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Rh perately hurt dragging itself across the floor. They would stop, then resume. Once they paused for a longer interval, as if whatever it was that crept across the floor in that blind, dumb fashion were itself listening. When they came again, John Bamber rose to his feet. Change of position might make a difference—he had been sitting too long in the one place. He must not let imagination go too far. He stood near the door, and listened again.

Then he was sure. There could be no further doubt. He heard them.

Sometimes, in moments of crisis, when reason is strained almost to the breaking point, swift, desperate action is the only hope. The overwrought mind must face its terror. If it flees, madness lies in wait.

John Bamber found the knob of the spring lock under his hand. He turned it, and opened the door. He had a terrible moment when he felt that some power on the other side of the door was suggesting the action to his soul, and forcing him to open. But there was only darkness at that side of the door; darkness in the sitting-room, and, within the library, the dull light of the converter, which threw into relief its broad entrance.

He stood at the doorway of his room, and listened. There was no sound. Yet he had the impression that something nearby was listening, too; something with gaze fixed on him; something in the darkness of the library.

The impression became more definite. His eyes, straining feverishly through the darkness, perceived a blacker portion of it, a part more palpable than the rest. There was no movement; only growing distinctness. The thing in that darker corner of the library began to assume shape.

John Bamber became aware that his feet were moving. He had taken a step toward the library. At the horror of that fact, he tried to scream aloud, but his voice would not respond. He was being dragged on against his will.

It was in this room that his uncle had lain dead.

A step at a time, pulled forward by the fascination of the thing that seemed to be there, he entered. He felt that he had been traversing miles of space. Years ago, he had left the security of his own room. He was not awake; he was in a nightmare. Yet he sensed with a thrill of reality the familiar, warm atmosphere of the library, odorous of musty leather bindings and old books. His feet sank into its yielding rugs. The easy chairs, well known to his leisure, welcomed him. But there was an alien presence.

The slender path of light from the converter slanted downward, as always, through the narrow window. It was not the usual straight beam. It was broken, interrupted in its course.

Unwillingly, he took another step into the room; and, suddenly, he comprehended.

The beam of light was broken because it shone upon his uncle's coffin.

ELL me what you saw, John," urged Mary Lane.

He had called on her the next day, in the little cottage where she lived with her mother. His eyes were staring. He continually looked behind him. But slowly her quiet, soothing personality calmed his troubled spirit, until he was able, after a fashion, to return her smile.

"I guess it's madness," he said moodily. "I didn't see anything. My mind is going—that's all."

"That must be it. You loved your uncle so much that his death turned your brain."

He started, and looked at her sharply. Her face was perfectly sober. But she hastened to soften her irony.

"I don't mean that just as it sounds, John. Of course, you loved him. Still, I can't believe that his death would drive you insane."

"But I must be insane—or else—"

"Or else you saw something. You haven't said so, but I know. Now, be fair to me. You've come to me for advice. Tell me what it was—or what you thought it was."

He passed his hand slowly over his forehead. Her calmness was having its effect. He seemed a little less reluctant to discuss the cause of his nervousness.

"I can't remember how much I've told you," he began, haltingly. "Did I say that he had made me promise not to have anything to do with you, as long as he remained in the house?"

She nodded.

"I knew him to be a dying man, so I swore readily enough. Maybe I took advantage of him. Perhaps this is a judgment on me."

"Very well. We'll grant that. Now—what have you seen?"

After a moment's hesitancy, he looked squarely into her eyes; and, picking his words deliberately, he told her.

"I have seen him three times," he concluded; "once, when the shock of it made me fall downstairs; again, last night; the third time with Jarvins—who saw nothing. He was in his chair, looking into the fireplace, just as he used to sit. Last of all, I saw his coffin in the library—but it was not there this morning. I don't know how I got back to my room last night."

She caught her breath with a little gasp, but instantly steadied herself again.

"The figure in his room—was it distinct?" she suggested.

"As distinct as you are now. I saw him by the light of the converter, shining through the window."

"Did he speak to you, John?"

"No. He did not look up."

They sat facing each other. She leaned forward, and placed her hand on his arm.

"Tell me, John. Do you really think you saw him—or was it your mind?"

He hesitated; but at last answered her with deliberate words:

"I really think—I saw him."

"And you think your promise has something to do with it?"

"I believe this explains it. He intended to come back. So he made me take that oath."

"If that's so, John, you are breaking your oath now."

"I know it."

She wrinkled her brow, and slowly shook her head.

"No, I don't believe you are. He was thinking of me as your fiancée. You've come to see me today just as an adviser. And I'm going to advise you."

He waited, in silence.

"My advice is that you go up to his room again tonight. Have someone else with you—someone more in sympathy with your mind that Mr. Jarvins is. If we can solve the secret of that room, we may be able to explain the coffin you saw, too."

She went on, still working out his plan for him.

"Mrs. Murdock won't do. Mr. Jarvins failed. John, it will have to be—"

He looked up into her face. She was smiling at him.

"It will have to be—Mary Lane!"

"I can't ask you to do that."

"No—you can't. It wouldn't be the thing, at all. I am coming without being asked."

He glared at her; then betrayed the nervous tension under which he labored by a sudden and complete surrender.

"Come on, then."

But she shook her head.

"Not yet. I've always heard that the best time for—for such—things is at night. Suppose I come this evening, while Mrs. Murdock is busy in the kitchen?"