went downstairs and investigated. Again a shock--this time more sudden, more acute. Pressed against the window-pane of one of the front reception-rooms was the face of a man--with corpse-like cheeks and pale, malevolent eyes. I was petrified--every drop of my blood was congealed. My tongue glued to my mouth, my arms hung helpless. I stood in the doorway and stared at it. This went on for what seemed to me an eternity. Then came a revelation. The face was not that of a ghost but of Mr. Baldwin, who, getting alarmed at my long absence, had come to look for me. We left the premises together. All the way back to the town I thought--should I, or should I not, take the house? Seen as I had seen it, it was a ghoulish-looking place--as weird as a Paris catacomb--but then daylight makes all the difference. Viewed in the sunshine, it would be just like any other house--plain bricks and mortar. I liked the situation; it was just far enough away from a town to enable me to escape all the smoke and traffic, and near enough to make shopping easy. The only obstacles were the shadows--the strange, enigmatical shadows I had seen in the hall and passages, and the figure of the walker. Dare I take a house that knew such visitors? At first I said no, and then yes. Something, I could not tell what, urged me to say yes. I felt that a very grave issue was at stake--that a great wrong connected in some manner with the mysterious figure awaited righting, and that the hand of Fate pointed at me as the one and only person who could do it. "Are you sure the house isn't haunted?" I demanded, as we slowly rolled away from the iron gate, and I leaned back in my seat to light my pipe. "Haunted!" Mr. Baldwin scoffed, "why, I thought you didn't believe in ghosts--laughed at them." "No more I do believe in them," I retorted, "but I have children, and we know how imaginative children are." "I can't undertake to stop their imaginations." "No, but you can tell me whether anyone else has imagined anything there. Imagination is sometimes very infectious." "As far as I know, then, no; leastways, I have not heard tell of it." "Who was the last tenant?" "Mr. Jeremiah Dance." "Why did he leave?" "How do I know? Got tired of being there, I suppose." "How long was he there?" "Nearly three years." "Where is he now?" "That's more than I can say. Why do you wish to know?" "Why!" I repeated. "Because it is more satisfactory to me to hear about the house from someone who has lived in it. Has he left no address?" "Not that I know of, and it's more than two years since he was here." "What! The house has been empty all that time?" "Two years is not very long. Houses--even town houses--are frequently unoccupied for longer than that. I think you'll like it." I did not speak again till the drive was over, and we drew up outside the landlord's house. I then said, "Let me have an agreement. I've made up my mind to take it. Three years and the option to stay on."