarters should be untenanted by one or more restless shades. Good heavens, what can the noble family from whom I purchased it have been doing during these hundreds of years? Was there no member of it spirited enough to make away with his sweetheart or take some other steps calculated to establish a hereditary specter? Even now I can hardly write with patience upon the subject. For a long time I hoped against hope. Never did a rat squeak behind the wainscot or rain drip upon the attic floor without a wild thrill shooting through me as I thought that at last I had come upon traces of some unquiet soul. I felt no such fear upon these occasions. If it occurred in the nighttime, I would send Mrs. Dodd, who is a strong-minded woman, to investigate the matter while I covered up my head with the bedclothes and indulged in an ecstasy of expectation. Alas, the result was always the same. The suspicious sound would be traced to some cause so absurdly natural and commonplace that the most fervent imagination could not clue it with any of the glamour of romance. I might have reconciled myself to this state of things had it not been for Jurox of Havastock Farm. Jurox is, of course, burly matter-of-fact fellow whom I only happen to know through the accidental circumstance of his fields adjoining my domain. Yet this man, though utterly devoid of all appreciation of archaeological unities, is in possession of a well-authenticated and undeniable specter. Its existence only dates back, I believe, to the reign of the Second George when a young lady cut her throat upon hearing of the death of her lover at the Battle of Dettingen. Still, even that gives the house an air of respectability, especially when coupled with bloodstains upon the floor. Jurox is densely unconscious of his good fortune and his language when he reverts to the apparition is painful to listen to. He little dreams how I covet every one of those moans and nocturnal wails which he describes with unnecessary objugation. Things are indeed coming to a pretty pass when democratic specters are allowed to desert the landed proprietors and annul every social distinction by taking refuge in the houses of the great unrecognized. I have a large amount of perseverance. Nothing else could have raised me into my rightful sphere considering the uncongenial atmosphere in which I spent the earlier part of my life. I felt now that a ghost must be secured, but how to set about securing one was more than either misses to odd or myself was able to determine. My reading taught me that such phenomenon are usually the outcome of crime. What crime was to be done then and who was to do it? A wild idea entered my mind that Watkins the house steward might be prevailed upon for a consideration to emulate himself or someone else in the interests of the establishment. I put the matter to him in a half-gesting manner, but it did not seem to strike him in a favorable light. The other servants sympathized with him in his opinion. At least I cannot account in any other way for there having left the house in a body the same afternoon. My dear, misses to odd remark to me one day after dinner as I sat moodily sipping a cup of sack. I love the good old names. My dear, that odious ghost of Jurox has been jibbering again. Let it jibber, I answered recklessly. Misses to odd struck a few cords on her virginal and looked thoughtfully into the fire. I'll tell you what it is, Argentine. She said at last using the pet name which we usually substituted for Silas. We must have a ghost sent down from London. How can you be so idiotic, Matilda? I remarked severely. Who could get us such a thing? My cousin, Jack Brockett could, she answered confidently. Now this cousin of Matildas was rather a sore subject between us. He was a rakeish, clever young fellow who had tried his hand at many things but wanted perseverance to succeed at any. He was at that time in chambers in London professing to be a general agent and really living to a great extent upon his wits. Matilda managed so that most of our business should pass through his hands which certainly saved me a great deal of trouble but I found that Jack's commission was generally considerably larger than all the other items of the bill put together. It was this fact which made me feel inclined to rebel against any further negotiations with the young gentleman. Oh yes, he could, insisted Mrs. D., seeing the look of disapprobation upon my face. You remember how well he managed that business about the crest? It was only a resuscitation of the old family coat of arms, my dear, I protested. Matilda smiled in an irritating manner. There was a resuscitation of the family portraits too, dear, she remarked. You must allow that Jack selected them very judiciously. I thought of the long line of faces which adorned the walls of my back-witting hall from the burly Norman robber through every gradation of cask, plume, and