er again experienced a similar kind of thing.
For example, in a certain house in Norwood, I remember losing in rapid
succession two stylograph pens, a knife, and a sash. I remembered, in
each case, laying the article on a table, then having my attention
called away by some rather unusual sound in a far corner of the room,
and then, on returning to the table, finding the article had vanished.
There was no one else in the house, so that ordinary theft was out of
the question. Yet where did these articles go, and of what use would
they be to a poltergeist? On one occasion, only, I caught a glimpse of
the miscreant. It was about eight o'clock on a warm evening in June, and
I was sitting reading in my study. The room is slightly below the level
of the road, and in summer, the trees outside, whilst acting as an
effective screen against the sun's rays, cast their shadows somewhat too
thickly on the floor and walls, burying the angles in heavy gloom. In
the daytime one rather welcomes this darkness; but in the afternoon it
becomes a trifle oppressive, and at twilight one sometimes wishes it was
not there. It is at twilight that the nature of the shadows usually
undergoes a change, and there amalgamates, with them, that Something,
that peculiar, indefinable Something that I can only associate with the
superphysical. Here, in my library, I often watch it creep in with the
fading of the sunlight, or, postponing its advent till later--steal in
through the window with the moonbeams, and I feel its presence just as
assuredly and instinctively as I can feel and detect the presence of
hostility in an audience or individual. I cannot describe how; I can
only say I do, and that my discernment is seldom misleading. On the
evening in question I was alone in the house. I had noticed, amid the
shadows that lay in clusters on the floor and walls, this enigmatical
Something. It was there most markedly; but I did not associate it with
anything particularly terrifying or antagonistic. Perhaps that was
because the book I was reading interested me most profoundly--it was a
translation from Heine, and I am devoted to Heine. Let me quote an
extract. It is from _Florentine Nights_, and runs: "But is it not folly
to wish to sound the inner meaning of any phenomenon outside us, when we
cannot even solve the enigma of our own souls? We hardly know even
whether outside phenomena really exist! We are often unable to
distinguish reality from mere dream-faces