"Lanyon's dead! Have any of you seen Geoff Fleming? Stop him if you do--he's stolen my pocket-book!" He began mopping his brow with his bandanna handkerchief, "God bless my soul! an awful thing!--I've been robbed--and old Lanyon's dead!" One thing was quickly made clear--as they saw for themselves when they went crowding into the smoking-room--Lanyon was dead. He was kneeling in front of Geoffrey Fleming's chair, clutching at either side of it with a tenacity which suggested some sort of convulsion. His head was thrown back, his eyes were still staring wide open, his face was distorted by a something which was half fear, half horror--as if, as those who saw him afterwards agreed, he had seen sudden, certain death approaching him, in a form which even he, a seasoned soldier, had found too horrible for contemplation. Mr. Jackson's story, in one sense, was plain enough, though it was odd enough in another. He told it to an audience which evinced unmistakable interest in every word uttered. "I often come in for a smoke about this time, because generally the place is empty, so that you get it all to yourself." He cast a somewhat aggressive look upon his hearers--a look which could hardly be said to convey a flattering suggestion. "When I first came in I thought that the room was empty. It was only when I was half-way across that something caused me to look round. I saw that someone was kneeling on the floor. I looked to see who it was. It was Lanyon. 'Lanyon!' I cried. 'Whatever are you doing there?' He didn't answer. Wondering what was up with him and why he didn't speak, I went closer to where he was. When I got there I didn't like the look of him at all. I thought he was in some sort of a fit. I was hesitating whether to pick him up, or at once to summon assistance, when--" Mr. Jackson paused. He looked about him with an obvious shiver. "By George! when I think of it now, it makes me go quite creepy. Cathcart, would you mind ringing for another drop of brandy?" The brandy was rung for. Mr. Jackson went on. "All of a sudden, as I was stooping over Lanyon, someone touched me on the shoulder. You know, there hadn't been a sound--I hadn't heard the door open, not a thing which could suggest that anyone was approaching. Finding Lanyon like that had make me go quite queer, and when I felt that touch on my shoulder it so startled me that I fairly screeched. I jumped up to see who it was, And when I saw"--Mr. Jackson's bandanna came into play--"who it was, I thought my eyes would have started out of my head. It was Geoff Fleming." "Who?" came in chorus from his auditors.