to stick to it as long as he
could. Except for the fact of having remarked that he still wore the
ring, and that his finger looked as pinched as a woman's waist beneath
its clasp, I could not in any way have described Harvey Farnham's hand.
I had doubtless a general impression of its shape and contour in my
mind, but I did not now recall that there had been any recognisable
likeness between it and the dead hand my dream had shown me. Still,
though I was able to give myself a perfectly rational explanation of the
dream, and even of the impression of Farnham's voice earlier in the
night, I could not shake off a curious and unpleasant sensation of there
being some duty connected with the vision which I had left unperformed,
or which was yet to be exacted of me in the future.

CHAPTER IV

The House by the Lock

I arose on Christmas morning with the same feeling. There was absolutely
nothing arranged for me to do that day, as I had informed no one I knew
of my presence in London, meaning to be for the present somewhat of a
free-lance. I had wished not to be obliged to account to anyone as to my
goings and comings. I had not wanted any invitations to family
festivities on Christmas Day to "keep me from being lonely." My desire
had been to go exactly where the whim of the moment might lead me, and
without a moment's hesitation I had declined the invitation to
"Christmas dinner" which poor Farnham had dragged for me from his
friend, Carson Wildred. It might amuse me, Farnham had thought, as
Wildred's house up the river was a queer old place, interesting to
anyone who cared for that sort of thing, and they two were dining quite
alone. Wildred and he had had some final arrangements to settle up, and
as Christmas was such an "off day," so far as amusements were concerned,
it had been Wildred's idea that they should utilise it in this manner.
The other man took Farnham's hint, and civilly gave the required
invitation, of course, but even had it been offered with enthusiasm I
should not have been tempted to accept.

Now, however, I felt a curious inclination to call at the House by the
Lock, as it was named. I would not dine there, I told myself, but there
must be an inn in the neighbourhood, where I could obtain some slight
Christmas cheer, if I chose to embark upon the rather mild adventure of
going up the river on this wintry holiday.

It was years since I had been in England, and the thought of a solitary
stroll by