So I was more than annoyed, in fact, I was hurt and disgusted when the decrepit old fellow who had always been a part of the Wilbur household informed me that “Mister Albert” had wired that he would not be there until the morning. “Very sorry,” the wire ran, “impossible to keep appointment with Constable. Make him comfortable for night. Will be on in morning. ‘For Constable: Do forgive me, old fellow, and make yourself at home. You have the place to yourself. Guarantee no ghosts.’” “Small comfort,” I murmured to myself, not being able to repress a sneer--the note was so characteristic of its author. “Very good, sir,” said the spectre beside me, whose presence I had almost forgotten. “I have moved your bed into the library here, where there is an open fire. You’ll find whiskey and soda right on the table, and I’ll put your bag close by the bed. Anything else you’d like, sir?” “No thanks, Watkins,” I said, recovering the old fellow’s name from some recess in my memory. “I shall do very well, no doubt. But I’m disappointed.” “Yes, sir, yes, sir,” and with these words Watkins disappeared. “I’ll be damned,” I muttered. “This is getting positively spooky.” I looked down--a big mastiff pup, overgrown and generally loppy in appearance, evidently thinking himself addressed, arose slowly from the hearth rug and came towards me, wagging the entire rear end of his body in a gesture which seemed exaggerated at the time, though I have no doubt now that even that did not convey the real extent of his pleasure in having company. “Well, old man,” I said, stroking his head, “it doesn’t seem so bad here, after all. Here’s looking at you,” and I sipped the glass of warming spirits that Watkins had poured for me. After the last drop had been swallowed I seemed to remember that Watkins had cast some apprehensive glances at this very glass before he left the room. “Nonsense,” said I to myself, “it’s all imagination,” and I continued, “with a good fire, a good drink, and a good book, what more does man want, unless it be a dog? That’s where you come in, old chap,” and I reached down and patted him. “Let’s see what there is to read,” I continued, still addressing the dog for the sake of company. Albert had one peculiar trait; he always took an austere pride in being a man of few books, and those such as no one else could understand. So I found little help in the scattered but much-thumbed volumes lying in odd corners about the room. Psychology, metaphysics, and a few seventeenth century works on alchemy made up the entire collection. I was beginning to feel sleepy, so I chose the book with the largest print, and sat down before the blazing fire to while away the hours until slumber overtook me. The inevitable happened: I fell asleep in about five minutes.