rough to the somber Chesterfieldian individual who appears to have staggered against a pillar in his agony at the return of a maiden MS which he grips convulsively in his right hand. I was feigned to confess that in that instance he had done his work well and that it was only fair to give him an order with the usual commission for a family specter should such a thing be attainable. It is one of my maxims to act promptly when once my mind is made up. Noon of the next day found me ascending the spiral stone staircase which leads to Mr. Brockett's chambers and admiring the succession of arrows and fingers upon the whitewashed wall, all indicating the direction of that gentleman's sanctum. As it happened, artificial aids of the sort were entirely unnecessary as an animated flap dance overhead could proceed from no other quarter, though it was replaced by a deathly silence as I groped my way up the stair. The door was opened by a youth, evidently astounded at the appearance of a client and I was ushered into the presence of my young friend who was writing furiously in a large ledger upside down as I afterwards discovered. After the first greetings I plunged into business at once. Look here, Jack, I said. I want you to get me a spirit if you can. Spirits, you mean? shouted my wife's cousin, plunging his hand into the waste paper basket and producing a bottle with a celerity of a conjuring trick. Let's have a drink. I held up my hand as a mute appeal against such a proceeding so early in the day but on lowering it again I found that I had almost involuntarily closed my fingers around the tumbler which my advisor had pressed upon me. I drank the contents hastily off lest anyone should come in upon us and set me down as a topper. After all, there was something very amusing about the young fellow's eccentricities. Not spirits, I explained smilingly, an apparition, a ghost. If such a thing is to be had, I should be very willing to negotiate. A ghost for Gorsethorpe Grange, inquired Mr. Brockett, with as much coolness as if I had asked for a drawing-room suite. Quite so, I answered. Easiest thing in the world, said my companion, filling up my glass again in spite of my remonstrance. Let us see. Here he took down a large red notebook with all the letters of the alphabet in a fringe down the edge. A ghost, you said, didn't you? That's G. G, gems, gimlets, gaspipes, gauntlets, guns, galleys. Ah, here we are, ghosts. Volume 9, section 6, page 41. Excuse me. And Jack ran up a ladder and began rummaging among a pile of ledgers on a high shelf. I felt half inclined to empty my glass into the spittoon when his back was turned, but on second thoughts I'd disposed of it in a legitimate way. Here it is, cried my London agent, jumping off the ladder with a crash and depositing an enormous volume of manuscript upon the table. I have all these things tabulated so that I may lay my hands upon them in a moment. It's all right, it's quite weak. Here he filled our glasses again. What were we looking up again? Ghosts, I suggested. Of course, page 41. Here we are, J. H. Fowler and son. Dunkle Street, suppliers of mediums to the nobility and gentry. Charms sold, love filtrates, mummies, horoscopes cast. Nothing in your line there, I suppose. I shook my head despondingly. Frederick Tabb continued my wife's cousin, solo channel of communication between the living and dead, proprietor of the spirits of Byron, Kirk, White, Grimaldi, Tom Crib, and Inigo Jones. That's about the figure. Nothing romantic enough there, I objected. Good heavens, fancy a ghost with a black eye and a handkerchief tied round its waist or turning somersaults and saying, how are you tomorrow? The very idea made me so warm that I emptied my glass and filled it again. Here's another, said my companion, a Christopher McCarthy, bi-weekly séances, attended by all the eminent spirits of ancient and modern times. Nativities, charms, abracadabras, messages from the dead. He might be able to help us. However, I shall have a hunt round myself tomorrow and see some of these fellows. I know they're haunts and it's odd if I can't pick up something cheap. So there's an end of business. He concluded hurling the ledger into the corner. And now we'll have something to drink. We had several things to drink. So many that my inventive faculties were dulled next morning. And I had some little difficulty in explaining to Mrs. Da'ad why it was that I hung my boots and spectacles upon a peg along with my other garments before retiring to rest. The new hopes excited by the confident manner in which my agent had undertaken the commission caused me to rise superior to alcoholic reaction. And I paced about the rambling corridors and old fashioned rooms, picturing to myself the appearance of my expected acquisition and deciding what part of the building would harmonize best with its presence. After much consideration, I pitched upon the banqueting