“When they told me about finding him, when I knew he had been brought back here to Maplewood, when I saw the wretched little funeral procession as he was being taken to the grave, it all added to the cursed disturbance that is breaking me up and making me afraid of my own shadow. Hang it! I used to have nerve enough. Now I awake in the night and seem to see Sullivan’s eyes fastened on me! I see his white face in the darkness of my room! I started up last night and saw in yonder corner his arms upflung, just as I saw them last when he went down into the current of Rapid River. Resting on my elbow, I remained staring at those upheld arms until I found that it was nothing but the legs of my own trousers hanging over the back of a chair. Just the same I could not sleep until daylight came creeping in at my window. There’s a nasty feeling troubling me to-night. I am a-quiver all over. I need another drink. I’ll have another drink.” He rose quickly and poured out a brimming glass of liquor, which he dashed off as if it had been so much water. “If I get enough of that into my skin I may be able to sleep,” he growled. “Got to keep these windows open. Don’t like it, but I’d smother with them closed. Confound the luck! I’d like to know what became of my revolver! Missed it to-day for the first time. If I had it I’d put it under my pillow to-night.” He searched the room, but did not find the weapon for which he was looking. After another drink, he finished undressing and slipped on a suit of pajamas. Wearing this suit, he sat by the window, his light extinguished, until he had finished his cigar. Once as he sat there, from far, far away in the night there came a low, awesome sound that was not unlike a human cry of pain and horror. It came from the direction of the little village cemetery, and Benton Hammerswell felt his entire body grow cold. To his excited fancy it seemed that this eerie cry had been sent forth by the spirit of Hop Sullivan, which could know no rest until Sullivan’s murder had been avenged. Although he listened breathlessly for a long time after that, and his cigar went out in his fingers, the sound was not repeated. The night was awesomely still, without even a breath of air stirring. “Just my fool imagination,” he whispered. “Another drink and I will get to bed.” After retiring he turned and twisted for nearly an hour. At last he fell into troubled slumber. How long he slept he did not know. In the night he was awakened by a horrible sensation, as if he were smothering. With a choking sound, he started up. Somehow he seemed to feel a person near him. He fancied he was not alone in that room. “Who’s there?” he cried. Then, to his unspeakable distress and agitation, a low, hollow voice answered: “I’m here—I, the spirit of the man you murdered!” Out of the gloom advanced a white, ghostly figure.