Chapter IV: Part IV (1)

I told Philip the next morning. There was no need to bespeak his attention. I think he felt nearly as horrified as I had done myself at the idea that our own hitherto bright, cheerful home was to be haunted by this awful thing--influence or presence, call it what you will. And the suggestions which I went on to make struck him, too, with a sense of relief.

He sat in silence for some time after making me recapitulate as precisely as possible every detail of Sophy's story.

"You are sure it was the door into the library?" he said at last.

"Quite sure," I replied; "and, oh, Philip," I went on, "it has just occurred to me that _father_ felt a chill there the other evening."

For till that moment the little incident in question had escaped my memory.

"Do you remember which of the "_portieres_" hung in front of the door at Finster?" said Philip.

I shook my head.

"Dormy would," I said, "he used to examine the pictures in the tapestry with great interest. I should not know one from the other. There is an old castle in the distance in each, and a lot of trees, and something meant for a lake."

But in his turn Philip shook his head.

"No," he said, "I won't speak to Dormy about it if I can possibly help it. Leave it to me, Leila, and try to put it out of your own mind as much as you possibly can, and don't be surprised at anything you may notice in the next few days. I will tell you, first of any one, whenever I have anything to tell."

That was all I could get out of him. So I took his advice.

Luckily, as it turned out, Mr. Miles, the only outsider, so to say (except the unfortunate keeper), who had witnessed the ghostly drama, was one of the shooting party expected that day. And him Philip at once determined to consult about this new and utterly unexpected manifestation.

He did not tell me this. Indeed, it was not till fully a week later that I heard anything, and then in a letter--a very long letter from my brother, which, I think, will relate the sequel of our strange ghost story better than any narration at second-hand, of my own.

Mr. Miles only stayed two nights with us. The very day after he came he announced that, to his great regret, he was obliged--most unexpectedly--to return to Raxtrew on important business.

"And," he continued, "I am afraid you will all feel much more vexed with me when I tell you I am going to carry off Phil with me."

Father looked very blank indeed.

"Phil!" he exclaimed, "and how about our shooting?"

"You can easily replace us," said my brother, "I have thought of that," and he added something in a lower tone to father. He--Phil--was leaving the room at the time. _I_ thought it had reference to the real reason of his accompanying Mr. Miles, but I was mistaken. Father, however, said nothing more in opposition to the plan, and the next morning the two went off.

We happened to be standing at the hall door--several of us--for we were a large party now--when Phil and his friend drove away. As we turned to re-enter the house, I felt some one touch me. It was Sophy. She was going out for a constitutional with Miss Larpent, but had stopped a moment to speak to me.

"Leila," she said in a whisper, "why have they--did you know that the tapestry had been taken down?"

She glanced at me with a peculiar expression. I had not observed it. Now, looking up, I saw that the two locked doors were visible in the dark polish of their old mahogany as of yore--no longer shrouded by the ancient _portieres_. I started in surprise.

"No," I whispered in return, "I did not know. Never mind, Sophy. I suspect there is a reason for it which we shall know in good time."

I felt strongly tempted--the moon being still at the full--to visit the hall that night--in hopes of feeling and seeing--_nothing_. But when the time drew near, my courage failed; besides I had tacitly promised Philip to think as little as I possibly could about the matter, and any vigil of the kind would certainly not have been acting in accordance with the spirit of his advice.

I think I will now copy, as it stands, the letter from Philip which I received a week or so later. It was dated from his club in London.

"MY DEAR LEILA,

"I have a long story to tell you and a very extraordinary one. I
think it is well that it should be put into writing, so I will
devote this evening to the task--especially as I shall not be
home for ten days or so.

"You may have suspected that I took Miles into my confidence as
soon as he arrived. If you did you were right. He was the best
person to speak to for several reasons. He looked, I must say,
rather--well 'blank' scarcely expresses it--when I told him of
the ghost's re-appearance, not only at the Rectory, but in our
own house, and on both occasions to persons--Nat, and then
Sophy--who had not heard a breath of the story. But when I went
on to propound your suggestion, Miles cheered up. He had been,
I fancy, a trifle touchy about our calling Finster haunted,
and it was evidently a satisfaction to him to start another
theory. We talked it well over, and we decided to test the
thing again--it took some resolution, I own, to do so. We sat
up that night--bright moonlight luckily--and--well, I needn't
repeat it all. Sophy was quite correct. It came again--the
horrid creeping shadow--poor wretch, I'm rather sorry for it
now--just in the old way--quite as much at home in ----shire,
apparently, as in the Castle. It stopped at the closed library
door, and fumbled away, then started off again--ugh! We watched
it closely, but kept well in the middle of the room, so that
the cold did not strike us so badly. We both noted the special
part of the tapestry where its hands seemed to sprawl, and we
meant to stay for another round; but--when it came to the point
we funked it, and went to bed.

