“It’s my own choosing,” I answered. The man with the shade became aware of my presence for the first time, and threw his head back for a moment and sideways, to see me. I caught a momentary glimpse of his eyes, small and bright and inflamed. Then he began to cough and splutter again. “Why don’t you drink?” said the man with the withered arm, pushing the beer towards him. The man with the shade poured out a glassful with a shaky arm that splashed half as much again on the deal table. A monstrous shadow of him crouched upon the wall and mocked his action as he poured and drank. I must confess I had scarce expected these grotesque custodians. There is to my mind something inhuman in senility, something crouching and atavistic; the human qualities seem to drop from old people insensibly day by day. The three of them made me feel uncomfortable, with their gaunt silences, their bent carriage, their evident unfriendliness to me and to one another. “If,” said I, “you will show me to this haunted room of yours, I will make myself comfortable there.” The old man with the cough jerked his head back so suddenly that it startled me, and shot another glance of his red eyes at me from under the shade; but no one answered me. I waited a minute, glancing from one to the other. “If,” I said a little louder, “if you will show me to this haunted room of yours, I will relieve you from the task of entertaining me.” “There’s a candle on the slab outside the door,” said the man with the withered arm, looking at my feet as he addressed me. “But if you go to the red room to-night—” (“This night of all nights!” said the old woman.) “You go alone.” “Very well,” I answered. “And which way do I go?” “You go along the passage for a bit,” said he, “until you come to a door, and through that is a spiral staircase, and half-way up that is a landing and another door covered with baize. Go through that and down the long corridor to the end, and the red room is on your left up the steps.” “Have I got that right?” I said, and repeated his directions. He corrected me in one particular. “And are you really going?” said the man with the shade, looking at me again for the third time, with that queer, unnatural tilting of the face. (“This night of all nights!” said the old woman.) “It is what I came for,” I said, and moved towards the door. As I did so, the old man with the shade rose and staggered round the table, so as to be closer to the others and to the fire. At the door I turned and looked at them, and saw they were all close together, dark against the firelight, staring at me over their shoulders, with an intent expression on their ancient faces. “Good-night,” I said, setting the door open. “It’s your own choosing,” said the man with the withered arm. I left the door wide open until the candle was well alight, and then I shut them in and walked down the chilly, echoing passage.