"It was of no use my trying to stay in it," she said to me, shaking her head. "I moved into the room myself, Master Johnny, after you and my Lady Whitney left, and I am free to confess that I could not sleep. I had Susannah in, and she could not sleep; and, in short, we had to go out of it again. So I shut the room up, sir, until the year had expired, and then I gave up the house. It has not been let since, and people say it is falling into decay." "Was anything ever _seen_ in the room, Miss Gay?" "Nothing," she answered, "or heard either; nothing whatever. The room is as nice a room as could be wished for in all respects, light, large, cheerful, and airy; and yet nobody can get to sleep in it. I shall never understand it, sir." I'm sure I never shall. It remains one of those curious experiences that cannot be solved in this world. But it is none the less true. ROGER BEVERE. I. "There's trouble everywhere. It attaches itself more or less to all people as they journey through life. Yes, I quite agree with what you say, Squire: that I, a man at my ease in the world and possessing no close ties of my own, ought to be tolerably exempt from care. But I am not so. You have heard of the skeleton in the closet, Johnny Ludlow. Few families are without one. I have mine." Mr. Brandon nodded to me, as he spoke, over the silver coffee-pot. I had gone to the Tavistock Hotel from Miss Deveen's to breakfast with him and the Squire--who had come up for a week. You have heard of this visit of ours to London before, and there's no need to say more about it here. The present skeleton in Mr. Brandon's family closet was his nephew, Roger Bevere. The young fellow, now aged twenty-three, had been for some years in London pursuing his medical studies, and giving perpetual trouble to his people in the country. During this present visit Mr. Brandon had been unable to hear of him. Searching here, inquiring there, nothing came of it: Roger seemed to have vanished into air. This morning the post had brought Mr. Brandon a brief note: "SIR, "Roger Bevery is lying at No. 60, Gibraltar Terrace (Islington District), with a broken arm. "Faithfully yours, "T. PITT." The name was spelt Bevery in the note, you observe. Strangers, deceived by the pronunciation, were apt to write it so. "Well, this is nice news!" had been Mr. Brandon's comment upon the short note. "Any way, you will be more at your ease now you have found him," remarked the Squire. "I don't know that, Todhetley. I have found, it seems, the address of the place where he is lying, but I have not found _him_. Roger has been going to the bad this many a day; I expect by this time he must be nearing the journey's end." "It is only a broken arm that he has, sir," I put in, thinking what a gloomy view he was taking of it all. "That is soon cured."