"Next morning, on pretence of examining the date of
the tapestry, we had it down--you were all out--and we
found--_something_. Just where the hands felt about, there had
been a cut--three cuts, three sides of a square, as it were,
making a sort of door in the stuff, the fourth side having
evidently acted as a hinge, for there was a mark where it had
been folded back. And just where--treating the thing as a
door--you might expect to find a handle to open it by, we found
a distinct dint in the tapestry, as if a button or knob had
once been there. We looked at each other. The same idea had
struck us. The tapestry had been used to conceal a small door
in the wall--the door of a secret cupboard probably. The
ghostly fingers had been vainly seeking for the spring which in
the days of their flesh and bone they had been accustomed to
press.

"'The first thing to do,' said Miles, 'is to look up Hunter and
make him tell where he got the tapestry from. Then we shall
see.'

"'Shall we take the _portieres_ with us?' I said.

"But Miles shuddered, though he half laughed too.

"'No, thank you,' he said. 'I'm not going to travel with the
evil thing.'

"'We can't hang it up again, though,' I said, 'after this last
experience.'

"In the end we rolled up the two _portieres_, not to attract
attention by only moving one, and--well, I thought it just
possible the ghost might make a mistake, and I did not want
any more scares while I was away--we rolled them up together,
first carefully measuring the cut, and its position in the
curtain, and then we hid them away in one of the lofts that no
one ever enters, where they are at this moment, and where the
ghost may have been disporting himself, for all I know, though
I fancy he has given it up by this time, for reasons you shall
hear.

"Then Miles and I, as you know, set off for Raxtrew. I smoothed
my father down about it, by reminding him how good-natured they
had been to us, and telling him Miles really needed me. We went
straight to Hunter. He hummed and hawed a good deal--he had
not distinctly promised not to give the name of the place the
tapestry had come from, but he knew the gentleman he had bought
it from did not want it known.

"'Why?' said Miles. 'Is it some family that has come down in
the world, and is forced to part with things to get some ready
money?'

"'Oh, dear no!' said Hunter. 'It is not that, at all. It
was only that--I suppose I must give you the name--Captain
Devereux--did not want any gossip to get about, as to ----'

"'Devereux!' repeated Miles, 'you don't mean the people at
Hallinger?'

"'The same,' said Hunter. 'If you know them, sir, you will be
careful, I hope, to assure the captain that I did my best to
carry out his wishes?'

"'Certainly,' said Miles, 'I'll exonerate you.'

"And then Hunter told us that Devereux, who only came into the
Hallinger property a few years ago, had been much annoyed by
stories getting about of the place being haunted, and this had
led to his dismantling one wing, and--Hunter thought, but was
not quite clear as to this--pulling down some rooms altogether.
But he, Devereux, was very touchy on the subject--he did not
want to be laughed at.

"'And the tapestry came from him--you are certain as to that?'
Miles repeated.

"'Positive, sir. I took it down with my own hands. It was
fitted on to two panels in what they call the round room at
Hallinger--there were, oh, I daresay, a dozen of them, with
tapestry nailed on, but I only bought these two pieces--the
others were sold to a London dealer.'

"'The round room,' I said. Leila, the expression struck me.

"Miles, it appeared, knew Devereux fairly well. Hallinger is
only ten miles off. We drove over there, but found he was in
London. So our next move was to follow him there. We called
twice at his club, and then Miles made an appointment, saying
that he wanted to see him on private business.

"He received us civilly, of course. He is quite a young
fellow--in the Guards. But when Miles began to explain to him
what we had come about, he stiffened.

"'I suppose you belong to the Psychical Society?' he said. 'I
can only repeat that I have nothing to tell, and I detest the
whole subject.'

"'Wait a moment,' said Miles, and as he went on I saw that
Devereux changed. His face grew intent with interest and a
queer sort of eagerness, and at last he started to his feet.

"'Upon my soul,' he said, 'I believe you've run him to earth
for me--the ghost, I mean, and if so, you shall have my endless
gratitude. I'll go down to Hallinger with you at once--this
afternoon, if you like, and see it out.'

"He was so excited that he spoke almost incoherently, but after
a bit he calmed down, and told us all he had to tell--and that
was a good deal--which would indeed have been nuts for the
Psychical Society. What Hunter had said was but a small part of
the whole. It appeared that on succeeding to Hallinger, on the
death of an uncle, young Devereux had made considerable changes
in the house. He had, among others, opened out a small wing--a
sort of round tower--which had been completely dismantled and
bricked up for, I think he said, over a hundred years. There
was some story about it. An ancestor of his--an awful
gambler--had used the principal room in this wing for his
orgies. Very queer things went on there, the finish up being
the finding of old Devereux dead there one night, when his
servants were summoned by the man he had been playing
with--with whom he had had an awful quarrel. This man, a low
fellow, probably a professional cardsharper, vowed that he had
been robbed of a jewel which his host had staked, and it was
said that a ring of great value had disappeared. But it was
all hushed up--Devereux had really died in a fit--though soon
after, for reasons only hinted at, the round tower was shut
up, till the present man rashly opened it again.

