THE NIGHT CALL. Best horror stories for adults

The   rst caprice of November snow had sketched the world in white for an hour in the morning. After mid-day, the sun came out, the wind turned warm, and the whiteness vanished from the landscape. By evening, the low ridges and the long plain of New Jersey were rich and sad again, in russet and dull crimson and old gold; for the foliage still clung to the oaks and elms and birches, and the dying monarchy of autumn retreated slowly before winter’s cold republic

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In the old town of Calvinton, stretched along the highroad, the lamps were lit early as the sa ron sunset faded into humid night. A mist rose from the long, wet street and the sodden lawns, mu   ing the houses and the trees and the college towers with a double veil, under which a pallid aureole encircled

every light, while the moon above, languid and tearful, waded slowly through the  mounting  fog.  It  was a  night  of  delay and  expectation, a  night  of remembrance and mystery, lonely and dim and full of strange, dull sounds.

In one of the smaller houses on the main street the light in the window burned late. Leroy Carmichael was alone in his o   ce reading Balzac’s story of “The Country Doctor.” He was not a gloomy or despondent person, but the spirit of the night had entered into him. He had yielded himself, as young men of ardent temperament often do, to the subduing magic of the fall. In his mind, as in the air, there was a soft, clinging mist, and blurred lights of thought,  and  a  still foreboding  of  change. A sense of  the  vast tranquil movement of Nature, of her sympathy and of her indi erence, sank deeply into his heart. For a time he realised that all things, and he, too, some day, must grow old; and he felt the universal pathos of it more sensitively, perhaps, than he would ever feel it again.

If you had told Carmichael that this was what he was thinking about as he sat in his bachelor quarters on that November night, he would have stared at you and then laughed.

“Nonsense,” he would have answered, cheerfully. “I’m no sentimentalist: only a bit tired by a hard afternoon’s work and a rough ride home. Then, Balzac always depresses me a little. The next time I’ll take some quinine and Dumas: he is a tonic.”

But, in fact, no one came in to interrupt his musings and rouse him to that air of cheerfulness with which he always faced the world, and to which, indeed (though he did not know it), he owed some measure of his delay in winning the con dence of Calvinton.

He had come there some   ve years ago with a particularly good out  t to practice medicine in that quaint and alluring old burgh, full of antique hand- made furniture  and traditions. He had not only been well trained for his

profession in the best medical school and hospital of New York, but he was also a graduate of Calvinton College (in which his father had been a professor for a time), and his granduncle was a Grubb, a name high in the Golden Book of Calvintonian aristocracy and inscribed upon tombstones in every village within a radius of   fteen miles. Consequently the young doctor arrived well accredited, and was received in his  rst year with many tokens of hospitality in the shape of tea-parties and suppers.

But the   nal and esoteric approval of Calvinton was a thing apart from these mere  fashionable  courtesies and  worldly  amenities—a thing  not  to  be bestowed without due consideration and satisfactory reasons. Leroy Carmichael failed, somehow or other, to come up to the requirements for a leading physician in such a conservative community. In the  judgment of Calvinton he was a clever young man; but he lacked poise and gravity. He walked too  lightly along the  streets, swinging his stick, and greeting his acquaintances blithely, as if  he were rather glad to be alive. Now this is a sentiment,  if  you  analyse it,  near  akin to  vanity, and,  therefore,  to  be discountenanced in your neighbour and concealed in yourself. How can a man be glad that he is alive, and frankly show it, without a touch of conceit and a reprehensible forgetfulness  of the presence of original sin even in the best families? The manners of a professional man, above all, should at once express and impose humility.

Young Dr. Carmichael, Calvinton said, had been spoiled by his life in New York. It had made him too gay, light-hearted, almost frivolous. It was possible that he might know a good deal about medicine, though doubtless that had been exaggerated; but it was certain that his temperament needed chastening before he could win the kind of con dence that Calvinton had given to the venerable Dr. Co   n, whose face was like a monument, and whose practice rested upon the two pillars of podophyllin and predestination.

So Carmichael still felt, after his  ve years’ work, that he was an outsider; felt it rather more indeed than when he had  rst come. He had enough practice to keep him in good health and spirits. But his patients were along the side streets and in the smaller houses and out in the country. He was not called, except in a chance emergency, to the big houses with the white pillars. The inner circle had not yet taken him in.