hall as being on the whole the most suitable for its reception. It was a long, low room, hung round with valuable tapestry and interesting relics of the old family to whom it had belonged. Coats of mail and implements of war glimmered fitfully as the light of the fire played over them. And the wind crept under the door, moving the hangings to and fro with a ghastly rustling. At one end there was the raised dais on which in the ancient times the host and his guests used to spread their table. While a descent of a couple of steps led to the lower part of the hall where the vassals and retainers held wassel, the floor was uncovered by any sort of carpet, but a layer of rushes had been scattered over it by my direction. In the whole room there was nothing to remind one of the 19th century, except indeed my own solid silver plate stamped with the resuscitated family arms which was laid out upon an oak table in the center. This, I determined, should be the haunted room, supposing my wife's cousin to succeed in his negotiation with the spirit mongers. There was nothing for it now but to wait patiently until I heard some news of the result of his inquiries. A letter came in the course of a few days which, if it was short, was at least encouraging. It was scribbled in pencil on the back of a playbill and sealed apparently with a tobacco stopper. I'm on the track, it said. Nothing of the sort to be had from any professional spiritualist, but picked up a fellow in a pub yesterday who says he can manage it for you. We'll send him down unless you wire to the contrary. Abraham's is his name and he has done one or two of these jobs before. The letter wound up with some incoherent illusions to a check and was signed by my affectionate cousin, John Brockett. I need hardly say that I did not wire but awaited the arrival of Mr. Abraham's with all impatience. In spite of my belief in the supernatural, I could scarcely credit the fact that any mortal could have such a command over the spirit world as to deal in them and barter them against mere earthly gold. Still, I had Jack's word for it that such a trait existed and here was a gentleman with a Judaical name ready to demonstrate it by proof positive. How vulgar and commonplace Jurox, 18th century ghost, would appear should I succeed in securing a real medieval apparition. I almost thought that one had been sent down in advance for as I walked down the moat that night before retiring to rest, I came upon a dark figure engaged in surveying the machinery of my portcullis and drawbridge. His start of surprise, however, had the manner in which he harried off into the darkness speedily convinced me of his earthly origin, and I put him down as some admirer of one of my female retainers, mourning over the muddy helispont which divided him from his love. Whoever he may have been, he disappeared and did not return, though I loitered about for some time in the hope of catching a glimpse of him and exercising my futile rights upon his person. Jack Brockett was as good as his word. The shades of another evening were beginning to darken round Gorshthorpe Grange when a peal at the outer bell and the sound of a fly pulling up announced the arrival of Mr. Abraham's. I hurried down to meet him, half expecting to see a choice assortment of ghosts crowding in at his rear. Instead, however, of being the sallow-faced melancholy-eyed man that I had pictured to myself, the ghost-dealer was a sturdy little Pajie fellow with a pair of wonderfully keen sparkling eyes and a mouth which was constantly stretched and a good-humored, if somewhat artificial, grin. His soul, stock and trade, seemed to consist of a small leather bag jealously locked and strapped, which emitted a metallic chink upon being placed on the stone flags of the walk. And how are you, sir? He asked, ringing my hand with the utmost effusion. And the Mrs., how is she and all the others? How's all their health? I intimated that we were all as well as could reasonably be expected, but Mr. Abraham's happened to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Dodd in the distance and at once plunged at her with another string of inquiries as to her health, delivered so voluably and with such an intense earnestness that I have expected to see him terminate his cross-examination by feeling her pulse and demanding a sight of her tongue. All this time, his little eyes rolled round and round, shifting perpetually from the floor to the ceiling and from the ceiling to the walls, taking in apparently every article of furniture in a single comprehensive glance. Having satisfied himself that neither of us was in a pathological condition, Mr. Abraham suffered me to lead him upstairs where a rip-past had been laid out for him to which he did ample justice. The mysterious little bag he carried along with him and deposited it under his chair during the meal. It was not until the table had been