n the distance.

It was evidently my duty to turn back and to tell Dr. McCarthy what I
had seen. I found him in his study. I had expected him to be disturbed
at such an incident, but I was not prepared for the state of panic into
which he fell. He leaned back in his chair, white and gasping, like one
who has received a mortal blow.

"Which window, Mr. Weld?" he asked, wiping his forehead. "Which window
was it?"

"The next to the dining-room--Mr. St. James's window."

"Dear me! Dear me! This is, indeed, unfortunate! A man looking through
Mr. St. James's window!" He wrung his hands like a man who is at his
wits' end what to do.

"I shall be passing the police-station, sir. Would you wish me to
mention the matter?"

"No, no," he cried, suddenly, mastering his extreme agitation; "I have
no doubt that it was some poor tramp who intended to beg. I attach no
importance to the incident--none at all. Don't let me detain you, Mr.
Weld, if you wish to go out."

I left him sitting in his study with reassuring words upon his lips, but
with horror upon his face. My heart was heavy for my little employer as
I started off once more for town. As I looked back from the gate at the
square of light which marked the window of my colleague, I suddenly saw
the black outline of Dr. McCarthy's figure passing against the lamp. He
had hastened from his study then to tell St. James what he had heard.
What was the meaning of it all, this atmosphere of mystery, this
inexplicable terror, these confidences between two such dissimilar men?
I thought and thought as I walked, but do what I would I could not hit
upon any adequate conclusion. I little knew how near I was to the
solution of the problem.

It was very late--nearly twelve o'clock--when I returned, and the lights
were all out save one in the Doctor's study. The black, gloomy house
loomed before me as I walked up the drive, its sombre bulk broken only
by the one glimmering point of brightness. I let myself in with my
latch-key, and was about to enter my own room when my attention was
arrested by a short, sharp cry like that of a man in pain. I stood and
listened, my hand upon the handle of my door.

All was silent in the house save for a distant murmur of voices which
came, I knew, from the Doctor's room. I stole quietly down the corridor
in that direction. The sound resolved itself now into two voices, the
rough bullying tones of St. James and the lower tone of the Doctor, the
one a