Once more John put out his hand and thrust him back. "Not yet," he said; "the hour is far too early. What were we talking about? Being tired of life. Of course you are not. How foolish of me to ask you such a thing! You who are so rich, respected, admired, beloved. You are happy in spite of your sad bereavement. You are a man to be missed. With me it is otherwise. I long to go to the spirit land, for it is there only I have friends, really genuine, loving friends. I am not afraid to die. I want death. I yearn for it. Yearn for it, Wilfred." "Spirits! Death! Always spirits and death in your company," Wilfred responded. "Let's talk of something else--something more cheerful. I want cheering, John. This house of yours is depressing--most horribly depressing. You say it is new?" "Comparatively new," John replied, and he started fumbling in his vest pocket. "Comparatively new," Wilfred repeated, his eyes watching John's fingers attentively,--"and it has ghosts. Why, I thought it was only old houses that were haunted." John chuckled. "So people say," he replied, "and they tell me I am mad to think there are ghosts here. They say it is impossible. What is your opinion, Wilfred?" "Why," Wilfred said, watching John's movements with increasing interest, "that's my opinion too. A house to be haunted must have a history. And this house has none, has it? John!" The last syllable was uttered in an altogether different tone. It was not the voice of a drunken man. For a brief moment John hesitated, trembled. He seemed to be in the throes of some great mental strain, some acute psychological crisis. But he speedily overcame it, and drawing his hand out suddenly from his vest, he produced a huge, murderous-looking clasp knife. "True!" he said, "true. So far this house has no history. No history whatever. But it will have one, Wilfred. It will." And baring the blade of his formidable weapon, he crouched low and crept forward. * * * * * The next day I took the chair back to its owner. I had had enough of it--quite enough; and I told him my experiences. "Odd!" he said, "very odd. The impressions you received when sitting in the chair are almost identical with those of the other people who have sat in it. I wonder if a murder did actually take place in that house? I shouldn't be at all surprised. There is an old stain on the floor of one of the rooms on the second landing, and they say that, despite the most vigorous washing, it still retains its colour--red, blood-red." CHAPTER II THE HEAD A DERBYSHIRE HAUNTING