He wondered how long he would have to work and wait for that. He knew that things in Calvinton moved slowly; but he knew also that its silent and subconscious judgments sometimes crystallised with incredible rapidity and hardness. Was it possible that he was already classi ed in the group that came near but did not enter, an inhabitant but not a real burgher, a half-way citizen and a lifelong new-comer? That would be rough; he would not like growing old in that way.

But perhaps there  was no  such invisible barrier hemming in his path. Perhaps it was only the naturally slow movement of things that hindered him. Some day the gate would open. He would be called in behind those white pillars into the world of  which his father had often told him stories and traditions. There he would prove his skill and his worth. He would make himself useful and trusted by his work. Then he could marry the girl he loved, and win a   rm place and a real home in the old town whose strange charm held him so strongly even in the vague sadness of this autumnal night.

He turned again from these musings to his Balzac, and read the wonderful pages in which Benassis tells the story of his consecration to his profession and Captain Genestas con des the little Adrien to his care, and then the beautiful letter in which the boy describes the country doctor’s death and burial. The simple pathos of it went home to Carmichael’s heart.

“It is a  ne life, after all,” said he to himself, as he shut the book at midnight and laid down his pipe. “No man has a better chance than a doctor to come

close to  the  real thing. Human  nature  is his patient, and each case is a symptom. It’s worth while to work for the sake of getting nearer to the reality and doing some de nite good by the way. I’m glad that this isn’t one of those mystical towns where Christian Science and Buddhism and all sorts of vagaries ourish. Calvinton may be di  cult, but it’s not obscure. And some day I’ll feel its pulse and get at the heart of it.”

The silence of the little o   ce was snapped by the nervous clamour of the electric bell, shrilling with a night call.

II

Dr. Carmichael turned on the light in the hall, and opened the front door. A tall, dark man of military aspect loomed out of the mist, and, behind him, at the curbstone, the outline of a big motorcar was dimly visible. He held out a visiting-card   inscribed  “Baron  de   Mortemer,”  and   spoke  slowly  and courteously, but with a strong nasal accent and a tone of insistent domination. “You are the Dr. Carmichael, yes? You speak French—no? It is a pity. There is need of you at once—a patient—it is very pressing. You will come with me,

yes?”

“But I do not know you, sir,” said the doctor; “you are—”

“The Baron de Mortemer,” broke in the stranger, pointing to the card as if it answered all questions. “It is the Baroness who is very su  ering—I pray you to come without delay.”

“But what  is it?”  asked the  doctor.  “What  shall I bring with  me?  My instrument-case?”

The Baron smiled with his lips and frowned with his eyes. “Not at all,” he said, “Madame expects not an arrival—it is not so bad as that—but she has had a sudden access of anguish—she has demanded you. I pray you to come at the instant. Bring what pleases you, what you think best, but come!”

The man’s manner was not agitated, but it was strangely urgent, overpowering, constraining; his voice was like a pushing hand. Carmichael threw  on  his coat and hat,  hastily picked up  his medicine-satchel  and a portable electric battery, and followed the Baron to the motor.

The great car started easily and rolled softly purring down the deserted street. The houses were all asleep, and the college buildings dark as empty fortresses. The moon-threaded mist clung closely to the town like a shroud of gauze, not concealing the form beneath, but making its immobility more mysterious. The trees drooped and dripped with moisture, and the leaves seemed ready, almost longing, to fall at a touch. It was one of those nights when the solid things of the world, the houses and the hills and the woods and the  very earth  itself,  grow  unreal  to  the  point  of  vanishing; while the impalpable things, the presences of life and death which travel on the unseen air,  the  in  uences  of  the  far-o    starry  lights, the  silent  messages and presentiments of darkness, the ebb and  ow of vast currents of secret existence all around us, seem so close and vivid that they absorb and overwhelm us with their intense reality.

Through  this  realm  of  indistinguishable verity  and  illusion, strangely imposed upon  the  familiar,  homely street of  Calvinton, the  machine ran smoothly, faintly humming, as the Frenchman drove it with master-skill—itself a dream of embodied power and speed. Gliding by the last cottages of Town’s End where the street became the highroad, the car ran swiftly through the open country for a mile until it came to a broad entrance. The gate was broken from the leaning posts and thrown to one side. Here the machine turned in and laboured up a rough, grass-grown carriage-drive.

