s was odd, because we had
walked a good many miles, and it had been a blazing hot day, and up till
then I had slept like a log the moment I got into bed. I lit a candle
and began reading a small volume of Heine I carried with me. I heard the
clock strike ten, and then eleven, and still I felt that sleep was out
of the question. I said to myself: 'I will read till twelve and then I
will stop.' My watch was on a chair by my bedside, and when the clock
struck eleven I noticed that it was five minutes slow, and set it right.
I could see the church tower from my window, and every time the clock
struck--and it struck the quarters--the noise boomed through the room.

"When the clock struck a quarter to twelve I yawned for the first time,
and I felt thankful that sleep seemed at last to be coming to me. I left
off reading, and taking my watch in my hand I waited for midnight to
strike. This quarter of an hour seemed an eternity. At last the hands
of my watch showed that it was one minute to twelve. I put out my candle
and began counting sixty, waiting for the clock to strike. I had counted
a hundred and sixty, and still the clock had not struck. I counted up to
four hundred; then I thought I must have made a mistake. I lit my candle
again, and looked at my watch: it was two minutes past twelve. And still
the clock had not struck!

"A curious uncomfortable feeling came over me, and I sat up in bed
with my watch in my hand and longed to call Braun, who was peacefully
snoring, but I did not like to. I sat like this till a quarter past
twelve; the clock struck the quarter as usual. I made up my mind that
the clock must have struck twelve, and that I must have slept for
a minute--at the same time I knew I had not slept--and I put out my
candle. I must have fallen asleep almost directly.

"The next thing I remember was waking with a start. It seemed to me that
some one had shut the door between my room and Braun's. I felt for
the matches. The match-box was empty. Up to that moment--I cannot tell
why--something--an unaccountable dread--had prevented me looking at the
door. I made an effort and looked. It was shut, and through the cracks
and through the keyhole I saw the glimmer of a light. Braun had lit his
candle. I called him, not very loudly: there was no answer. I called
again more loudly: there was still no answer.

"Then I got out of bed and walked to the door. As I went, it was gently
and slightly opened, just enough to show