d floor and two above.
Those on the ground floor were heavily boarded up, those above, though
glazed, boasted neither blinds nor curtains. Cragmire Tower showed not
the slightest evidence of tenancy.

We mounted three steps and stood before a tremendously massive oaken
door. An iron bell-pull, ancient and rusty, hung on the right of the
door, and Smith, giving me an odd glance, seized the ring and tugged
it.

From somewhere within the building answered a mournful clangour, a
cracked and toneless jangle, which, seeming to echo through empty
apartments, sought and found an exit apparently by way of one of the
openings in the round tower; for it was from above our heads that the
noise came to us.

It died away, that eerie ringing--that clanging so dismal that it
could chill my heart even then with the bright sunlight streaming
down out of the blue; it awoke no other response than the mournful cry
of the sea-gull circling over our heads. Silence fell. We looked at
one another, and we were both about to express a mutual doubt, when,
unheralded by any unfastening of bolts or bars, the door was opened,
and a huge mulatto, dressed in white, stood there regarding us.

I started nervously, for the apparition was so unexpected, but Nayland
Smith, without evidence of surprise, thrust a card into the man's
hand.

"Take my card to Mr. Van Roon, and say that I wish to see him on
important business," he directed authoritatively.

The mulatto bowed and retired. His white figure seemed to be swallowed
up by the darkness within, for beyond the patch of uncarpeted floor
revealed by the peeping sunlight, was a barn-like place of densest
shadow. I was about to speak, but Smith laid his hand upon my arm
warningly, as, out from the shadows, the mulatto returned. He stood on
the right of the door and bowed again.

"Be pleased to enter," he said, in his harsh, negro voice. "Mr. Van
Roon will see you."

The gladness of the sun could no longer stir me; a chill and sense of
foreboding bore me company as beside Nayland Smith I entered Cragmire
Tower.

CHAPTER XXII

THE MULATTO

The room in which Van Roon received us was roughly of the shape of an
old-fashioned key-hole; one end if it occupied the base of the tower,
upon which the remainder had evidently been built. In many respects it
was a singular room, but the feature which caused me the greatest
amazement was this--it had no windows!

In the deep alcove formed by the to