cleared and we were left together that he broached the matter on which he had come down. I understand, he remarked, puffing it at Trigonopoly, that you want my help in fitting up this here house with an apparition. I acknowledged the correctness of his surmise while mentally wondering at those restless eyes of his which still danced about the room as if he were making an inventory of the contents. And you won't find a better man for the job though I says it as shouldn't, continued my companion. What did I say to the young gent but spoke to me in the bar of the lame dog? Can you do it, says he? Try me, says I, me in my bag, just try me. I couldn't say fairer than that. My respect for Jack Brockett's business capacities began to go up very considerably. He certainly seemed to have managed the matter wonderfully well. You don't mean to say that you carry ghosts about in bags, I remarked with dividends. Mr. Abraham smiled a smile of superior knowledge. You wait, he said. Give me the right place in the right hour with a little of the essence of eucalyptus. Here he produced a small bottle from his waistcoat pocket. And you won't find no ghost that I aim up to. You'll see them yourself and pick your own. I can't say fairer than that. As all Mr. Abraham's protestations of fairness were accompanied by a cunning leer and a wink from one or other of his wicked little eyes, the impression of candor was somewhat weakened. When are you going to do it? I asked reverentially. 10 minutes to one in the morning, said Mr. Abraham's with decision. Some says midnight, but I says 10 to one when there ain't such a crowd and you can pick your own ghost. And now he continued rising to his feet. Suppose you trot me round the premises and let me see where you want it, for there are some places as attractive and some as they won't hear of, not if there was no other place in the world. Mr. Abraham's inspected our corridors and chambers with a most critical and observant eye, fingering the old tapestry with the air of a connoisseur and remarking in an undertone that it would match uncommon nice. It was not until he reached the banqueting hall, however, which I had myself picked out that his admiration reached the pitch of enthusiasm. Here's the place, he shouted, dancing bag in hand round the table on which my plate was lying and looking not unlike some quaint little goblin himself. Here's the place. We won't get nothing to beat this, a fine room, noble, solid, none of your electro plate trash. That's the ways things ought to be done, sir. Plenty of room for him to glide here. Send up some brandy and the box of weeds. I'll sit here by the fire and do the preliminaries, which is more trouble than you think for them ghosts carries on awful at times before they find out who they've got to deal with. If you was in the room, they'd tear you to pieces as like as not. You leave me alone to tackle them and at half past 12 come in and I'll lay they'll all be quiet enough by then. Mr. Abraham's request struck me as a reasonable one. So I left him with his feet upon the mantelpiece and his chair in front of the fire, fortifying himself with stimulants against his refractory visitors. From the room beneath in which I sat with Mrs. Da'ad, I could hear that after sitting for some time he rose up and paced about the hall with quick impatient steps. We then heard him try the lock of the door and afterwards dragged some heavy article of furniture in the direction of the window on which apparently he'd mounted for I heard the creaking of the rusty hinges as the diamond-pained casement folded backwards and I knew it to be situated several feet above the little man's reach. Mrs. Da'ad says that she could distinguish his voice speaking in low and rapid whispers after this, but that may have been her imagination. I confessed that I began to feel more impressed than I had deemed it possible to be. There was something awesome in the thought of the solitary mortal standing by the open window and summoning in from the gloom outside the spirits of the nether world. It was with a trepidation which I could hardly disguise from Matilda that I observed that the clock was pointing to half past 12 and that the time had come for me to share the vigil of my visitor. He was sitting in his old position when I entered and there were no signs of the mysterious movements which I had overheard, though his chubby face was flushed as with recent exertion. Are you succeeding all right? I asked as I came in, putting on as careless an air as possible, but glancing involuntarily around the room to see if we were alone. Only your help is needed to complete the matter, said Mr. Abraham's in a solemn voice. You shall sit by me and partake of the essence of eucalyptus which removes the scales from our earthly eyes. Whatever you may chance to see, speak not and make no movement lest you break the spell. His manner was subdued and his