"Almost at once, he said, the annoyances, to use a mild term,
began. First one, then another of the household were terrified
out of their wits, just as we were, Leila. Devereux himself had
seen it two or three times, the 'it,' of course, being his
miserable old ancestor. A small man, with a big wig, and long,
thin, claw-like fingers. It all corresponded. Mrs. Devereux is
young and nervous. She could not stand it. So in the end the
round tower was shut up again, all the furniture and hangings
sold, and locally speaking, the ghost laid. That was all
Devereux knew.

"We started, the three of us, that very afternoon, as excited
as a party of schoolboys. Miles and I kept questioning
Devereux, but he had really no more to tell. He had never
thought of examining the walls of the haunted room--it was
wainscotted, he said--and might be lined all through with
secret cupboards, for all he knew. But he could not get
over the extraordinariness of the ghost's sticking to the
_tapestry_--and indeed it does rather lower one's idea of
ghostly intelligence.

"We went at it at once--the tower was not _bricked_ up again,
luckily--we got in without difficulty the next morning--Devereux
making some excuse to the servants, a new set who had not heard
of the ghost, for our eccentric proceedings. It was a tiresome
business. There were so many panels in the room, as Hunter had
said, and it was impossible to tell in which _the_ tapestry had
been fixed. But we had our measures, and we carefully marked a
line as near as we could guess at the height from the floor that
the cut in the _portieres_ must have been. Then we tapped and
pummelled and pressed imaginary springs till we were nearly sick
of it--there was nothing to guide us. The wainscotting was dark
and much shrunk and marked with age, and full of joins in the
wood any one of which might have meant a door.

"It was Devereux himself who found it at last. We heard an
exclamation from where he was standing by himself at the other
side of the room. He was quite white and shaky.

"'Look here,' he said, and we looked.

"Yes--there was a small deep recess, or cupboard in the
thickness of the wall, excellently contrived. Devereux had
touched the spring at last, and the door, just matching the
cut in the tapestry, flew open.

"Inside lay what at first we took for a packet of letters, and
I hoped to myself they contained nothing that would bring
trouble on poor Devereux. They were not letters, however, but
two or three incomplete packs of cards--grey and dust-thick
with age--and as Miles spread them out, certain markings on
them told their own tale. Devereux did not like it,
naturally--their supposed owner had been a member of his house.

"'The ghost has kept a conscience,' he said, with an attempt at
a laugh. 'Is there nothing more?'

"Yes--a small leather bag--black and grimy, though originally,
I fancy, of chamois skin. It drew with strings. Devereux pulled
it open, and felt inside.

"'By George!' he exclaimed. And he held out the most
magnificent diamond ring I have ever seen--sparkling away as if
it had only just come from the polisher's. 'This must be _the_
ring,' he said.

"And we all stared--too astonished to speak.

"Devereux closed the cupboard again, after carefully examining
it to make sure nothing had been left behind. He marked the
exact spot where he had pressed the spring so as to find it at
any time. Then we all left the round room, locking the door
securely after us.

"Miles and I spent that night at Hallinger. We sat up late
talking it all over. There are some queer inconsistencies about
the thing which will probably never be explained. First and
foremost--why has the ghost stuck to the tapestry instead of to
the actual spot he seemed to have wished to reveal? Secondly,
what was the connection between his visits and the full
moon--or is it that only by the moonlight the shade becomes
perceptible to human sense? Who can say?

"As to the story itself--what was old Devereux's motive in
concealing his own ring? Were the marked cards his, or his
opponent's, of which he had managed to possess himself, and had
secreted as testimony against the other fellow?

"I incline, and so does Miles, to this last theory, and when we
suggested it to Devereux, I could see it was a relief to him.
After all, one likes to think one's ancestors were gentlemen!

"'But what, then, has he been worrying about all this century
or more?' he said. 'If it were that he wanted the ring returned
to its real owner--supposing the fellow _had_ won it--I could
understand it, though such a thing would be impossible. There
is no record of the man at all--his name was never mentioned in
the story.'

"'He may want the ring restored to its proper owner all the
same,' said Miles. 'You are its owner, as the head of the
family, and it has been your ancestor's fault that it has been
hidden all these years. Besides, we cannot take upon ourselves
to explain motives in such a case. Perhaps--who knows?--the
poor shade could not help himself. His peregrinations may have
been of the nature of punishment.'

"'I hope they are over now,' said Devereux, 'for his sake and
everybody else's. I should be glad to think he wanted the ring
restored to us, but besides that, I should like to do
something--something _good_ you know--if it would make him
easier, poor old chap. I must consult Lilias.' Lilias is Mrs.
Devereux.

"This is all I have to tell you at present, Leila. When I come
home we'll have the _portieres_ up again and see what happens.
I want you now to read all this to my father, and if he has no
objection--he and my mother, of course--I should like to invite
Captain and Mrs. Devereux to stay a few days with us--as well
as Miles, as soon as I come back."

Philip's wish was acceded to. It was with no little anxiety and interest that we awaited his return.

The tapestry _portieres_ were restored to their place--and on the first moonlight night, my father, Philip, Captain Devereux and Mr. Miles held their vigil.

What happened?