Carmichael knew that they were at Castle Gordon, one of the “old places” of Calvinton, which he often passed on his country drives. The house stood well back from the road, on a slight elevation, looking down over the oval  eld that

was once a lawn, and the scattered elms and pines and Norway   rs that did their best to preserve the memory of a noble plantation. The building was colonial; heavy stone walls covered with yellow stucco; tall white wooden pillars ranged along a narrow portico; a style which seemed to assert that a Greek temple was good enough for the residence of an American gentleman. But the clean bu   and white of the house had long since faded. The stucco had cracked, and, here and there, had fallen from  the stones. The paint on the pillars was dingy, peeling in round blisters and narrow strips from the grey wood underneath. The trees were ragged and untended, the grass uncut, the driveway overgrown with weeds and gullied by rains—the whole place looked forsaken. Carmichael had always supposed that it was vacant. But he had not passed that  way for nearly a month,  and, meantime, it might have been reopened and tenanted.

The Baron drove the car around to the back of the house and stopped there. “Pardon,” said he, “that I bring you not to the door of entrance; but this is

the more convenient.”

He knocked hurriedly and spoke a few words in French. The key grated in the lock and the door creaked open. A withered, wiry little man, dressed in dark grey, stood holding a lighted candle, which   ickered in the draught. His head was nearly bald; his sallow, hairless face might have been of any age from twenty to  a hundred  years; his eyes between their narrow  red lids were glittering and inscrutable as those of  a snake. As he bowed and grinned, showing his yellow, broken teeth, Carmichael thought that he had never seen a more evil face or one more clearly marked with the sign of the drug-  end.

“My chau  eur, Gaspard,” said the Baron, “also my valet, my cook, my chambermaid, my man to do all, what you call factotum,  is it not?  But he speaks not English, so pardon me once more.”

He spoke a few words to the man, who shrugged his shoulders and smiled with the same deferential grimace while his unchanging eyes gleamed through their slits. Carmichael caught only the word “Madame” while he was slipping o   his overcoat, and understood that they were talking of his patient.

“Come,” said the Baron, “he says that it goes better, at least not worse—that is always something. Let us mount at the instant.”

The hall was bare, except for a table on which a kitchen lamp was burning, and two chairs with heavy automobile coats and rugs and veils thrown upon them.  The  stairway was  uncarpeted,  and  the  dust  lay thick under  the banisters. At the door of the back room on the second  oor the Baron paused and knocked softly. A low voice answered, and he went in, beckoning the doctor to follow.

III

If Carmichael  lived to be a hundred he could never forget that   rst impression. The room was but partly furnished, yet it gave at once the idea that it was inhabited; it was even, in some strange way, rich and splendid. Candles on the mantelpiece and a silver travelling-lamp on the dressing-table threw a soft light on little articles of luxury, and photographs in jewelled frames, and a couple of well-bound books, and a gilt clock marking the half-hour after midnight. A wood   re burned in the wide chimney-place, and before it a rug was spread. At one  side there  was a  huge  mahogany four-post  bedstead, and  there, propped up by the pillows, lay the noblest-looking woman that Carmichael had ever seen.

She was dressed in some clinging stu   of soft black, with a diamond at her breast, and a deep-red cloak thrown over her feet. She must have been past middle age, for her thick, brown hair was already touched with silver, and one lock of snow-white  lay above her forehead. But her face was one of those

which time enriches; fearless and tender and high-spirited, a speaking face in which the dark-lashed grey eyes were like words of wonder and the sensitive mouth like a clear song. She looked at the young doctor and held out her hand to him.

“I am glad to see you,” she said, in her low, pure voice, “very glad! You are

Roger Carmichael’s son. Oh, I am glad to see you indeed.”

“You are very kind,” he answered, “and I am glad also to be of any service to you, though I do not yet know who you are.”

The Baron was bending over the   re rearranging the logs on the andirons. He looked up sharply and spoke in his strong nasal tone.

“Pardon!  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Mortemer,  j’ai l’honneur   de  vous  presenter

Monsieur le Docteur Carmichael.”

