Mr. Partridge for good reasons only occasionally and reluctantly recalls his sensations at the moment when it seemed to him that at one moment he was dangling and gasping, and at the next when he was sitting up in bed watching with horror something which fluttered hideously on the wall, its tortured arms flung out as though from one crucified, its head jerking foully--something which suddenly writhed and crumpled to the floor out of the beam of the moon. Mr. Partridge shouted and leapt from the bed, overturning as he did so the table by the side. As he reached his feet the door opened, a candle flickered, and there was the manager of the Royal Hotel, in a night-shirt, with terror in his eyes. “I know what’s the matter, sir,” he mumbled, “it’s my fault, I knew it would happen, but my wife thought----” “Knew what would happen?” cried Mr. Partridge. “Tell me, is there anything on the floor there, is there a tree with a shadow out there? Is there? Is there?” His hands went to his throat. “No, sir,” said the worm, “it’s all over, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have allowed it, sir. Come with me, sir.” Mr. Partridge put on his dressing-gown, and after one quick look back followed him down to the floor below. “This is my room, sir,” said the worm, opening a door. “You’ll sleep here, sir; I’m sorry, sir.” “What is it? What have I seen?” cried Mr. Partridge, his nerves still dancing, but settling down. “I don’t really know, sir,” said the worm. “But something happened in your room twenty-five years ago--long before I came. Some clerk it was, sir. Well, sir, he hanged himself.” “Yes,” said Mr. Partridge, shuddering, “I know that.” “It seems, sir, he’d been taking the Bank’s money for a good while; he wanted to marry and couldn’t afford it, and he slipped away down here, but the police were after him, and followed him. Well, sir, something always happens in your room on the night of it. That’s why it’s always kept empty.” “Well then,” asked Mr. Partridge, “why the devil did you put me into it?” The worm looked limply and hen-peckedly at him. “Oh, I know,” said Mr. Partridge. “Because your wife hated to see fifteen shillings and sixpence go begging.” “Well, sir, I did take a room at the boarding-establishment.” “Has this happened before?” “Yes, sir, twelve years ago, sir, the year I took over, and I didn’t know about it. A gentleman was in there, and he screamed and woke the whole house. I promise you, it was against my wishes and better judgment that we let you be there, but my wife thought it might have passed off, and we’re not usually so full at this time.” “Well,” said Mr. Partridge, “before I take some aspirin and attempt to sleep, let me give you a word of advice. Make your wife sleep alone in that room this day next year!” The worm smiled deprecatingly. “Your things will be brought down in the morning, sir.” “All right, all right,” said Mr. Partridge, “but tell me, _is_ there a peg missing in that wall?”