_Nothing_--the peaceful rays lighted up the quaint landscape of the tapestry, undisturbed by the poor groping fingers--no gruesome unearthly chill as of worse than death made itself felt to the midnight watchers--the weary, may we not hope repentant, spirit was at rest at last!

And never since has any one been troubled by the shadow in the moonlight.

"I cannot help hoping," said Mrs. Devereux, when talking it over, "that what Michael has done may have helped to calm the poor ghost."

And she told us what it was. Captain Devereux is rich, though not immensely so. He had the ring valued--it represented a very large sum, but Philip says I had better not name the figures--and then he, so to say, bought it from himself. And with this money he--no, again, Phil says I must not enter into particulars beyond saying that with it he did something very good, and very useful, which had long been a pet scheme of his wife's.

Sophy is grown up now and she knows the whole story. So does our mother. And Dormy too has heard it all. The horror of it has quite gone. We feel rather proud of having been the actual witnesses of a ghostly drama.

"THE MAN WITH THE COUGH."

I am a German by birth and descent. My name is Schmidt. But by education I am quite as much an Englishman as a "Deutscher," and by affection much more the former. My life has been spent pretty equally between the two countries, and I flatter myself I speak both languages without any foreign accent.

I count England my headquarters now: it is "home" to me. But a few years ago I was resident in Germany, only going over to London now and then on business. I will not mention the town where I lived. It is unnecessary to do so, and in the peculiar experience I am about to relate I think real names of people and places are just as well, or better, avoided.

I was connected with a large and important firm of engineers. I had been bred up to the profession, and was credited with a certain amount of talent; and I was considered--and, with all modesty, I think I deserved the opinion--steady and reliable, so that I had already attained a fair position in the house, and was looked upon as a "rising man". But I was still young, and not quite so wise as I thought myself. I came very near once to making a great mess of a certain affair. It is this story which I am going to tell.

Our house went in largely for patents--rather too largely, some thought. But the head partner's son was a bit of a genius in his way, and his father was growing old, and let Herr Wilhelm--Moritz we will call the family name--do pretty much as he chose. And on the whole Herr Wilhelm did well. He was cautious, and he had the benefit of the still greater caution and larger experience of Herr Gerhardt, the second partner in the firm.

Patents and the laws which regulate them are queer things to have to do with. No one who has not had personal experience of the complications that arise could believe how far these spread and how entangled they become. Great acuteness as well as caution is called for if you would guide your patent bark safely to port--and perhaps more than anything, a power of holding your tongue. I was no chatterbox, nor, when on a mission of importance, did I go about looking as if I were bursting with secrets, which is, in my opinion, almost as dangerous as revealing them. No one, to meet me on the journeys which it often fell to my lot to undertake, would have guessed that I had anything on my mind but an easy-going young fellow's natural interest in his surroundings, though many a time I have stayed awake through a whole night of railway travel if at all doubtful about my fellow-passengers, or not dared to go to sleep in a hotel without a ready-loaded revolver by my pillow.

For now and then--though not through me--our secrets did ooze out. And if, as _has_ happened, they were secrets connected with Government orders or contracts, there was, or but for the exertion of the greatest energy and tact on the part of my superiors, there _would_ have been, to put it plainly, the devil to pay.

One morning--it was nearing the end of November--I was sent for to Herr Wilhelm's private room. There I found him and Herr Gerhardt before a table spread with papers covered with figures and calculations, and sheets of beautifully executed diagrams.

"Lutz," said Herr Wilhelm. He had known me from childhood, and often called me by the abbreviation of my Christian name, which is Ludwig, or Louis. "Lutz, we are going to confide to you a matter of extreme importance. You must be prepared to start for London to-morrow."

"All right, sir," I said, "I shall be ready."

"You will take the express through to Calais--on the whole it is the best route, especially at this season. By travelling all night you will catch the boat there, and arrive in London so as to have a good night's rest, and be clear-headed for work the next morning."

I bowed agreement, but ventured to make a suggestion.

"If, as I infer, the matter is one of great importance," I said, "would it not be well for me to start sooner? I can--yes," throwing a rapid survey over the work I had before me for the next two days--"I can be ready to-night."

Herr Wilhelm looked at Herr Gerhardt. Herr Gerhardt shook his head.

"No," he replied; "to-morrow it must be," and then he proceeded to explain to me why.

I need not attempt to give all the details of the matter with which I was entrusted. Indeed, to "lay" readers it would be impossible. Suffice it to say, the whole concerned a patent--that of a very remarkable and wonderful invention, which it was hoped and believed the Governments of both countries would take up. But to secure this being done in a thoroughly satisfactory manner it was necessary that our firm should go about it in concert with an English house of first-rate standing. To this house--the firm of Messrs. Bluestone and Fagg I will call them--I was to be sent with full explanations. And the next half-hour or more passed in my superiors going minutely into the details, so as to satisfy themselves that I understood. The mastering of the whole was not difficult, for I was well grounded technically; and like many of the best things the idea was essentially simple, and the diagrams were perfect. When the explanations were over, and my instructions duly noted, I began to gather together the various sheets, which were all numbered. But, to my surprise, Herr Gerhardt, looking over me, withdrew two of the most important diagrams, without which the others were valueless, because inexplicable.

