our peril," I replied. "I am a younger man than
you are, and my strength has not been weakened by drink and dissipation.
Take care."

The villain drew himself up to his full height; and, though he must have
been at least some sixty years of age, I felt assured that I should meet
no ordinary adversary if a personal struggle should ensue. Agnes
fainted, and I laid her on a sofa.

"Miss Maryon wants air," said the Colonel, in a calmer voice. "Excuse
me, Mr. Maryon, if I open a window." He tore open the shutters, and
threw up the sash. "And now, Mr. Westcar, unless you are prepared to be
sensible, and make your exit by the door, I shall be under the
unpleasant necessity of throwing you out of the window."

The ruffian advanced toward me as he spoke. Suddenly he paused. His jaw
dropped; his hair seemed literally to stand on end; his white lips
quivered; he shook, as with an ague; his whole form appeared to shrink.
I stared in amazement at the awful change. A strange thrill shot through
me, as I heard a quiet voice say:

"Richard Bludyer, your grave is waiting for you. Go."

The figure of a man passed between me and him. The wretched man shrank
back, and, with a wild cry, leaped from the window he had opened.

All this time Mr. Maryon was standing like a lifeless statue.

In helpless wonder I gazed at the figure before me. I saw clearly the
features in profile, and, swift as lightning, my memory was carried back
to the unforgotten scene in the churchyard upon the Lake of Lucerne, and
I recognized the white face of the young man with whom I there had
spoken.

"John Maryon," said the voice, "this is the night upon which, a quarter
of a century ago, you killed me. It is your last night on earth. You
must go through the tragedy again."

Mr. Maryon, still statue-like, beckoned to the figure, and opened a
half-concealed door which led into his study. The strange but opportune
visitant seemed to motion to me with a gesture of his hand, which I felt
I must obey, and I followed in this weird procession. From the study we
mounted by a private staircase to a large, well-furnished bed-chamber.
Here we paused. Mr. Maryon looked tremblingly at the stranger, and said,
in a low, stammering voice:

"This is my room. In this room, on this night, twenty-five years ago,
you told me that you were certain Sir Henry Benet's will was in
existence, and that you had made up your mind to dispute my possession
to this property. You had disco