he way we had come, then went on, following the wall, I
beside him, until we came to the gate. It was unfastened, and we walked
up the stone path through a wilderness of weeds. Four windows of the
house were visible, two on the ground 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 clangor, 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 oaken 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 keyhole; one end of it occupied the base