usual cockney vulgarity had entirely disappeared. I took the chair which he indicated and awaited the result. My companion cleared the rushes from the floor in our neighborhood and going down upon his hands and knees described a half circle with chalk which enclosed the fireplace and ourselves. Around the edge of this half circle he drew several hieroglyphics not unlike the signs of the zodiac. He then stood up and uttered a long invocation delivered so rapidly that it sounded like a single gigantic word in some uncouth guttural language. Having finished this prayer, if prayer it was, he pulled out the small bottle which he had produced before and poured a couple of teaspoonfuls of clear transparent fluid into the vial which he handed to me with an intimation that I should drink it. Liquid had a faintly sweet odor not unlike the aroma of certain sorts of apples. I hesitated a moment before applying it to my lips but an impatient gesture from my companion overcame my scruples and I tossed it off. The taste was not unpleasant and as it gave no rise to immediate effects I leaned back in my chair and composed myself for what was to come. Mr. Abraham seated himself beside me and I felt that he was watching my face from time to time while repeating some more of the invocations in which he had indulged before. A sense of delicious warmth and languor began gradually to steal over me. Partly perhaps from the heat of the fire and partly from some unexplained cause. An uncontrollable impulse to sleep weighed down my eyelids while at the same time my brain worked actively and a hundred beautiful and pleasing ideas flitted through it. So utterly lethargic did I feel that though I was aware that my companion put his hand over the region of my heart as if to feel how it were beating I did not attempt to prevent him nor did I even ask him for the reason of his action. Everything in the room appeared to be reeling slowly round in a drowsy dance of which I was the center. The great Elkshead at the far end wagged solemnly backward and forward while the massive salvers on the tables performed cattillions with the claret cooler and the e-pairn. My head fell upon my breast from sheer heaviness and I should have become unconscious had I not been recalled to myself by the opening of the door at the other end of the hall. This door led on to the raised dais which as I have mentioned the heads of the house used to reserve for their own use. As it swung slowly back upon its hinges I sat up in my chair clutching at the arms and staring with a horrified glare at the dark passage outside. Something was coming down it. Something unformed and intangible but still a something. In the room and shadowy I saw it flit across the threshold while a blast of ice-cold air swept down the room which seemed to blow through me, chilling my very heart. I was aware of the mysterious presence and then I heard it speak in a voice like the sighing of an east wind among pine trees on the banks of a desolate sea. It said, I am the invisible non-entity. I have affinities and am subtle. I am electric, magnetic and spiritualistic. I am the great ethereal sigh-heaver. I kill dogs. Mortal, will doubt choose me? I was about to speak but the words seemed to be choked in my throat and before I could get them out the shadow flitted across the hall and vanished in the darkness at the other side while a long-drawn melancholy sigh quivered through the apartment. I turned my eyes toward the door once more and beheld to my astonishment a very small old woman who hobbled along the corridor and into the hall. She passed backward and forward several times and then crouching down at the very edge of the circle upon the floor she disclosed a face, the horrible malignity of which shall never be banished from my recollection. Every foul passion appeared to have left its mark upon that hideous countenance. Ha-ha, she screamed, holding out her wise and hands like the talons of an unclean bird. You see what I am. I am the fiendish old woman. I wear snuff-colored silks. My curse descends on people. Sir Walter was partial to me. Shall I be thine mortal? I endeavored to shake my head in horror on which she aimed a blow at me with her crutch and vanished with an eldritch scream. By this time my eyes turned naturally toward the open door and I was hardly surprised to see a man walk in of tall and noble stature. His face was deadly pale, but was surmounted by a fringe of dark hair which fell in ringlets down his back. A short pointed beard covered his chin. He was dressed in loose-fitting clothes made apparently of yellow satin and a large white ruff surrounded his neck. He paced across the room with slow and majestic strides, then turning he addressed me in a sweet exquisitely modulated voice. I am the cavalier, he remarked. I pierce and am pierced. Here is my rapier, I clink steel. This is a bloodstain over my heart. I can emit hollow