. The greater part of Friar's Park was shut up and
allowed to fall into decay. Finally, to Mr. Hardacre's surprise and
grief, Sir Burnham mortgaged the property. But it was the terms of the
mortgage--which I was privileged to inspect--which aroused my
curiosity.

"In brief, the mortgagee agreed, in the event of Sir Burnham's death,
to allow the widow to retain possession of the property for life,
whether payments fell in arrears or otherwise!"

"But this--" I exclaimed.

"Is, as a friend of yours once remarked, as mad as 'Alice in
Wonderland'! I agree. But to continue. At the time that this
extraordinary agreement was drawn up, Mr. Hardacre went down to
Friar's Park, of course; and he was a witness of several most singular
and significant occurrences. For instance, on the evening of his
arrival, whilst he was dressing for dinner, Sir Burnham came running
to his room and begged of him to lock his door and to remain in his
room until his host gave him permission to come out! He was
particularly warned against admitting any one _who might knock_ in the
interval!"

"Good heavens!" I cried--"and did any one knock?"

"No one; but about half an hour later Sir Burnham came and released
him. Mr. Hardacre was unspeakably distressed to observe that Sir
Burnham looked white and ill; in fact, in Mr. Hardacre's own words,
five years older! Again, quite by accident, on the same night, he came
upon his host kneeling in the chapel--in those days it still boasted a
roof--deep in prayer. An atmosphere of indescribable horror, he
declared, had settled upon Friar's Park, and although, as he
confessed, he had no evidence to prove the correctness of his theory,
he nevertheless traced this to the person of the mortgagee. For it
seemed to correspond roughly with the appearance in the neighborhood
of this man--whom he now met for the first time."

Again Gatton paused, taking out his pipe and pouch, and:

"Who was this person?" I asked.

"A certain Dr. Damar Greefe!"

"Good God!" I cried--"where is all this leading us, Gatton?"

"It is leading us slowly to the truth, Mr. Addison, and that truth,
when we come to it, is going to be more horrible than we even suspect.
Passing over much of Mr. Hardacre's evidence, I come to the death, in
Switzerland, of Mr. Roger Coverly, under circumstances so obscure that
I fear we shall never know the particulars. Of one thing, however, I
am assured: there was foul play."

"You mean that Roger Cover