"Then light your lamp again, Master Pycroft, or Father Solomon, whatever you may be pleased to call yourself," I said. A minute later the lamp shone again, and then he ascended a broad stairway, I keeping close at his heels and ready for anything he might attempt to do. But he walked straight on. I think by this time he also had become interested to know more about the venturesome lad, whom he had not succeeded in frightening, and who had dared to hint that Elijah Pycroft had never died as had been given out to the world. Be that as it may, he uttered neither snarl nor threat as we threaded the long corridor through which he led me, and ere long we had entered the room of which I had taken such note the night before. A candle still burnt here, which threw a ghostly light on the walls. I detected a strange odour coming from the fireplace, which, as I imagined, arose from the pot I had seen him put on the fire. I closed the door behind me, and looked quickly around me. My nerves had now settled down to their normal experience, and, although I knew not why, I was enjoying the situation more than I can say. I knew, however, that I had need of all my wits, and that I must use great caution if I would obtain that for which I had set out. The added light of the lamp to the candle made the room bright, and, noting that curtains hung by the window, I drew them across it whole the old man gazed at me in wonder. "I wonder that one so old and wise as you does not exercise more caution," I said quietly. For a minute neither of us did aught but gaze at each other. He doubtless trying to recall some fact which might give him some clue to my identity and tell him why I had dared to come hither, while I noted his every feature, and wondered at the strange life he led. He was clothed in a long loose flannel gown which hung from his shoulders to his feet, and which was confined to his waist by a cord. Altogether it was a kind of monkish attire. On his feet were shoes made of cloth, the which enabled him to walk almost noiselessly. He had never been a tall man, and now that age had somewhat diminished his form and his head had sunk low into his shoulders, he appeared what he really was, a shrivelled up old man, though hale and hearty withal. Presently I thought he listened keenly, as though he expected the approach of some one, and once I thought he seemed on the point of crying out. "I think it will be well to forget all about the witches and powers of darkness," I said quietly. "I can assure you they will not come. Rather let us talk quietly together." I longed to know what was in his mind, but his face became blank as I spoke, so that I could read nothing. "Well, ask your question," he said; "it will not be long now." "Very well," I replied, "I will ensure our being undisturbed." I had noticed an old iron bolt in the door, also a stout staple driven into the doorpost. I therefore quietly bolted the door.