al violent puff
of wind. The cat stuck by my feet, with the hair on its back raised
menacingly. I don't like cats; there is something psychic about them.

Hotchkiss was still asleep when I got back to the big room. I moved his
boots back from the fire, and trimmed the candle. Then, with sleep gone
from me, I lay back on my divan and reflected on many things: on my
idiocy in coming; on Alison West, and the fact that only a week before
she had been a guest in this very house; on Richey and the constraint
that had come between us. From that I drifted back to Alison, and to the
barrier my comparative poverty would be.

The emptiness, the stillness were oppressive. Once I heard footsteps
coming, rhythmical steps that neither hurried nor dragged, and seemed to
mount endless staircases without coming any closer. I realized finally
that I had not quite turned off the tap, and that the lavatory, which I
had circled to reach, must be quite close.

The cat lay by the fire, its nose on its folded paws, content in the
warmth and companionship. I watched it idly. Now and then the green
wood hissed in the fire, but the cat never batted an eye. Through an
unshuttered window the lightning flashed. Suddenly the cat looked up.
It lifted its head and stared directly at the gallery above. Then it
blinked, and stared again. I was amused. Not until it had got up on its
feet, eyes still riveted on the balcony, tail waving at the tip, the
hair on its back a bristling brush, did I glance casually over my head.

From among the shadows a face gazed down at me, a face that seemed a
fitting tenant of the ghostly room below. I saw it as plainly as I might
see my own face in a mirror. While I stared at it with horrified eyes,
the apparition faded. The rail was there, the Bokhara rug still swung
from it, but the gallery was empty.

The cat threw back its head and wailed.

CHAPTER XXIV. HIS WIFE'S FATHER

I jumped up and seized the fire tongs. The cat's wail had roused
Hotchkiss, who was wide-awake at once. He took in my offensive attitude,
the tongs, the direction of my gaze, and needed nothing more. As he
picked up the candle and darted out into the hall, I followed him. He
made directly for the staircase, and part way up he turned off to the
right through a small door. We were on the gallery itself; below us the
fire gleamed cheerfully, the cat was not in sight. There was no sign
of my ghostly visitant, but as we stood there the Bokhara