o silent,
whether the better to show by preternatural gravity that curious dignity
of the garb with which he was invested or in obedience to an inward
voice, he delivered briefly and, as some thought, perfunctorily the
ecclesiastical ordinance forbidding man to put asunder what God has
joined.

But Malachias' tale began to freeze them with horror. He conjured up the
scene before them. The secret panel beside the chimney slid back and
in the recess appeared... Haines! Which of us did not feel his flesh
creep! He had a portfolio full of Celtic literature in one hand, in the
other a phial marked _Poison._ Surprise, horror, loathing were depicted
on all faces while he eyed them with a ghostly grin. I anticipated some
such reception, he began with an eldritch laugh, for which, it seems,
history is to blame. Yes, it is true. I am the murderer of Samuel
Childs. And how I am punished! The inferno has no terrors for me. This
is the appearance is on me. Tare and ages, what way would I be resting
at all, he muttered thickly, and I tramping Dublin this while back
with my share of songs and himself after me the like of a soulth or a
bullawurrus? My hell, and Ireland's, is in this life. It is what I tried
to obliterate my crime. Distractions, rookshooting, the Erse language
(he recited some), laudanum (he raised the phial to his lips), camping
out. In vain! His spectre stalks me. Dope is my only hope... Ah!
Destruction! The black panther! With a cry he suddenly vanished and the
panel slid back. An instant later his head appeared in the door opposite
and said: Meet me at Westland Row station at ten past eleven. He was
gone. Tears gushed from the eyes of the dissipated host. The seer
raised his hand to heaven, murmuring: The vendetta of Mananaun! The
sage repeated: _Lex talionis_. The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy
without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done. Malachias,
overcome by emotion, ceased. The mystery was unveiled. Haines was the
third brother. His real name was Childs. The black panther was himself
the ghost of his own father. He drank drugs to obliterate. For this
relief much thanks. The lonely house by the graveyard is uninhabited.
No soul will live there. The spider pitches her web in the solitude.
The nocturnal rat peers from his hole. A curse is on it. It is haunted.
Murderer's ground.

What is the age of the soul of man? As she hath the virtue of the
chameleon to change her hue at every new approac