as if I were in a dream, I tossed up the lantern again. The
drops were still there, but no longer single or scattered. From side to
side, the ceiling at this one end of the building oozed with the thick
red moisture to which he had given so dreadful a name.

Stepping back for fear the stains would resolve themselves into rain and
drop upon my forehead, I stared at Jared, who had now retreated toward
the door.

"What makes you think it blood?" I demanded.

"Because some have smelt and tasted it. We have never talked about it,
but this is not an uncommon occurrence. To-morrow all these stains will
be gone. They come when the dog circles the wall. Whence, no one knows.
It is our mystery. All the old servants have heard of it more than once.
The new ones have never been told. Nor would I have told you if you had
not seen the dog. It was a matter of honor with us."

I looked at him, saw that he believed every word he said, threw another
glance at the ceiling, and led the way out. When we had reached the
house again, I said:

"You are acquainted with the tradition underlying these appearances, as
you call them. What is it?"

He could not tell me. He knew no more than he had already stated--gossip
and old wives' tales. But later, a certain manuscript came into my
possession through my lawyer, which I will append to this.

It was written by my unhappy father, some little time before his last
illness, and given into the charge of the legal representative of our
family, with the express injunction that its seal was to remain intact
if for twenty years the apparition which had haunted him did not present
itself to the eyes of any of his children. But if within that time his
experience should repeat itself in theirs, this document was to be
handed over to the occupant of Homewood. Nineteen out of the twenty
years had elapsed, without the dog being seen or the ceiling of the
pavilion dropping blood. But not the twentieth; hence, the document was
mine.

You can easily conceive with what feelings I opened it. It was headed
with this simple line:

MY STORY WHICH I CAN WRITE BUT COULD NEVER TELL.

I am cursed with an inability to speak when I am most deeply moved,
either by anger or tenderness. This misfortune has wrecked my life.
On the verge of old age, the sorrows and the mistakes of my early
life fill my thoughts so completely that I see but one face, hear
but one voice; yet when she was liv