groans. I am patronized by many old conservative families. I am the original Manor House apparition. I work alone or in company with shrieking damsels. He bent his head courteously as though awaiting my reply, but the same choking sensation prevented me from speaking and with a deep bow. He disappeared. He had hardly gone before a feeling of intense horror stole over me and I was aware of the presence of a ghastly creature in the room of dim outlines and uncertain proportions. One moment it seemed to pervade the entire apartment while at another it would become invisible but always leaving behind it a distinct consciousness of its presence. Its voice when it spoke was quavering and gusty. It said, I am the lever of footsteps and the spiller of gouts of blood. I tramp upon corridors. Charles Dickens has alluded to me. I make strange and disagreeable noises. I snatch letters and place invisible hands on people's wrists. I am cheerful. I burst into peels of hideous laughter. Shall I do one now? I raised my hand in a deprecating way but too late to prevent one discordant outbreak which echoed through the room. Before I could lower it, the apparition was gone. I turned my head toward the door in time to see a man come hastily and stealthily into the chamber. He was a sunburned powerfully built fellow with earrings in his ears and a Barcelona handkerchief tied loosely around his neck. His head was bent upon his chest and his whole aspect was that of one afflicted by intolerable remorse. He paced rapidly backward and forward like a caged tiger and I observed that a drawn knife glittered in one of his hands while he grasped what appeared to be a piece of parchment in the other. His voice when he spoke was deep and sonorous. He said, I am a murderer. I am a ruffian. I crouch when I walk. I step noiselessly. I know something of the Spanish Maine. I can do the lost treasure business. I have charts, am able-bodied and a good walker capable of haunting a large park. He looked toward me beseechingly but before I could make a sign I was paralyzed by the horrible sight which appeared at the door. It was a very tall man if indeed it might be called a man for the gaunt bones were protruding through the corroding flesh and the features of a leaden hue. A winding sheet was wrapped round the figure and formed a hood over the head from under the shadow of which two fiendish eyes deep set in their grisly sockets blazed and sparkled like red-hot coals. The lower jaw had fallen upon the breast disclosing a withered shriveled tongue and two lines of black and jagged fangs. I shuddered and drew back as this fearful apparition advanced to the edge of the circle. I am the American blood curdler. It said in a voice which seemed to come in a hollow murmur from the earth beneath it. None other is genuine. I am the embodiment of Edgar Allen Poe. I am circumstantial and horrible. I am a low-caste spirit subduing specter. Observe my blood and my bones. I am grisly and nauseous. No, depending on artificial aid. Work with grave clothes, a coffin lid and a galvanic battery. Turn hair white in a night. The creature stretched out its fleshless arms to me as if in entreaty, but I shook my head and it vanished leaving a low, sickening repulsive odor behind it. I sank back in my chair so overcome by terror and disgust that I would have very willingly resigned myself to dispensing with a ghost altogether. Could I have been sure that this was the last of the hideous procession? A faint sound of trailing garments warned me that it was not so. I looked up and beheld a white figure emerging from the corridor into the right. As it stepped across the threshold, I saw that it was that of a young and beautiful woman dressed in the fashion of a bygone day. Her hands were clasped in front of her and her pale, proud face bore traces of passion and of suffering. She crossed the hall with a gentle sound like the rustling of autumn leaves and then turning her lovely and unutterably sad eyes upon me, she said. I am the plaintiff and sentimental, the beautiful and ill-used. I have been forsaken and betrayed. I shriek in the nighttime and glide down passages. My antecedents are highly respectable and generally aristocratic. My tastes are aesthetic. Old oak furniture like this would do with a few more coats of male and plenty of tapestry. Will you not take me? Her voice died away in a beautiful cadence as she concluded and she held out her hands as in supplication. I am always sensitive to female influences. Besides, what would Jurok's ghost be to this? Could anything be in better taste? Would I not be exposing myself to the chance of injuring my nervous system by interviewing with such creatures as my last visitor unless I decided at once? She gave me a surrphic smile as if she knew what was passing in my mind. That smile settled the matter. She will do, I cried. I choose this one. And as in my enthusiasm, I took