I asked, turning to Clinton. "'That the soul
is to guard the door, to close it upon the coffin?'"

"Those are the words," answered Allen, speaking with some difficulty.

"Now if that is true," I continued, "and we take the coffin out, the
spirit won't shut the door; if it does shut it, it disproves the whole
thing at once, and shows it to be merely a clever mechanical
contrivance. Come, Clinton, help me to get the coffin out."

"I dare not, Bell," he whispered hoarsely. "I daren't go inside."

"Nonsense, man," I said, feeling now a little annoyed at the whole
thing. "Here, put the lantern down and hold the door back." I stepped in
and, getting behind the coffin, put out all my strength and shoved it
into the passage.

"Now, then," I cried, "I'll bet you fifty pounds to five the door will
shut just the same." I dragged the coffin clear of the door and told him
to let go. Clinton had scarcely done so before, stepping back, he
clutched my arm.

"Look," he whispered; "do you see that it will not shut now? My father
is waiting for the coffin to be put back. This is awful!"

I gazed at the door in horror; it was perfectly true, it remained wide
open, and quite still. I sprang forward, seized it, and now endeavoured
to close it. It was as if some one was trying to hold it open; it
required considerable force to stir it, and it was only with difficulty
I could move it at all. At last I managed to shut it, but the moment I
let go it swung back open of its own accord and struck against the wall,
where it remained just as before. In the dead silence that followed I
could hear Clinton breathing quickly behind me, and I knew he was
holding himself for all he was worth.

At that moment there suddenly came over me a sensation which I had once
experienced before, and which I was twice destined to experience again.
It is impossible to describe it, but it seized me, laying siege to my
brain till I felt like a child in its power. It was as if I were slowly
drowning in the great ocean of silence that enveloped us. Time itself
seemed to have disappeared. At my feet lay the misshapen thing, and the
lantern behind it cast a fantastic shadow of its distorted outline on
the cell wall before me.

"Speak; say something," I cried to Clinton. The sharp sound of my voice
broke the spell. I felt myself again, and smiled at the trick my nerves
had played on me. I bent down and once more laid my hands on the coffin,
but before I had time to p