Page:Weird Tales volume 11 number 02.pdf/36



HE stillness of the room was broken only by the clicking of a typewriter, which went on uninterruptedly for some time. Finally a man arose, and, stretching himself, yawned and spoke to his companion.

“It’s too hot to work tonight, and, besides, who could write a horror story on a night like this?” The other man raised his eyes from his book.

“I suppose it should be thundering, lightening, and raining torrents, with a wind that whistles around the housetops. Come on, let’s hit the hay, Jerry.”

When he had finished his preparations for bed, Jerry Jarvais slipped out upon the balcony of the inn for a final cigaret. He stood there silent, gazing off across the moor. The night was very still, and the moon flooded everything with a soft, silvery light that brought all out in a marble whiteness—a softness that hid the grime and dirt, and gave the commonplace an air of beauty unseen by the glare of day. There was only the faintest hint of a breeze that, soft as midnight velvet, whipped his dressing-gown around his legs and made the trees bend ever so gracefully, ever so slightly, seeming to bow and quiver like dancers on a polished ballroom floor.

Jarvais was silent, rapt, alone and lost in the beauty of the night. For a long time he had heard of this section of desolate country with its 179