“You haven’t learned much in that time.” Then, with a nod more ceremonious than many another man’s bow, he added, with sudden dignity: “I am of the elder branch and live in the cottage fronting the old place. I am the only resident on the block. When you have lived here longer you will know why that especial neighborhood is not a favorite one with those who can not boast of the Moore blood. For the present, let us attribute the bad name that it holds to—malaria.” And with a significant hitch of his lean shoulders which set in undulating motion every fold of the old-fashioned cloak he wore, he started again for the door. But my curiosity was by this time roused to fever heat. I knew more about this house than he gave me credit for. No one who had read the papers of late, much less a man connected with the police, could help being well informed in all the details of its remarkable history. What I had failed to know was his close relationship to the family whose name for the last two weeks had been in every mouth. “Wait!” I called out. “You say that you live opposite the Moore house. You can then tell me—” But he had no mind to stop for any gossip. “It was all in the papers,” he called back. “Read them. But first be sure to find out who has struck a light in the house that we all know has not even a caretaker in it.” It was good advice. My duty and my curiosity both led me to follow it. Perhaps you have heard of the distinguishing feature of this house; if so, you do not need my explanations. But if, for any reason, you are ignorant of the facts which within a very short time have set a final seal of horror upon this old, historic dwelling, then you will be glad to read what has made and will continue to make the Moore house in Washington one to be pointed at in daylight and shunned after dark, not only by superstitious colored folk, but by all who are susceptible to the most ordinary emotions of fear and dread.