I laughed, but the full horror of it had soaked into me. I followed my host up a series of stairs. He carried a candlestick, with his arm extended, so as to give me a guiding light. The old house was dim and chilly in its barrenness. He stopped at a door in a long, narrow corridor and set the candlestick down. "This is your room." With a gentle bow and a kindly smile he opened the door for me. "Good-night, sir. Can you see your way down?" I asked. "I have a candle in my pocket." He lit it at mine. Another quiet, friendly smile, and I watched him out of sight along the corridor. I stood perfectly still for a moment just inside. Then a curious feeling of something dreadful being close at hand was present in my mind. Of course it was all humbug, and my nerves were deceiving me. But I could not shake myself free from the notion that I was _not_ alone. There is an essence in all these old dwellings that comes out to meet one on a first visit. I recognise the truth of that--for how often have I noticed how, under one roof, one breathes a friendly air, and under another queerness runs across the spine like the feet of hurrying mice. In this house there was something sinister and unwholesome. I cursed my luck for driving me into such a place. A night spent under a hedge would have been more desirable. However, I turned into bed and passed rather a broken night, with stretches of dream-haunted sleep interspersed with startled awakenings. The old house seemed to be full of muffled movements, and once (timid fool that I was) I could have sworn that the handle of my door turned. It was with a considerable qualm, I must confess, I lit my candle and opened the door. But the gallery was quite empty. I went back to bed and slept again, and when next I woke the sun was streaming into my room, and the sense of trouble that had been with me ever since entering the house last evening had gone. When I arrived at the breakfast-table the little old man was seated behind the coffee-pot, and his face was quite glowing and wreathed in smiles. Morning had brought a flood of hard common sense to him, as clear as the crisp sunshine that filled the room. He had already begun and was consuming a plateful of eggs and bacon with the most prosaic and healthy appetite. "Slept well?" he asked. "Moderately," I said, feeling ashamed of my timidity in the morning light. "I am afraid I talked rather wildly last night," remarked the little man, in a voice pregnant with reason. "Yes--an amazing quantity of nonsense," I consented. "Where did you learn hypnotism?" My host's brow clouded slightly. "You see," I continued, "you must have thrown a spell over me, for I really believed in your ghost story, and now I have come to the conclusion that you were joking." "Never mind. It doesn't matter." But the little man didn't look up from his plate. He only shook his head.