The accent on the “doctor” was marked. A slight shadow came upon the lady’s face. She answered, quietly:

“Yes, I know. The doctor has come to see me because I was ill. We will talk of that in a moment. But   rst I want to tell him who I am—and by another name. Dr. Carmichael, did your father ever speak to you of Jean Gordon?”

“Why, yes,” he said, after an instant of thought, “it comes back to me now quite clearly. She was the young girl to whom he taught Latin when he   rst came here as a college instructor. He was very fond of her. There was one of her books in his library—I have it now—a little volume of Horace, with a few translations in verse written on the   y-leaves, and her name on the title-page

—Jean Gordon. My father wrote under that, ‘My best pupil, who left her lessons un  nished.’ He was very fond of the book, and so I kept it when he died.”

The lady’s eyes grew moist, but the tears did not fall. They trembled in her voice.

“I was that Jean Gordon—a girl of   fteen—your father was the best man I ever knew. You look like him, but he was handsomer than you. Ah, no, I was not his best pupil, but his most wilful and ungrateful one. Did he never tell you of my running away—of the unjust suspicions that fell on him—of his voyage to Europe?”

“Never,” answered Carmichael. “He only spoke, as I remember, of your beauty and your brightness, and of the good times that you all had when this old house was in its prime.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, quickly and with strong feeling, “they were good times, and he was a man of  honour.  He never took an unfair advantage, never boasted of  a  woman’s  favour,  never  tried  to  spare himself.  He  was an American man. I hope you are like him.”

The  Baron, who  had  been  leaning on  the  mantel,  crossed the  room impatiently and stood beside the bed. He spoke in French again, dragging the words in his insistent, masterful voice, as if they were something heavy which he laid upon his wife.

Her grey eyes grew darker, almost black, with enlarging pupils. She raised herself on the pillows as if about to get up. Then she sank back again and said, with an evident e  ort:

“Rene, I must beg you not to speak in French again. The doctor does not understand it. We must be more courteous. And now I will tell him about my sudden illness to-night. It was the   rst time—like a   ash of lightning—an ice- cold hand of pain—”

Even as she spoke a swift and dreadful change passed over her face. Her colour vanished in a morbid pallor; a cold sweat lay like death-dew on her forehead; her eyes were   xed on some impending horror; her lips, blue and rigid, were strained with an unspeakable, intolerable anguish. Her left arm sti ened as if it were gripped in a vise of pain. Her right hand   uttered over

her heart, plucking at an unseen weight. It seemed as if an invisible, silent death-wind were quenching the   ame of her life. It   ickered in an agony of strangulation.

“Be quick,” cried the doctor; “lay her head lower on the pillows, loosen her dress, warm her hands.”

He had caught up his satchel, and was looking for a little vial. He found it almost empty. But there were four or   ve drops of the yellowish, oily liquid. He poured them on his handkerchief and held it close to the lady’s mouth. She was still breathing regularly though slowly, and as she inhaled the pungent, fruity smell, like the odour of a jargonelle pear, a look of relief   owed over her face, her breathing deepened, her arm and her lips relaxed, the terror faded from her eyes.

He went to his satchel again and took out a bottle of white tablets marked “Nitroglycerin.” He gave her one of them, and when he saw her look of peace grow steadier, after a minute, he prepared the electric battery. Softly he passed the sponges charged with their mysterious current over her temples and her neck and down her slender arms and blue-veined wrists, holding them for a while in the palms of her hands, which grew rosy.

In all this the Baron had helped as he could, and watched closely, but without a word. He was certainly not indi erent; neither was he distressed; the  expression of  his black eyes and  heavy, passionless face  was that  of presence of  mind,  self-control  covering an  intense  curiosity. Carmichael conceived a vague sentiment of dislike for the man.

When the patient rested easily they stepped outside the room together for a moment.

“It is the angina,  I suppose,” droned the Baron, “hein?  That  is of  great inconvenience. But I think it is the false one, that is much less grave—not truly dangerous, hein?”

“My dear sir,” answered Carmichael, “who can tell the di erence between a false and a true angina pectoris, except by a post-mortem? The symptoms are much alike, the result is sometimes identical,  if the paroxysm is severe enough. But in this case I hope that you may be right. Your  wife’s  illness is severe, dangerous, but not necessarily fatal. This attack has passed and may not recur for months or even years.”

The lip-smile came back under the Baron’s sullen eyes.