"Stay," he said; "these two, Ludwig, must be kept separate. These we send to-day, by registered post, direct to Bluestone and Fagg. They will receive them a day before they see you, and with them a letter announcing your arrival."

I looked up in some disappointment. I had known of precautions of the kind being taken, but usually when the employe sent was less reliable than I believed myself to be. Still, I scarcely dared to demur.

"Do you think that necessary?" I said respectfully. "I can assure you that from the moment you entrust me with the papers they shall never quit me day or night. And if there were any postal delay--you say time is valuable in this case--or if the papers were stolen in the transit--such things have happened--my whole mission would be worthless."

"We do not doubt your zeal and discretion, my good Schmidt," said Herr Gerhardt. "But in this case we must take even extra precautions. I had not meant to tell you, fearing to add to the certain amount of nervousness and strain unavoidable in such a case, but still, perhaps it is best that you should know that we _have_ reason for some special anxiety. It has been hinted to us that some breath of this"--and he tapped the papers--"has reached those who are always on the watch for such things. We cannot be too careful."

"And yet," I persisted, "you would trust the post?"

"We do not trust the post," he replied. "Even if these diagrams were tampered with, they would be perfectly useless. And tampered with they will not be. But even supposing anything so wild, the rogues in question knowing of your departure (and they are _more_ likely to know of it than of our packet by post), were they in collusion with some traitor in the post-office, are sharp enough to guess the truth--that we have made a Masonic secret of it--the two separate diagrams are valueless without your papers; _your_ papers reveal nothing without Nos. 7 and 13."

I bowed in submission. But I was, all the same, disappointed, as I said, and a trifle mortified.

Herr Wilhelm saw it, and cheered me up.

"All right, Lutz, my boy," he said. "I feel just like you--nothing I should enjoy more than a rush over to London, carrying the whole documents, and prepared for a fight with any one who tried to get hold of them. But Herr Gerhardt here is cooler-blooded than we are."

The elder man smiled.

"I don't doubt your readiness to fight, nor Ludwig's either. But it would be by no such honestly brutal means as open robbery that we should be outwitted. Make friends readily with no one while travelling, Lutz, yet avoid the appearance of keeping yourself aloof. You understand?"

"Perfectly," I said. "I shall sleep well to-night, so as to be prepared to keep awake throughout the journey."

The papers were then carefully packed up. Those consigned to my care were to be carried in a certain light, black handbag with a very good lock, which had often before been my travelling companion.

And the following evening I started by the express train agreed upon. So, at least, I have always believed, but I have never been able to bring forward a witness to the fact of my train at the start being the right one, as no one came with me to see me off. For it was thought best that I should depart in as unobtrusive a manner as possible, as, even in a large town such as ours, the members and employes of an old and important house like the Moritzes' were well known.

I took my ticket then, registering no luggage, as I had none but what I easily carried in my hand, as well as _the_ bag. It was already dusk, if not dark, and there was not much bustle in the station, nor apparently many passengers. I took my place in an empty second-class compartment, and sat there quietly till the train should start. A few minutes before it did so, another man got in. I was somewhat annoyed at this, as in my circumstances nothing was more undesirable than travelling alone with one other. Had there been a crowded compartment, or one with three or four passengers, I would have chosen it; but at the moment I got in, the carriages were all either empty or with but one or two occupants. Now, I said to myself, I should have done better to wait till nearer the time of departure, and then chosen my place.

I turned to reconnoitre my companion, but I could not see his face clearly, as he was half leaning out of the window. Was he doing so on purpose? I said to myself, for naturally I was in a suspicious mood. And as the thought struck me I half started up, determined to choose another compartment. Suddenly a peculiar sound made itself heard. My companion was coughing. He drew his head in, covering his face with his hand, as he coughed again. You never heard such a curious cough. It was more like a hen clucking than anything I can think of. Once, twice he coughed; then, as if he had been waiting for the slight spasm to pass, he sprang up, looked eagerly out of the window again, and, opening the door, jumped out, with some exclamation, as if he had just caught sight of a friend.

And in another moment or two--he could barely have had time to get in elsewhere--much to my satisfaction, the train moved off.

"Now," thought I, "I can make myself comfortable for some hours. We do not stop till M----: it will be nine o'clock by then. If no one gets in there I am safe to go through till to-morrow alone; then there will only be ---- Junction, and a clear run to Calais."

I unstrapped my rug and lit a cigar--of course I had chosen a smoking-carriage--and, delighted at having got rid of my clucking companion, the time passed pleasantly till we pulled up at M----. The delay there was not great, and to my enormous satisfaction no one molested my solitude. Evidently the express to Calais was not in very great demand that night. I now felt so secure that, notwithstanding my intention of keeping awake all night, my innermost consciousness had not I suppose quite resigned itself to the necessity, for, not more than a hour or so after leaving M----, possibly sooner, I fell fast asleep.

It seemed to me that I had slept heavily, for when I awoke I had great difficulty in remembering where I was. Only by slow degrees did I realise that I was not in my comfortable bed at home, but in a chilly, ill-lighted railway-carriage. Chilly--yes, that it was--very chilly; but as my faculties returned I remembered my precious bag, and forgot all else in a momentary terror that it had been taken from me. No; there it was--my elbow had been pressed against it as I slept. But how was this? The train was not in motion. We were standing in a station; a dingy deserted-looking place, with no cheerful noise or bustle; only one or two porters slowly moving about, with a sort of sleepy "night duty," surly air. It could not be the Junction? I looked at my watch. Barely midnight! Of course, not the Junction. We were not due there till four o'clock in the morning or so.

What, then, were we doing here, and what _was_ "here"? Had there been an accident--some unforeseen necessity for stopping? At that moment a curious sound, from some yards' distance only it seemed to come, caught my ear. It was that croaking, cackling cough!--the cough of my momentary fellow-passenger, towards whom I had felt an instinctive aversion. I looked out of the window--there was a refreshment-room just opposite, dimly lighted, like everything else, and in the doorway, as if just entering, was a figure which I felt pretty sure was that of the man with the cough.

"Bah!" I said to myself, "I must not be fanciful. I daresay the fellow's all right. He is evidently in the same hole as myself. What in Heaven's name are we waiting here for?"

I sprang out of the carriage, nearly tumbling over a porter slowly passing along.

"How long are we to stay here?" I cried. "When do we start again for ----?" and I named the Junction.

"For ----" he repeated in the queerest German I ever heard--was it German? or did I discover his meaning by some preternatural cleverness of my own? "There is no train for ---- for four or five hours, not till----" and he named the time; and leaning forward lazily, he took out my larger bag and my rug, depositing them on the platform. He did not seem the least surprised at finding me there--I might have been there for a week, it seemed to me.

"No train for five hours? Are you mad?" I said.

He shook his head and mumbled something, and it seemed to me that he pointed to the refreshment-room opposite. Gathering my things together I hurried thither, hoping to find some more reliable authority. But there was no one there except a fat man with a white apron, who was clearing the counter--and--yes, in one corner was the figure I had mentally dubbed "The man with the cough".

I addressed the cook or waiter--whichever he was. But he only shook his head--denied all knowledge of the trains, but informed me that--in other words--I must turn out; he was going to shut up.

"And where am I to spend the night, then?" I said angrily, though clearly it was not the aproned individual who was responsible for the position in which I found myself.

There was a "Restauration," he informed me, near at hand, which I should find still open, straight before me on leaving the station, and then a few doors to the right, I would see the lights.

Clearly there was nothing else to be done. I went out, and as I did so the silent figure in the corner rose also and followed me. The station was evidently going to bed. As I passed the porter I repeated the hour he had named, adding: "That is the first train for ---- Junction?"

He nodded, again naming the exact time. But I cannot do so, as I have never been able to recollect it.

I trudged along the road--there were lamps, though very feeble ones; but by their light I saw that the man who had been in the refreshment-room was still a few steps behind me. It made me feel slightly nervous, and I looked round furtively once or twice; the last time I did so he was not to be seen, and I hoped he had gone some other way.

The "Restauration" was scarcely more inviting than the station refreshment-room. It, too, was very dimly lighted, and the one or two attendants seemed half asleep and were strangely silent. There was a fire, of a kind, and I seated myself at a small table near it and asked for some coffee, which would, I thought, serve the double purpose of warming me and keeping me awake.

It was brought me, in silence. I drank it, and felt the better for it. But there was something so gloomy and unsociable, so queer and almost weird about the whole aspect and feeling of the place, that a sort of irritable resignation took possession of me. If these surly folk won't speak, neither will I, I said to myself childishly. And, incredible as it may sound, I did _not_ speak. I think I paid for the coffee, but I am not quite sure. I know I never asked what I had meant to ask--the name of the town--a place of some importance, to judge by the size of the station and the extent of twinkling lights I had observed as I made my way to the "Restauration". From that day to this I have never been able to identify it, and I am quite sure I never shall.

What was there peculiar about that coffee? Or was it something peculiar about my own condition that caused it to have the unusual effect I now experienced? That question, too, I cannot answer. All I remember is feeling a sensation of irresistible drowsiness creeping over me--mental, or moral I may say, as well as physical. For when one part of me feebly resisted the first onslaught of sleep, something seemed to reply: "Oh, nonsense! you have several hours before you. Your papers are all right. No one can touch them without awaking you."

And dreamily conscious that my belongings were on the floor at my feet--_the_ bag itself actually resting against my ankle--my scruples silenced themselves in an extraordinary way. I remember nothing more, save a vague consciousness through all my slumber of confused and chaotic dreams, which I have never been able to recall.

I awoke at last, and that with a start, almost a jerk. Something had awakened me--a sound--and as it was repeated to my now aroused ears I knew that I had heard it before, off and on, during my sleep. It was the extraordinary cough!

I looked up. Yes, there he was! At some two or three yards' distance only, at the other side of the fireplace, which, and this I have forgotten to mention as another peculiar item in that night's peculiar experiences, considering I have every reason to believe I was still in Germany, was not a stove, but an open grate.

