my college. We drove to the Hotel d'Alsace (I
believe there is no hotel of that name; if there is, I beg the spirited
proprietor's pardon, and assure him that nothing personal is intended).
We marched upstairs with our bags and baggage, and jolly high stairs they
were. When we had removed the soil of travel from our persons, my friend
called out to me, 'I say, Jones, why shouldn't we go down by the lift.'
{256} 'All right,' said I, and my friend walked to the door of the
mechanical apparatus, opened it, and got in. I followed him, when the
porter whose business it is to 'personally conduct' the inmates of the
hotel, entered also, and was closing the door.

"His eyes met mine, and I knew him in a moment. I had seen him once
before. His sallow face, black, closely shaven chin, furtive glance, and
military bearing, were the face and the glance and bearing of the driver
of that awful hearse!

"In a moment--more swiftly than I can tell you--I pushed past the man,
threw open the door, and just managed, by a violent effort, to drag my
friend on to the landing. Then the lift rose with a sudden impulse, fell
again, and rushed, with frightful velocity, to the basement of the hotel,
whence we heard an appalling crash, followed by groans. We rushed
downstairs, and the horrible spectacle of destruction that met our eyes I
shall never forget. The unhappy porter was expiring in agony; but the
warning had saved my life and my friend's."

"_I was that friend_," said I--the collector of these anecdotes; "and so
far I can testify to the truth of Jones's story."

At this moment, however, the gong for dressing sounded, and we went to
our several apartments, after this emotional specimen of "Evenings at
Home."

IN CASTLE PERILOUS.

"What we suffer from most," said the spectre, when I had partly recovered
from my fright, "is a kind of aphasia."

The spectre was sitting on the armchair beside my bed in the haunted room
of Castle Perilous.

"I don't know," said I, as distinctly as the chattering of my teeth would
permit, "that I quite follow you. Would you mind--excuse me--handing me
that flask which lies on the table near you. . . . Thanks."

The spectre, without stirring, so arranged the a priori sensuous schemata
of time and space {261} that the silver flask, which had been well out of
my reach, was in my hand. I poured half the contents into a cup and
offered it to him.

"No spirits," he said curtly.

I sw