“Those are the good news, my dear doctor,” said he, slowly. “Then we shall be able to travel soon, perhaps to-morrow or the next day. It is of an extreme importance.  This  place is insu erable to  me.  We  have  engagements in Washington—a gay season.”

Carmichael looked at him steadily and spoke with deliberation.

“Baron, you must understand me clearly. This is a serious case. If I had not come in time your wife might be dead now. She cannot possibly be moved for a week, perhaps it may take a month fully to restore her strength. After that she must have a winter of absolute quiet and repose.”

The Frenchman’s face hardened; his brows drew together in a black line, and he lifted his hand quickly with a gesture of irritation. Then he bowed.

“As you will, doctor! And for the present moment, what is it that I may have the honour to do for your patient?”

“Just now,” said the doctor, “she needs a stimulant—a glass of sherry or of brandy, if you have it—and a hot-water  bag—you have none?  Well, then, a couple of bottles   lled with hot water and wrapped in a cloth to put at her feet. Can you get them?”

The Baron bowed again, and went down the stairs. As Carmichael  returned to the bedroom he heard the droning, insistent voice below calling “Gaspard, Gaspard!”

The great grey eyes were open as he entered the room, and there was a sense of release from pain and fear in them that was like the deepest kind of pleasure.

“Yes, I am much better,” said she; “the attack has passed. Will it come again? No? Not soon, you mean. Well, that is good. You need not tell me what it is— time enough for that to-morrow. But come and sit by me. I want to talk to you. Your   rst name is—”

“Leroy,” he answered. “But you are weak; you must not talk much.”

“Only a little,” she replied, smiling; “it does me good. Leroy was your mother’s name—yes? It is not a Calvinton name. I wonder where your father met her. Perhaps in France when he came to look for me. But he did not   nd me—no, indeed—I was well hidden then—but he found your mother. You are young enough to be my son. Will you be a friend to me for your father’s sake?”

She spoke gently, in a tone of in nite kindness and tender grace, with pauses in which a hundred unspoken recollections and appeals were suggested. The young man was deeply moved. He took her hand in his  rm clasp.

“Gladly,” he said, “and for your sake too. But now I want you to rest.”

“Oh,” she answered, “I am resting now. But let me talk a little more. It will not harm me. I have been through so much! Twice married—a great fortune to spend—all that the big world can give. But now I am very tired of the whirl. There is only one thing I want—to stay here in Calvinton. I rebelled against it once; but it draws me back. There is a strange magic in the place. Haven’t you felt it? How do you explain it?”

“Yes,” he said, “I have felt it surely, but I can’t explain it, unless it is a kind of ancient peace that makes you wish to be at home here even while you rebel.”

She nodded her head and smiled softly.

“That is it,” she said, hesitating for a moment. “But my husband—you see he is a very strong man, and he loves the world, the whirling life—he took a dislike to this place at once. No wonder, with the house in such a state! But I have plenty of money—it will be easy to restore the house. Only, sometimes I think he cares more for the money than—but no matter what I think. He wishes to go on at once—to-morrow, if we can. I hate the thought of it. Is it possible for me to stay? Can you help me?”

“Dear lady,” he answered, lifting her hand to his lips, “set your mind at rest. I have already told him that it is impossible for you to go for many days. You can arrange to move to the inn to-morrow, and stay there while you direct the putting of your house in order.”

A sound in the hallway announced the return of the Baron and Gaspard with the  hot-water  bottles  and  the  cognac. The  doctor  made  his patient  as comfortable as possible for the night, prepared a sleeping-draught, and gave directions for the use of the tablets in an emergency.

“Good night,” he said, bending over her. “I will see you in the morning. You may count upon me.”

“I do,” she said, with her eyes resting on his; “thank you for all. I shall expect you—au revoir.”

As they went down the stairs he said to the Baron, “Remember, absolute repose is necessary. With that you are safe enough for to-night. But you may possibly need more of the nitrite of amyl. My vial is empty. I will write the prescription,  if you will allow me.”

“In the dining-room,” said the Baron, taking up the lamp and throwing open the door of the back room on the right. The   oor had been hastily swept and the rubbish shoved into the   replace. The heavy chairs stood along the wall. But two of them were drawn up at the head of the long mahogany table, and

dishes and table utensils from a travelling-basket were lying there, as if a late supper had been served.

