t overcame fear.

"Could--could I have a drink of water?" he whimpered, gazing longingly
down at the full ice-water pitcher on the sideboard.

An angry glance from Frederik sent him into his own room like a rabbit
into its warren.

Frederik, the fragments of the picture clenched in his sweat-damp hand,
glowered after the retreating lad and took a step toward the fire. The
movement brought him close to the desk. The lamp had suddenly burned
very low. But for the faint gleam of firelight the room was in almost
total darkness.

And out of that gloom leaped a Face. A Face close to Frederik's own;--a
Face indescribably awful in its aspect of unearthly menace. The face of
Peter Grimm. Not kindly and rugged as in life, or even as since the Dead
Man's return. But terrible, accusing, bathed in a lurid glow.

Frederik, with a scream of crass horror, reeled back. The bits of
cardboard tumbled from his fear-loosened grip and strewed the surface of
the desk.

"My God!" croaked Frederik, his throat sanded with terror. "My God! Oh,
my _God_!"

The Face was gone. The room was in shadow again and very silent. The
dropping of a charred ember from andiron to hearth made the
panic-stricken man jump convulsively.

Scarce breathing, crouched in a position of grotesque fright, the
fear-sweat streaming down his face, Frederik Grimm peered about him
through the flickering gloom. The place seemed peopled with elusive
Shapes. His teeth clicked together as his loosened jaw was nerve-racked.
He shivered from head to foot.

"I--I thought----" he began, half aloud.

Then he fell silent, afraid of his own voice in that dreadful silence.
For a moment he cowered, numb, inert. Then he remembered the fragments
of the photograph that still strewed the table.

"I must get rid of them," he thought.

He took an apprehensive step toward the desk. But the memory of what he
had seen there was too potent. He knew he could no more approach that
spot than he could walk into a den of rattlesnakes. He halted, sweating,
aghast. Again he crept forward,--a step--two steps--in the direction of
the torn picture. But his fears clogged his feet and brought him to a
shivering stand-still. Had the wealth of the world lain strewed on that
desk instead of a mere handful of scattered pasteboard bits he could not
have summoned courage to step forth and seize it.

The Dead Man, in the shadows, read his mind and smiled.

"No one's likely to come in here till I get