r a revelation by light of
which he might grasp the clue to a personality that eluded him entirely.

"That boasted civilisation," said Paul--"the German Kultur--has thrown
us back to the earliest savagery of which we hold record. All that
education has done for us is to hold the savage in check for a time. He
is still there. Spiritually humanity's record is one of retrogression."

Luncheon over, Paul accompanied Thessaly and Bassett to the latticed
gate in the high monastic wall which concealed his house from the road.
They walked away together and he stood for a time gazing after them,
then returned and went to his study. Yvonne, who had watched him from
the dining-room window, heard the study door close. She sat quite still
looking across the table at a chair which Paul had occupied, her fair
hair a crown about her brow as the wintry sunlight shone in upon it.
Chelsea sometimes may seem as quiet as a lonely riverside village, and
at the moment which followed the sound of the closing door it seemed to
have become so to Yvonne. Only that muted droning which arises from the
vast hive of London told of four millions of workers moving intimately
about her. The house was perfectly still. Odin, Paul's wolf-hound,
tugged at his chain in the garden and whined quaveringly. He had heard
Paul arrive and was disappointed because his master had forgotten to pay
him a visit. He was angry, too, because he also had heard the deep voice
of Jules Thessaly; and Odin did not like Jules Thessaly.

* * * * *

A quantity of personal correspondence had accumulated, and Paul
proceeded to inspect it. A letter addressed in Don's familiar sprawling
hand demanded precedence, and Paul noted with excitement that it bore a
Derbyshire postmark. It was dated from the house of one of Don's
innumerable cousins, a house of a type for which the Peak district is
notable, a manor of ghostly repute. This cheerful homestead was
apparently constructed in or adjoining an ancient burial ground, was in
fact a converted monastery, and Don dealt in characteristically
whimsical fashion with its unpleasant peculiarities.

"One can scarcely expect a house constructed in a graveyard," he wrote,
"to be otherwise than a haunted house. It is a house especially built
for a ghost; it is not a house to which a ghost has come; it is a ghost
around whom a house has been built. Erratic manifestations are to be
looked for from a hitherto free an