“You see,” said the Baron, drawling, “our banquet-hall! Madame and I have dined in this splendour to-night. Is it possible that you write here?”

His secret irritation, his insolence, his contempt spoke clearly enough in his tone.  The  remark  was  almost  like an  intentional  insult.  For  a  second Carmichael hesitated. “No,” he thought, “why should I quarrel with him? He is only sullen. He can do no harm.”

He pulled a chair to the foot of the table, took out his tablet and his fountain- pen, and wrote the prescription. Tearing o   the leaf, he folded it crosswise and left it on the table.

In the hall, as he put on his coat he remembered the paper.

“My prescription,” he said, “I must take it to the druggist to-night.”

“Permit me,” said the Baron, “the room is dark. I will take the paper, and procure the drug as I return from escorting the doctor to his residence.”

He went into the dark room, groped about for a moment, and returned, closing the door behind him.

“Come, Monsieur,” he said, “your work at the Chateau Gordon is  nished for this night. I shall leave you with yourself—at home, as you say—in a few moments. Gaspard—Gaspard, fermez la porte a clé!”

The strong nasal voice echoed through the house, and the servant ran lightly down the stairs. His master muttered a few sentences to him, holding up his right hand as he did so, with the    ve   ngers extended, as if  to  impress something on the man’s mind.

“Pardon,” he said, turning to Carmichael, “that I speak always French, after the rebuke. But this time it is of necessity. I repeat the instruction for the pilules. One at each hour until eight o’clock—  ve, not more—it is correct? Come, then, our equipage is always harnessed, always ready, how convenient!”

The two men did not speak as the car rolled through the brumous night. A rising wind was sifting the fog. The moon had set. The loosened leaves came whirling,  uttering, sinking through the darkness like a   ight of huge dying moths. Now and then they brushed the faces of the travellers with limp, moist wings.

The red night-lamp in the drug-store was still burning. Carmichael called the other’s attention to it.

“You have the prescription?”

“Without doubt!” he answered. “After I have escorted you, I shall procure the drug.”

The doctor’s front door was lit up as he had left it. The light streamed out rather brightly and illumined the Baron’s sullen black eyes and smiling lips as he leaned from the car, lifting his cap.

“A thousand thanks, my dear doctor, you have been excessively kind; yes, truly of an excessive goodness for us. It is a great pleasure—how do you tell it in English?—it is a great pleasure to have met you. Adieu.”

“Till to-morrow morning!” said Carmichael, cheerfully, waving his hand. The Baron stared at him curiously, and lifted his cap again.

“Adieu!” droned the insistent voice, and the great car slid into the dark.

IV

The next morning was of crystal. It was after nine when Carmichael drove his electric-phaeton down the leaf-littered street, where the country wagons and the  decrepit hacks were  already meandering placidly, and  out  along the highroad, between the still green   elds. It seemed to him as if the experience of the past night were “such stu   as dreams are made of.” Yet the impression of what he had seen and heard in that   relit chamber—of the eyes, the voice, the hand of that strangely lovely lady—of her vision of sudden death, her

essentially lonely struggle with it, her touching words to him when she came back to life—all this was so vivid and unforgettable that he drove straight to Castle Gordon.

The great house was shut up like a tomb: every door and window was closed, except where half of one of the shutters had broken loose and hung by a single hinge. He drove around to the back. It was the same there. A cobweb was spun across the lower corner of the door and tiny drops of moisture jewelled it. Perhaps it had been made in the early morning. If so, no one had come out of the door since night.

Carmichael knocked, and knocked again. No answer. He called. No reply. Then he drove around to the portico with the tall white pillars and tried the front door. It was locked. He peered through the half-open window into the drawing-room. The glass was crusted with dirt and the room was dark. He was trying to make out the outlines of the huddled furniture when he heard a step behind him. It was the old farmer from the nearest cottage on the road.

“Mornin’, doctor! I seen ye comin’ in, and tho’t ye might want to see the house.”

“Good morning, Scudder! I do, if you’ll let me in. But   rst tell me about these automobile tracks in the drive.”

The old man gazed at him with a kind of dull surprise as if the question were foolish.

“Why, ye made ’em yerself, comin’ up, didn’t ye?”

