Carson drew a deep breath. True, the corpse had been a frightful spectacle, but he must not allow it to upset his nerves. He could not—his novel would suffer. Besides, he argued grimly to himself, the affair was obvious enough in its explanation. The dead man was apparently a Pole, one of the group of immigrants who dwell about Salem Harbor. Passing by the graveyard at night, a spot about which eldritch legends had clung for nearly three centuries, his drink-befuddled eyes must have given reality to the hazy phantoms of a superstitious mind. These Poles were notoriously unstable emotionally, prone to mob hysteria and wild imaginings. The great Immigrant Panic of 1853, in which three witch-houses had been burned to the ground, had grown from an old woman’s confused and hysterical statement that she had seen a mysterious white-clad foreigner “take off his face.” What else could be expected of such people, Carson thought? Nevertheless he remained in a nervous state, and did not return home until nearly noon. When on his arrival he found Leigh, the occultist, waiting, he was glad to see the man, and invited him in with cordiality. Leigh was very serious. “Did you hear about your friend Abigail Prinn?” he asked without preamble, and Carson stared, pausing in the act of siphoning charged water into a glass. After a long moment he pressed the lever, sent the liquid sizzling and foaming into the whisky. He handed Leigh the drink and took one himself—neat—before answering the question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Has—what’s she been up to?” he asked, with an air of forced levity. “I’ve been checking up the records,” Leigh said, “and I find Abigail Prinn was buried on December 14th, 1690, in the Charter Street Burying Ground—with a stake through her heart. What’s the matter?” “Nothing,” Carson said tonelessly. “Well?” “Well—her grave’s been opened and robbed, that’s all. The stake was found uprooted near by, and there were footprints all around the grave. Shoe-prints. Did you dream last night, Carson?” Leigh snapped out the question, his gray eyes hard. “I don’t know,” Carson said confusedly, rubbing his forehead. “I can’t remember. I was at the Charter Street graveyard this morning.” “Oh. Then you must have heard something about the man who——” “I saw him,” Carson interrupted, shuddering. “It upset me.” He downed the whisky at a gulp. Leigh watched him. “Well,” he said presently, “are you still determined to stay in this house?” Carson put down the glass and stood up. “Why not?” he snapped. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t? Eh?” “After what happened last night——” “After _what_ happened? A grave was robbed. A superstitious Pole saw the robbers and died of fright. Well?”