V
QUIVERING and shuddering, he was back on the staircase, feeling his way down like a blind man, with his hand before his eyes, when he heard a soft knock at the front door.
The sound steadied him. Just then, perhaps, nothing else could have done so. This came from without, from the commonplace world at the other side of the door, the world of people who were dead when they were dead. His mind formulated that thought, but dared not dwell on it. He squared his shoulders, and walked firmly downstairs to answer the knock.
Old Jarvins stood at the threshold—bowed, wrinkled, his eyes gleaming with the expression of everlasting, elfish merriment which was peculiarly his. Young John drew back; he had always instinctively drawn back from Jarvins, without considering why. But the old man's kindly words shamed him into an attitude of welcome.
"Well enough to be up and around, my boy? I'm glad. You know, I promised your uncle to keep an eye on you. He had a long talk with me about you, only a few days before the end."
Once he was inside, with hat and cane deposited in their accustomed places, Jarvins bent his quizzical, uncomfortably keen eyes on the young man.
"You are not yourself, yet; and your trouble is mental, rather than physical. Am I correct?"
John Bamber nodded. He neither welcomed nor resented the suggestion.
"Then I have the right to offer my services," the old man continued.
"There is nothing that anyone can do," John returned, curtly.
"You are sure? I have had mental trouble in my time."
"Not this sort."
They were still standing. That was another of Jarvins' peculiarities; he seldom sat in a chair. Instead, he paced back and forth, incessantly, hands behind his back, hunched shoulders swinging to his stride, head sunk forward and bright eyes glancing up under veiled lids. He stopped, suddenly. His voice took on an odd pathos, which, somehow, stirred unaccustomed sympathy in John Bamber's heart.
"I've had trouble; one doesn't come to my age without it. Your uncle, too, my boy, had much in his time. And all trouble is much the same in the end. Your sort or my sort, or his—there is little difference. You will find that I can help you."
Young John met his eye; and abruptly with the desperation of a man driven to seek the most unlikely aid, his resolve was taken.
"If you will, then, you can help me at this minute, Mr. Jarvins," he said, quietly. "I have just come from the room that was my uncle's. I should like you to go there with me."
"A little thing to do!" Jarvins smiled. "Will you lead or follow?"
"I think—if you will—you may lead."
"Quite so. You don't care to explain your reasons, before we start? Perhaps I could help more intelligently if I knew."
"I don't care to explain."
Jarvins shrugged his shoulders, and, still smiling, led the way. He strode easily, without hesitation, into the hallway and up the stairs. In contrast to him, the young man, just behind, walked with long jerky steps, like one drawn onward against his will.
The door at the head of the stairs was half open. Jarvins pushed it wide, and stepped into the room. There he turned, with an expression of inquiry.
Young John stopped at the threshold. He was breathing heavily.
"How can I serve you now?" the old man inquired.
His companion spoke, in a thick, unnatural voice.
"Tell me what you see."
"What I see?" Jarvins pivoted on his heel, and swept the place with his glance. "I see—the room; it has never had much furniture, but what there was is still here. It seems you are making no changes—very properly, my boy, I should say. There is the little bookcase with his favorite volumes; the chess board on the table; his chair before the fireplace. Notice how the light of the converter shines on the fireplace! You would almost swear a fire was in it!"
Young John interrupted him, in a loud, harsh voice:
"You see nothing else?"
"The furniture—?"
"Damn the furniture. There—there in the chair!"
With raised eyebrows, Jarvins walked to the chair and looked at it, narrowly. He turned about, inquiringly.
"There is nothing in the chair, my boy. What—?"
But, with a sharp cry, young John Bamber turned and fled down the stairs. Hunted by something invisible, he ran through the hall, the library, the sitting-room and so to his own apartment. He slammed the door behind him, and flung himself, sobbing, face downward across the bed.
VI
WHILE he lay there, with the thickness of night descending around him, John Bamber was conscious that someone rapped at his locked door. Following the knock, he heard Jarvins' voice calling, offering help. He remained silent, and at last Jarvins left. The heavy front door slammed behind him.
Later Mrs. Murdock tapped and inquired whether he wanted anything. He replied with a curt negative, and she bade him good-night.
The night wore on. He sat on the edge of his bed, not caring to undress. The lurid flare of the converter slanted across the foot of the bed, and just touched, at its bottom, the door that led into the sitting-room—the door at which Jarvins and Mrs. Murdock had knocked.
Calmness coming wih the long vigil, John Bamber reasoned with himself. In most matters he was prosaic and matter-of-fact; not, he felt, easily unbalanced; certainly not superstitious. When he had taken the oath at his uncle's knee, he had had no thought but that it was an obligation he would be rid of soon. That night, death had come; then he had been sure of his deliverance. Now he was not so sure.
He would not admit squarely to himself what it was that he had seen. To do so would be disastrous. His mind could not stand it. He must keep his thoughts away from what was upstairs—sitting there in the darkness. . . .
But Jarvins had not seen it; nor had Mrs. Murdock. It could not really be there. . . .
Something crackled in the wainscoting—one of the multitudinous, tiny voices of the night. He listened, acutely. The blackness seemed full of murmuring, insistent sound—the ghosts of whispers, tenuous shreds of movement. Once, he was sure he heard some distinct taps. They seemed to be on the ceiling; as if something upstairs sought to attract attention.
He laughed, suddenly, and railed at himself. Any man who sat alone at night, listening, could hear very much what he expected. He must undress and go to bed.
But he made no move to undress. Instead, he listened again. He held his breath. He tried to bend all his faculties to the intense task of concentration, so as to make no mistake.
Presently, he heard something. It was distinct and different from previous sounds. It was the soft swish of creeping footsteps.
They seemed to be in the library—shuffling steps, very slow, like something des-
