ner Brading, attorney-at-law, lived in a cottage at the edge of the
town. Directly behind the dwelling was the forest. Being a bachelor, and
therefore, by the Draconian moral code of the time and place denied the
services of the only species of domestic servant known thereabout, the
"hired girl," he boarded at the village hotel, where also was his
office. The woodside cottage was merely a lodging maintained--at no
great cost, to be sure--as an evidence of prosperity and respectability.
It would hardly do for one to whom the local newspaper had pointed with
pride as "the foremost jurist of his time" to be "homeless," albeit he
may sometimes have suspected that the words "home" and "house" were not
strictly synonymous. Indeed, his consciousness of the disparity and his
will to harmonize it were matters of logical inference, for it was
generally reported that soon after the cottage was built its owner had
made a futile venture in the direction of marriage--had, in truth, gone
so far as to be rejected by the beautiful but eccentric daughter of Old
Man Marlowe, the recluse. This was publicly believed because he had told
it himself and she had not--a reversal of the usual order of things
which could hardly fail to carry conviction.

Brading's bedroom was at the rear of the house, with a single window
facing the forest.

One night he was awakened by a noise at that window; he could hardly
have said what it was like. With a little thrill of the nerves he sat up
in bed and laid hold of the revolver which, with a forethought most
commendable in one addicted to the habit of sleeping on the ground floor
with an open window, he had put under his pillow. The room was in
absolute darkness, but being unterrified he knew where to direct his
eyes, and there he held them, awaiting in silence what further might
occur. He could now dimly discern the aperture--a square of lighter
black. Presently there appeared at its lower edge two gleaming eyes that
burned with a malignant lustre inexpressibly terrible! Brading's heart
gave a great jump, then seemed to stand still. A chill passed along his
spine and through his hair; he felt the blood forsake his cheeks. He
could not have cried out--not to save his life; but being a man of
courage he would not, to save his life, have done so if he had been
able. Some trepidation his coward body might feel, but his spirit was of
sterner stuff. Slowly the shining eyes rose with a steady motion that
seemed a