Stubbs stood motionless, without an answer. Toppleton had cornered him in a flimsy pretext, and then came the climax to his horrible experience. From behind him in the corner whence had come the sigh and the whistle, there now proceeded a smothered laugh--a sound which curdled his blood and left him so limp that he staggered to the mantel and grasped it to keep himself from falling to the floor. Hopkins turned upon him, his face livid with anger, and the two men gazed at each other in silence for a moment, the one endeavouring to master his fear, the other to smother his wrath. "Do you mean to insult me, Mr. Stubbs, by laughing in my face when I send for you to request explanations as to the conduct--as to the--er--the conduct of your room? It sounds ridiculous to say that, but there is no other way to put it, for it _is_ the conduct of the room of which I complain. What do you mean by your ill-timed levity?" "I pass you my word, Mr. Toppleton, I will swear to you, sir, that nothing was further from my thoughts than mirth. I agree with you that it is no laughing matter for--" "But I heard you laugh," said Toppleton, eyeing the agent, his anger now not unmixed with awe. "You laughed as plainly as it is possible for any one to laugh, except that you endeavoured to smother the sound." "I did nothing of the sort, Mr. Toppleton," pleaded Stubbs, his hand shaking and his eyes wandering fearsomely over toward the mysterious corner where all was still and innocent-looking. "That laugh came from other lips than mine--if, indeed, it came from lips at all, which I doubt." "You mean," cried Toppleton, grasping Stubbs by the arm with a grip that made the agent wince, "you mean that this room is--" "Khee-hee-hee-hee-hee!" came the derisive laugh from the corner, followed by the mysterious whistle and heartrending sigh which Hopkins had already so unpleasantly heard. Toppleton was transfixed with terror, and the agent, with an ejaculation of fear, ran from the room, and scurried down the stairs out into the court as fast as his legs could carry him, where he fell prostrate in a paroxysm of terror. Deserted by the agent and shut up in the room with his unwelcome visitor--for the agent had slammed the door behind him with such force that the catch had slipped and loosened the bolt, so that Toppleton was to all intents and purposes a prisoner--Hopkins exerted what little nerve force he had left, and pulled himself together again as best he could. He staggered to his table, and taking a small bottle of whiskey from the cupboard at its side, poured at least one half of its fiery contents down into his throat.