Mr. Sivewright received his medical attendant with a somewhat fretful air next morning, and Lucius was both shocked and surprised to discover that a change for the worse had occurred in his patient during his absence. There was a touch of fever that was new to the case—a nervous depression, such as he had not found in the invalid for some time past. But this change seemed the effect of mental excitement rather than of physical weakness. ‘Why did you leave me so long?’ asked Mr. Sivewright peevishly. ‘But I am a fool to ask such a question. I pay you nothing, and it is not likely you would allow any consideration for my comfort to stand in the way of your pleasures.’ ‘I have not been taking pleasure,’ answered Lucius quietly, ‘nor could I give you more honest service than I do now were you to pay me five hundred a year for my attendance. Why are you always so ready to suspect me of sordid motives?’ ‘Because I have never found mankind governed by any other motives,’ replied the old man. ‘However, I daresay I wrong you. I like you, and you have been very good to me; so good that I have come to lean upon you as if you were indeed that staff of my age which I ought to have found in a son. I am glad you have come back. Do you believe in sinister influences, in presentiments of approaching misfortune? Do you believe that Death casts a warning shadow across our path when he draws near us?’ ‘I believe that invalids are fanciful,’ answered Lucius lightly; ‘you have been thinking too much during my absence.’ ‘Fanciful!’ repeated Mr. Sivewright with a sigh, ‘yes, it may have been nothing more than a sick man’s fancy. Yet I have seemed to feel a shadowy presence in this house—the unseen presence of an enemy. There have been strange sounds too in the long sleepless night—not last night, all was quiet enough then—but on the previous night; sounds of doors opening and shutting; stealthily opened, stealthily closed, but not so quietly done as to cheat my wakeful ears. Once I could have sworn that I heard voices; yet when I questioned both the Winchers next morning they declared they had heard nothing.’ ‘Did you say anything to Lucille about these noises?’ ‘Not a word. Do you think I would scare that poor lonely child? No, the house is dreary enough. I won’t put the notion of ghosts or other midnight intruders into her head; girls’ brains are quick enough to grow fancies.’ ‘There was wisdom in that reserve,’ said Lucius; and then he went on thoughtfully, ‘The noises you heard were natural enough, I have no doubt. Old houses are fruitful of phantoms; doors loosely fastened, old locks that have lost their spring; given a strong wind, and you have a ghostly promenade.’ ‘But there was no wind the night before last. The air was hot and sultry. I had my window open all night.’