n agony of suspense, passed in the same
fashion; then a shadowy form grew, phantomesque, out of the gloom; a
moment more, and I distinctly heard the heavy breathing of a man nearly
spent, and saw my friend scrambling up toward the black embrasure in the
tower. His voice came huskily, pantingly:

"Creep along and lend me a hand, Petrie! I am nearly winded."

I crept through the window, steadied my quivering nerves by an effort
of the will, and reached the end of the ledge in time to take Smith's
extended hand and to draw him up beside me against the wall of the
tower. He was shaking with his exertions, and must have fallen, I think,
without my assistance. Inside the room again:

"Quick! light the candles!" he breathed hoarsely.

"Did any one come?"

"No one--nothing."

Having expended several matches in vain, for my fingers twitched
nervously, I ultimately succeeded in relighting the candles.

"Get along to your room!" directed Smith. "Your apprehensions are
unfounded at the moment, but you may as well leave both doors wide
open!"

I looked into his face--it was very drawn and grim, and his brow was wet
with perspiration, but his eyes had the fighting glint, and I knew that
we were upon the eve of strange happenings.

CHAPTER XXIII. A CRY ON THE MOOR

Of the events intervening between this moment and that when death called
to us out of the night, I have the haziest recollections. An excellent
dinner was served in the bleak and gloomy dining-room by the mulatto,
and the crippled author was carried to the head of the table by this
same Herculean attendant, as lightly as though he had but the weight of
a child.

Van Roon talked continuously, revealing a deep knowledge of all sorts of
obscure matters; and in the brief intervals, Nayland Smith talked also,
with almost feverish rapidity. Plans for the future were discussed. I
can recall no one of them.

I could not stifle my queer sentiments in regard to the mulatto, and
every time I found him behind my chair I was hard put to repress
a shudder. In this fashion the strange evening passed; and to the
accompaniment of distant, muttering thunder, we two guests retired
to our chambers in Cragmire Tower. Smith had contrived to give me my
instructions in a whisper, and five minutes after entering my own room,
I had snuffed the candles, slipped a wedge, which he had given me, under
the door, crept out through the window onto the guttered ledge, and
joined Smith in