We had seen far more of the house than was necessary to decide Mr Stodham against it, when Mrs Smith begged me to stay upstairs a moment while she ran out; she wished me to mark for her a window which she was to point out to me from below. “That’s it,” she said, after some hesitation, as I appeared at last at the window of a small room looking away from the railway. Nothing in the room distinguished it from the rest save one small black disc with an auburn rim to it on the dark ceiling--one disc only, not, as in the other rooms, several, overlapping, and mingled with traces of the flames of ill-lighted lamps. “Mrs Morgan,” I thought at once. Some one evidently had sat long there at a table by night. “I never could make out who it was had this room,” said Mrs Smith, coming up breathless: “It used to have a red blind and a lamp always burning. My husband said it did look so cosy; he thought it must be Mr Morgan studying at his books. The milkers saw it in the early morning in winter; they said it was like the big red bottles in a chemist’s window. The keeper said you might see it any hour of night. I didn’t like it myself. It didn’t look to me quite right, like a red eye. You couldn’t tell what might be going on behind it, any more than behind a madman’s eye. I’ve thought about it often, trying to picture the inside of that room. My husband would say to me: ‘Bessy, the red window at New House did look nice to-night as I came home from market. I’m sure they’re reading and studying something learned, astrology or such, behind that red blind.’ ‘Don’t you believe it, James’ says I, ‘learned it may be, but not _according_. If they want to burn a light all night they could have a black blind. Who else has got a red blind? It isn’t fit. I can’t think how you bear that naughty red light on a night like this, when there are as many stars in the sky as there are letters in the Bible.’ Now, which of them used to sit here? Somebody sat all alone, you may depend upon it, never making a sound nor a stir.” Another room made her think of “Miss Jessie, the one that picked up the fox when he was creeping as slow as slow through their garden, and hid him till the hounds found another fox.... Oh, dear, to think what a house this used to be, and so nice and quiet now ... dreadful quiet.... I really must be going, if there is nothing more I can do for you.” Downstairs again the sight of the shot marks in the door set Mrs Smith off again, but in a sobered tone: