arley was so sure that
it was Henry Vail himself that he began to get up to shake hands with
his friend, but the perfect transparency of the apparition checked him,
and he hid his face in his hands a moment, in a terror that he could no
longer conceal from himself.

"What do you want?" he said at last, lifting his eyes.

"I want you, Charley!" said the ghost.

Now I hardly know how to describe to you the manner in which the ghost
replied. It was not speech, nor any attempt at speech. You have seen a
mesmerist or biologist, or whatever-you-call-him-ist, communicate with
a man under his spell without speech. He looks at him, _wills_ that a
distinct impression shall be made on his victim, and the poor fellow
does or says as the master spirit wishes him. By some such subtle
influence the ghost, without the intervention of sound or the sense of
hearing, conveyed this reply to Charley. There was no doubt about the
reply. It was far more distinct than speech--an impression made
directly upon the consciousness.

Charley arose and dressed himself under some sort of fascination. His
own will had abdicated; the tender, eager, wistful eyes of Vail held
him fast, and he did not feel either inclination or power to resist.
The eyes directed him to one article of clothing, and then to another,
until he found himself muffled to the ears for a night walk.

"Where are we going?" asked Charley huskily.

"To Huckleberry Street," answered the eyes, without a sound, and in a
minute more the two were passing down the silent streets. They met
several policemen and private watchmen, but Vanderhuyn observed that no
one took notice either of him or the ghost. The feet of the watchmen
made a grinding noise in the crisp snow, but Charley was horrified to
find that his own tread and that of his companion made no sound
whatever as their feet fell upon the icy sidewalks. Was he, then, out
of the body also? This silence and this loss of the power of choice
made him doubtful, indeed, whether he were dead or alive.

In Huckleberry Street they went first to a large saloon, where a set of
roysterers were having a Christmas-Eve spree preparatory to a
Christmas-morning headache. Charley could not imagine why the ghost had
brought him here, to be smothered with the smell of this villainous
tobacco, for to nothing was Charley more sensitive than to the smell of
a poor cigar or a cheap pipe. He thought if he should have to stay here
long he would like to