“No, I don't think so. There was a man went out and a woman. But not Dr. Holcomb.” “A woman? There was no woman.” “Oh, yes, there was a woman--a very beautiful one.” The old lady dropped her hand. It was trembling. “Oh, dear,” she was saying. “This makes two. This morning it was a man and now it is a woman, that makes two.” It seemed to the man as he looked down in her eyes that he was looking into great fear; she was so slight and frail and helpless and so old; such a fragile thing to bear burden and trouble. Her voice was cracked and just above a shrill whisper, almost uncanny. She kept repeating: “Now there are two. Now there are two. That makes two. This morning there was one. Now there are two.” Jerome could not understand. He pitied the old lady. “Did you say that Dr. Holcomb is here?” Again she looked up: the same blank expression, she was evidently trying to gather her wits. “Two. A woman. Dr. Holcomb. Oh, yes, Dr. Holcomb. Won't you come in?” She opened the door. Jerome entered and took off his hat. Judicially he repeated the doctor's name to keep it in her mind. She closed the door carefully and touched his arm. It seemed to him that she was terribly weak and tottering; her old eyes, however expressionless, were full of pitiful pleading. She was scarcely more than a shadow. “You are his son?” Jerome lied; but he did it for a reason. “Yes.” “Then come.” She took him by the sleeve and led him to a room, then across it to a door in the side wall. Her step was slow and feeble; twice she stopped to sing the dirge of her wonder. “First a man and then a woman. Now there is one. You are his son.” And twice she stopped and listened. “Do you hear anything? A bell? I love to hear it: and then afterward I am afraid. Did you ever notice a bell? It always makes you think of church and the things that are holy. This is a beautiful bell--first--” Either the woman was without her reason or very nearly so: she was very frail. “Come, mother, I know, first a bell, but Dr. Holcomb?” The name brought her back again. For a moment she was blank trying to recall her senses. And then she remembered. She pointed to the door. “In there--Dr. Holcomb. That's where they come. That's where they go. Dr. Holcomb. The little old man with the beautiful whiskers. This morning it was a man; now it is a woman. Now there are two. Oh, dear; perhaps we shall hear the bell.” Jerome began to scent a tragedy. Certainly the old lady was uncanny; the house was bare and hollow; the scant furniture was threadbare with age and mildew; each sound was exaggerated and fearful, even their breathing. He placed his hand on the knob and opened the door. “Now there are two. Now there are two.” The room was empty. Not a bit of furniture; a blank, bare apartment with an old-fashioned high ceiling. Nothing else. Whatever the weirdness and adventure, Jerome was getting nowhere. The old lady was still clinging to his arm and still droning: