He looked at me. “Oh, you know it, eh? No, I do not. It's all bunkum; reporters' work and exaggeration. If you like that kind of stuff, it's weird and interesting. But it hurts property. The man was undoubtedly murdered. The tale hangs over the house. It's impossible to dispose of the place.” “Then why not sell it to me?” He dropped his pencil; he was a bit nervous. “A fair question, Mr. Wendel--a very fair question. Well, now, why don't I? Perhaps I shall. There's no telling. But I'd rather not. Do you know, a year ago I would have jumped at an offer. Fact is, I did lease it--the lease ran out yesterday--to a man named Watson. I don't believe a thing in this nonsense; but what I have seen during the past year has tested my nerve considerably.” “What about Watson?” “Watson? A year ago he came to see me in regard to this Chatterton property. Wanted to lease it. Was interested in the case of Dr. Holcomb; asked for a year's rental and the privilege of renewal. I don't know. I gave it to him; but when he drops in again I am going to fight almighty hard against letting him hold it longer.” “Why?” “Why? Why, because I don't believe in murder. A year ago he came to me the healthiest and happiest man I ever saw; today he is a shadow. I watched that boy go down. Understand, I don't believe a damn word I'm saying; but I have seen it. It's that cursed house. I say no, when I reason; but it keeps on my nerves; it's on my conscience. It is insidious. Every month when he came here I could see disintegration. It's pitiful to see a young man stripped of life like that; forlorn, hopeless, gone. He has never told me what it is; but I have wondered. A battle; some conflict with--there I go again. It's on my nerves, I tell you, on my nerves. If this keeps up I'll burn it.” It was a bit foreboding. Already I could feel the tugging at my heart that had done for Watson. This man had watched my friend slipping into the shadow; I had come to take his place. “Watson has gone,” I said simply; “and that's why I am here.” He straightened up. “You know him then. He was not--” “He went last night; he has left the country. He was in very poor health. That's why I am here. I know very well the cloud that hangs over the property; it is my sole reason for purchasing.” “You don't believe in this nonsense?” I smiled. Certainly the man was perverse in his agnosticism; he was stubborn in disbelief. It was on his nerves; on his conscience; he was afraid. “I believe nothing,” I answered; “neither do I disbelieve. I know all the story that has been told or written. I am a friend of Watson. You need not scruple in making me out a bill of sale. It's my own funeral. I abide by the consequences.” He gave a sigh of relief. After all, he was human. He had honour; but it was after the brand of Pontius Pilate. He wished nothing on his conscience.