‘She seemed vexed, just at first; but I gave her a kiss, and talked her over. “You’ll fag yourself to death, Miss Lucille,” she said; “but do as you please. It’ll leave me free for my cleaning.” You know, Lucius, what a passion she has for muddling about with a pail and a scrubbing-brush, and turning out odd corners. The cleaning never seems to make any difference in the look of that huge kitchen; but if it pleases her one cannot complain. O, Lucius,’ she went on, in an anxious whisper, ‘I was awake all the night thinking of your dreadful words. I trust in God you may find my grandfather better this morning.’ ‘I hope so, dearest; but, believe me, you attach far too much importance to my foolish words last night. If you can trust the Winchers there can be no possible ground for fear. What enemy could approach your grandfather here?’ ‘Enemy!’ repeated Lucille, as if struck by the word. ‘What enemies could he have—a poor harmless old man?’ Lucius went into Mr. Sivewright’s room. He found his patient still suffering from that strange depression of spirits which had weighed him down lately; still complaining of the symptoms which had perplexed Lucius since his return from Stillmington. ‘There are strange noises in the house,’ said the old man querulously, when the usual questions had been asked and answered. ‘I heard them again last night—stealthy footsteps creeping along the passage—doors opening and shutting—cautious, muffled steps, that had a secret guilty sound.’ ‘All movement in a house has that stealthy sound in the small hours,’ said Lucius, sorely perplexed himself, yet anxious to reassure his patient. ‘Your housekeeper or her husband may have been up later than usual, and may have crept quietly up to bed.’ ‘I tell you this was in the middle of the night,’ answered Mr. Sivewright impatiently. ‘The Winchers are as methodical in their habits as the old clock in the hall. I asked Jacob this morning if he had been astir after midnight, and he told me he had not.’ ‘The fact is, my dear sir, you are nervous,’ said Lucius in a soothing tone. ‘You lie awake and fancy sounds which have no existence, or at any rate do not exist within the house.’ ‘I tell you this sound awoke me,’ replied the other still more impatiently. ‘I was sleeping tolerably when the sound of that hateful footstep startled me into perfect wakefulness. There was a nameless horror to my mind in that stealthy tread. It sounded like the step of an assassin.’ ‘Come, Mr. Sivewright,’ said Lucius in that practical tone which does much to tranquillise a nervous patient, ‘if this is, as I firmly believe it to be, a mere delusion of your senses, it will be easiest dispelled by investigation. Let us face the unknown foe, and make a speedy end of him. Suffer me to keep watch to-night in this room, unknown to all in the house except yourself, and I will answer for it the ghost shall be laid.’