Mr. Poole the butler—Anthony once said that he sounded like a game of Happy Families—was in a state of nervous agitation verging upon breakdown. The events of the past few days had shaken him, for some time an old man aged beyond his years, to such extent that he would not, he was sure, “ever be the same man again.” He sat in the little room opposite that which had been the master’s study. He shivered with age, vague fears, and fervent distaste for the storm whose rain beat upon the windows, whose sudden furies of wind shook the old house, whose flashes of lightning played such havoc with the nerves. Mr. Poole was alone. Miss Hoode had retired. Sir Arthur was reading in the billiard-room at the other end of the house. Belford was on three days’ holiday, his wife, it seemed, being an invalid. The other servants were certainly either in bed or huddled together moaning as women will at the violence of the storm. Mr. Poole was alone. All manner of lurking terrors preyed upon him. There were noises. Sounds which seemed like the master’s voice. Sounds which seemed like the rustling of curtains, whispering and soft footsteps. Elusive sounds as of doors opening and shutting. Mr. Poole trembled. He knew, his fears groundless; imaginings born of the roaring rattle of the Universe. But nevertheless he trembled. Suddenly there came a knocking on the great front door. This knocking was not loud, yet it seemed to the old man the more terrible for that. For there is always something terrible about a knock upon a door. For a full minute he strove to leave the shelter of the little, cheerful, glowing room. At last he succeeded, struggling through the beastly mysteries of the dimly lighted hall to open with trembling hands the great oak door. Anthony stepped over the threshold; stripped off dripping cap and mackintosh. “A dirty night, Poole,” he said. “It is indeed, sir! Indeed it is, sir!” The old man’s voice was hysterical with relief. Across the hall to them came Sir Arthur, sturdy, benign, hair as smoothly brushed as ever. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Gethryn?” he said. “I wondered who was knocking. You must have very pressing business to bring you up here on a night like this. Aren’t you wet?” “Nothing to speak of. I wanted to talk with you. It’s important—and urgent.” Sir Arthur grew eager. “My dear boy, of course. Where shall we go? Billiard-room?” “All right.” They turned, but before they had crossed the hall, “Tell you what,” Anthony said, “the study’d be better. Not so near the servants, you know.” “You’re right,” Sir Arthur agreed.