And he had not been there when I first fell asleep; to that I was prepared to swear.

"He must have come sneaking in after me," I thought, and in all probability I should neither have noticed nor recognised him but for that traitorous cackle of his.

Now, my misgivings aroused, my first thought, of course, was for my precious charge. I stooped. There were my rugs, my larger bag, but--no, not the smaller one; and though the other two were there, I knew at once that they were not quite in the same position--not so close to me. Horror seized me. Half wildly I gazed around, when my silent neighbour bent towards me. I could declare there was nothing in his hand when he did so, and I could declare as positively that I had already looked under the small round table beside which I sat, and that the bag was not there. And yet when the man, with a slight cackle, caused, no doubt, by his stooping, raised himself, the thing was in his hand!

Was he a conjurer, a pupil of Maskelyne and Cook? And how was it that, even as he held out my missing property, he managed, and that most cleverly and unobtrusively, to prevent my catching sight of his face? I did not see it then--I never did see it!

Something he murmured, to the effect that he supposed the bag was what I was looking for. In what language he spoke I know not; it was more that by the action accompanying the mumbled sounds I gathered his meaning, than that I heard anything articulate.

I thanked him, of course, mechanically, so to say, though I began to feel as if he were an evil spirit haunting me. I could only hope that the splendid lock to the bag had defied all curiosity, but I felt in a fever to be alone again, and able to satisfy myself that nothing had been tampered with.

The thought recalled my wandering faculties. How long had I been asleep? I drew out my watch. Heavens! It was close upon the hour named for the first train in the morning. I sprang up, collected my things, and dashed out of the "Restauration". If I had not paid for my coffee before, I certainly did not pay for it then. Besides my haste, there was another reason for this--there was no one to pay to! Not a creature was to be seen in the room or at the door as I passed out--always excepting the man with the cough.

As I left the place and hurried along the road, a bell began, not to ring, but to toll. It sounded most uncanny. What it meant, of course, I have never known. It may have been a summons to the workpeople of some manufactory, it may have been like all the other experiences of that strange night. But no; this theory I will not at present enter upon.

Dawn was not yet breaking, but there was in one direction a faint suggestion of something of the kind not far off. Otherwise all was dark. I stumbled along as best as I could, helped in reality, I suppose, by the ugly yellow glimmer of the woebegone street, or road lamps. And it was not far to the station, though somehow it seemed farther than when I came; and somehow, too, it seemed to have grown steep, though I could not remember having noticed any slope the other way on my arrival. A nightmare-like sensation began to oppress me. I felt as if my luggage was growing momentarily heavier and heavier, as if I should _never_ reach the station; and to this was joined the agonising terror of missing the train.

I made a desperate effort. Cold as it was, the beads of perspiration stood out upon my forehead as I forced myself along. And by degrees the nightmare feeling cleared off. I found myself entering the station at a run just as--yes, a train was actually beginning to move! I dashed, baggage and all, into a compartment; it was empty, and it was a second-class one, precisely similar to the one I had occupied before; it might have been the very same one. The train gradually increased its speed, but for the first few moments, while still in the station and passing through its immediate _entourage_, another strange thing struck me--the extraordinary silence and lifelessness of all about. Not one human being did I see, no porter watching our departure with the faithful though stolid interest always to be seen on the porter's visage. I might have been alone in the train--it might have had a freight of the dead, and been itself propelled by some supernatural agency, so noiselessly, so gloomily did it proceed.

You will scarcely credit that I actually and for the third time fell asleep. I could not help it. Some occult influence was at work upon me throughout those dark hours, I am positively certain. And with the daylight it was dispelled. For when I again awoke I felt for the first time since leaving home completely and normally myself, fresh and vigorous, all my faculties at their best.

But, nevertheless, my first sensation was a start of amazement, almost of terror. The compartment was nearly full! There were at least five or six travellers besides myself, very respectable, ordinary-looking folk, with nothing in the least alarming about them. Yet it was with a gasp of extraordinary relief that I found my precious bag in the corner beside me, where I had carefully placed it. It was concealed from view. No one, I felt assured, could have touched it without awaking me.

It was broad and bright daylight. How long had I slept?

"Can you tell me," I inquired of my opposite neighbour, a cheery-faced compatriot--"Can you tell me how soon we get to ---- Junction by this train? I am most anxious to catch the evening mail at Calais, and am quite out in my reckonings, owing to an extraordinary delay at ----. I have wasted the night by getting into a stopping train instead of the express."

He looked at me in astonishment. He must have thought me either mad or just awaking from a fit of intoxication--only I flatter myself I did not look as if the latter were the case.

"How soon we get to ---- Junction?" he repeated. "Why, my good sir, you left it about three hours ago! It is now eight o'clock. We all got in at the Junction. You were alone, if I mistake not?"--he glanced at one or two of the others, who endorsed his statement. "And very fast asleep you were, and must have been, not to be disturbed by the bustle at the station. And as for catching the evening boat at Calais"--he burst into a loud guffaw--"why, it would be very hard lines to do no better than that! _We_ all hope to cross by the mid-day one."

