“Not in the least,” replied the organist, coldly. “Half those books don’t even belong to me――that is to say, I didn’t buy them. I read very little.” “Isn’t an hallucination a kind of ghost that isn’t really there?” Palmer innocently inquired, turning to Mr. Bradley. “Yes, something like that:――an idea that enters the heads of stupid people, and leads them to make themselves ridiculous.” The doctor laughed. He decided that, since Palmer was evidently determined not to budge without him, they had both better go. After all, his coming here had probably conveyed to Mr. Bradley the message, or the warning, which was all――considering he had no definite knowledge to go upon――that at the best he could have given him. “Well, I expect it’s about time we moved on,” he murmured, preparatory to getting up; but Palmer sat staring at the wall opposite him as if he had not heard. His face had altered, his forehead was wrinkled up, and a curious, fixed expression had come into his eyes. The doctor, who had half risen from his chair, sat down again. If ever anyone had the appearance of being confronted by an hallucination, it was Palmer at that moment. The organist was watching him too, and, as he watched, his long thin fingers all at once began to move nervously. He seemed on the verge of saying something; his lips parted to speak; but he checked himself. At last he broke into a thin high laugh. “What are you staring at?” he asked. Palmer started up out of a dream. “Nothing,” he answered a little confusedly. And then, as if in spite of himself, “I was just looking at your shadow on the wall.” The organist moved quickly, and pushed back the lamp. “Don’t,” said Palmer, getting up. “There’s a boy at school who can do ripping silhouettes from people’s shadows:――some of them are awfully queer!... If I had a piece of paper I could do yours.” As he spoke he took a pencil from his pocket, and moved towards the writing-table. Simultaneously Doctor O’Neill became aware that something had happened. A moment previously he had had before him an elderly gentleman, perhaps a little eccentric-looking, but obviously refined, and even distinguished, in appearance. What was it, then, that had taken place; what incredible transformation? For in that white grimacing mask of hate turned towards the back of the retreating boy he saw only the face of a devil. The impression passed so quickly that had it been less vivid he might have doubted of its reality. Mr. Bradley recovered himself even before Palmer had time to reach the desk. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to do your drawing to-night,” he said acidly. “I must go now. I want to try over some music before it gets too late.” The doctor rose to his feet at once. “I really must apologize for keeping you.”