a step toward her. I passed over the magic circle which had girdled me round. Argentine, we have been robbed. I had an indistinct consciousness of these words being spoken or rather screamed in my ear a great number of times without my being able to grasp their meaning. A violent throbbing in my head seemed to adapt itself to their rhythm and I closed my eyes to the lullaby of robbed, robbed, robbed. A vigorous shake caused me to open them again, however, and the sight of Mrs. D'Aud in the scantiest of costumes and most furious of tempers was sufficiently impressive to recall all my scattered thoughts and make me realize that I was lying on my back on the floor with my head among the ashes which had fallen from last night's fire and a small glass vial in my hand. I staggered to my feet but felt so weak and giddy that I was compelled to fall back into a chair. As my brain became clearer, stimulated by the exclamations of Matilda, I began gradually to recollect the events of the night. There was the door through which my supernatural visitors had filed. There was the circle of chalk with the hieroglyphics round the edge. There was the cigar box and brandy bottle which had been honored by the attentions of Mr. Abraham's. But the seer himself, where was he? And what was this open window with a rope running out of it? And where oh where was the pride of Gorsdorpe Grange? The glorious plate which was to have been the delectation of generations of the odds. And why was Mrs. D standing in the gray light of dawn wringing her hands and repeating her monotonous refrain? It was only very gradually that my misty brain took these things in and grasped the connection between them. Reader, I have never seen Mr. Abraham since. I have never seen the plate stamped with the resuscitated family crest. Hardest of all, I have never caught a glimpse of the melancholy specter with the trailing garments, nor do I expect that I ever shall. In fact, my night's experiences have cured me of my mania for the supernatural and quite reconciled me to inhabiting the humdrum 19th century edifice on the outskirts of London which Mrs. D has long had in her mind's eye. As to the explanation of all that occurred, that is of matter which is open to several surmises. That Mr. Abraham's, the ghost hunter, was identical with Jimmy Wilson, alias the Nottingham Crackster, is considered more than probable at Scotland Yard. And certainly the description of that remarkable burglar tallied very well with the appearance of my visitor. The small bag which I have described was picked up in a neighboring field next day and found to contain a choice assortment of jimmies and center bits. Footmarks deeply imprinted in the mud on either side of the moat showed that an accomplice from below had received the sack of precious metals which had been let down through the open window. No doubt the pair of scoundrels while looking round for a job had overheard Jack Brockett's indiscreet inquiries and had promptly availed themselves of the tempting opening. And now, as to my less substantial visitors and the curious grotesque vision which I enjoyed, am I to lay it down to any real power over occult matters possessed by my Nottingham friend? For a long time I was doubtful upon the point and eventually endeavored to solve it by consulting a well-known analyst and medical man, sending him the few drops of the so-called essence of eucalyptus which remained in my vial. I append the letter which I received from him only too happy to have the opportunity of winding up my little narrative by the weighty words of a man of learning. A Rundle Street. Dear sir, you are very singular case as interested me extremely. The bottle which you sent contained a strong solution of chloral and the quantity which you describe yourself as having swallowed must have amounted to at least 80 grains of the pure hydrate. This would, of course, have reduced you to a partial state of insensibility, gradually going on to complete coma. In this semi-unconscious state of chloralism it is not unusual for circumstantial and bizarre visions to present themselves. More especially to individuals unaccustomed to the use of the drug. You tell me in your note that your mind was saturated with ghostly literature and that you had long taken a morbid interest in classifying and recalling the various forms in which apparitions have been said to appear. You must also remember that you were expecting to see something of that very nature and that your nervous system was worked up to an unnatural state of tension. Under the circumstances I think that far from the sequel being an astonishing one it would have been very surprising indeed to anyone versed in narcotics had you not experienced some such effects. I remain, dear sir, sincerely yours. T. E. Stube, M. D. Argentine de Ad, Esquire, The Elms, Brixton. End of The Secret of Gorsdorff Grange by Arthur Conan Doyle.