"Then--what train _is_ this?" I exclaimed, utterly perplexed.

"The express, of course. All of us, excepting yourself, joined it at the Junction," he replied.

"The express?" I repeated. "The express that leaves"--and I named my own town--"at six in the evening?"

"Exactly. You have got into the right train after all," and here came another shout of amusement. "How did you think we had all got in if you had not yet passed the Junction? You had not the pleasure of our company from M----, I take it? M----, which you passed at nine o'clock last night, if my memory is correct."

"Then," I persisted, "this is the double-fast express, which does not stop between M---- and your Junction?"

"Exactly," he repeated; and then, confirmed most probably in his belief that I was mad, or the other thing, he turned to his newspaper, and left me to my extraordinary cogitations.

Had I been dreaming? Impossible! Every sensation, the very taste of the coffee, seemed still present with me--the curious accent of the officials at the mysterious town, I could perfectly recall. I still shivered at the remembrance of the chilly waking in the "Restauration"; I heard again the cackling cough.

But I felt I must collect myself, and be ready for the important negotiation entrusted to me. And to do this I must for the time banish these fruitless efforts at solving the problem.

We had a good run to Calais, found the boat in waiting, and a fair passage brought us prosperously across the Channel. I found myself in London punctual to the intended hour of my arrival.

At once I drove to the lodgings in a small street off the Strand which I was accustomed to frequent in such circumstances. I felt nervous till I had an opportunity of thoroughly overhauling my documents. The bag had been opened by the Custom House officials, but the words "private papers" had sufficed to prevent any further examination; and to my unspeakable delight they were intact. A glance satisfied me as to this the moment I got them out, for they were most carefully numbered.

The next morning saw me early on my way to--No. 909, we will say--Blackfriars Street, where was the office of Messrs. Bluestone & Fagg. I had never been there before, but it was easy to find, and had I felt any doubt, their name stared me in the face at the side of the open doorway. "Second-floor" I thought I read; but when I reached the first landing I imagined I must have been mistaken. For there, at a door ajar, stood an eminently respectable-looking gentleman, who bowed as he saw me, with a discreet smile.

"Herr Schmidt?" he said. "Ah, yes; I was on the look-out for you."

I felt a little surprised, and my glance involuntarily strayed to the doorway. There was no name upon it, and it appeared to have been freshly painted. My new friend saw my glance.

"It is all right," he said; "we have the painters here. We are using these lower rooms temporarily. I was watching to prevent your having the trouble of mounting to the second-floor."

And as I followed him in, I caught sight of a painter's ladder--a small one--on the stair above, and the smell was also unmistakable.

The large outer office looked bare and empty, but under the circumstances that was natural. No one was, at the first glance, to be seen; but behind a dulled glass partition screening off one corner I fancied I caught sight of a seated figure. And an inner office, to which my conductor led the way, had a more comfortable and inhabited look. Here stood a younger man. He bowed politely.

"Mr. Fagg, my junior," said the first individual airily. "And now, Herr Schmidt, to business at once, if you please. Time is everything. You have all the documents ready?"

I answered by opening my bag and spreading out its contents. Both men were very grave, almost taciturn; but as I proceeded to explain things it was easy to see that they thoroughly understood all I said.

"And now," I went on, when I had reached a certain point, "if you will give me Nos. 7 and 13 which you have already received by registered post, I can put you in full possession of the whole. Without them, of course, all I have said is, so to say, preliminary only."

The two looked at each other.

"Of course," said the elder man, "I follow what you say. The key of the whole is wanting. But I was momentarily expecting you to bring it out. We have not--Fagg, I am right, am I not--we have received nothing by post?"

"Nothing whatever," replied his junior. And the answer seemed simplicity itself. Why did a strange thrill of misgiving go through me? Was it something in the look that had passed between them? Perhaps so. In any case, strange to say, the inconsistency between their having received no papers and yet looking for my arrival at the hour mentioned in the letter accompanying the documents, and accosting me by name, did not strike me till some hours later.

I threw off what I believed to be my ridiculous mistrust, and it was not difficult to do so in my extreme annoyance.

"I cannot understand it," I said. "It is really too bad. Everything depends upon 7 and 13. I must telegraph at once for inquiries to be instituted at the post-office."

"But your people must have duplicates," said Fagg eagerly. "These can be forwarded at once."

"I hope so," I said, though feeling strangely confused and worried.

"They must send them direct _here_," he went on.

I did not at once answer. I was gathering my papers together.

"And in the meantime," he proceeded, touching my bag, "you had better leave _these_ here. We will lock them up in the safe at once. It is better than carrying them about London."

It certainly seemed so. I half laid down the bag on the table, but at that moment from the outer room a most peculiar sound caught my ears--a faint cackling cough! I _think_ I concealed my start. I turned away as if considering Fagg's suggestion, which, to confess the truth, I had been on the very point of agreeing to. For it would have been a great relief to me to know that the papers were in safe custody. But now a flash of lurid light seemed to have transformed everything.