“I mean those larger tracks—they were made by a much heavier car than mine.”

“Oh,” said the old man, nodding, “them was made by a big machine that come in here las’ week. You see this house’s bin shet up ’bout ten years, ever sence ol’ Jedge Gordon died. B’longs to Miss Jean—her that run o   with the Eye-talyin. She kinder wants to sell it, and kinder not—ye see—”

“Yes,” interrupted Carmichael, “but about that big machine—when did you say it was here?”

“P’raps four or   ve days ago; I think it was a We’nsday. Two fellers from

Philadelfy—said they wanted to look at the house, tho’t of buyin’ it. So I bro’t

’em in, but when they seen the outside of it they said they didn’t want to look at it no more—too big and too crumbly!”

“And since then no one has been here?”

“Not a soul—leastways nobody that I seen. I don’t s’pose you think o’ buyin’

the house, doc’! It’s too lonely for an o   ce, ain’t it?”

“You’re right, Scudder, much too lonely. But I’d like to look through the old place, if you will take me in.”

The hall, with the two chairs and the table, on which a kitchen lamp with a half-inch  of  oil  in  it  was  standing, gave  no  sign of  recent  habitation. Carmichael glanced around him and hurried up the stairway to the bedroom. A tall four-poster stood in one corner, with a coverlet apparently hiding a mattress and some pillows. A dressing-table stood against the wall, and in the middle of the   oor there were a few chairs. A half-open closet door showed a pile of yellow linen. The daylight sifted dimly into the room through the cracks of the shutters.

“Scudder,” said Carmichael, “I want you to look around carefully and tell me whether you see any signs of any one having been here lately.”

The old man stared, and turned his eyes slowly about the room. Then he shook his head.

“Can’t say as I do. Looks pretty much as it did when me and my wife breshed it up in October. Ye see it’s kinder clean fer an old house—not much dust from the  road here. That  linen and that  bed’s bin here sence I c’n remember. Them burnt logs mus’ be left over from old Jedge Gordon’s time. He died in here. But what’s the matter, doc’? Ye think tramps or burglers—”

“No,” said Carmichael, “but what would you say if I told you that I was called here last night to see a patient, and that the patient was the Miss Jean Gordon of whom you have just told me?”

“What d’ye mean?” said the old man, gaping. Then he gazed at the doctor pityingly, and shook his head. “I know ye ain’t  a drinkin’  man, doc’,  so I wouldn’t say nothin’. But I guess ye bin dreamin’. Why, las’ time Miss Jean writ to me—her name’s Mortimer now, and her husband’s a kinder Barrin or some sorter furrin noble,—she was in Paris, not mor’n two weeks ago! Said she was dyin’ to come back to the ol’ place agin, but she wa’n’t none too well, and didn’t guess she c’d manage it. Ef ye said ye seen her here las’ night—why— well, I’d jest think ye’d bin dreamin’. P’raps ye’re a little under the weather— bin workin’ too hard?”

“I never was better, Scudder, but sometimes curious notions come to me. I

wanted to see how you would take this one. Now we’ll go downstairs again.” The old man laughed, but doubtfully, as if he was still puzzled by the talk,

and they descended the creaking, dusty stairs. Carmichael turned at once into the dining-room.

The rubbish was still in the   replace, the chairs ranged along the wall. There were no dishes on the long table; but at the head of it two chairs; and at the foot, one; and in front of  that, lying on the table, a folded bit of  paper. Carmichael picked it up and opened it.

It was his prescription for the nitrite of amyl.

He hesitated a moment; then refolded the paper and put it in his vest-pocket. Seated in his car, with his hand on the lever, he turned to Scudder, who was

watching him with curious eyes.

“I’m very much obliged to you, Scudder, for taking me through the house. And I’ll be more obliged to you if you’ll just keep it to yourself—what I said to you about last night.”

“Sure,” said the old man, nodding gravely. “I like ye, doc’, and that kinder talk might do ye harm here in Calvinton. We don’t hold much to dreams and visions down this way. But, say, ’twas a mighty interestin’ dream, wa’n’t it? I guess Miss Jean hones for them white pillars, many a day—they sorter stand for old times. They draw ye, don’t they?”

“Yes, my friend,” said Carmichael as he moved the lever, “they speak of the past. There is a magic in those white pillars. They draw you.”