“In everybody’s mouth!” “Yes; I have heard it from at least a dozen persons.” “You surprise me.” “It is untrue? Of course I am not so absurd as really to believe about the vampyre; but is there no foundation at all for it? We generally find that at the bottom of these common reports there is a something around which, as a nucleus, the whole has formed.” “My sister is unwell.” “Ah, and that’s all. It really is too bad, now.” “We had a visitor last night.” “A thief, I suppose?” “Yes, yes—I believe a thief. I do believe it was a thief, and she was terrified.” “Of course, and upon such a thing is grafted a story of a vampyre, and the marks of his teeth being in her neck, and all the circumstantial particulars.” “Yes, yes.” “Good morning, Mr. Bannerworth.” Henry bade the gentleman good morning, and much vexed at the publicity which the affair had already obtained, he set spurs to his horse, determined that he would speak to no one else upon so uncomfortable a theme. Several attempts were made to stop him, but he only waved his hand and trotted on, nor did he pause in his speed till he reached the door of Mr. Chillingworth, the medical man whom he intended to consult. Henry knew that at such a time he would be at home, which was the case, and he was soon closeted with the man of drugs. Henry begged his patient hearing, which being accorded, he related to him at full length what had happened, not omitting, to the best of his remembrance, any one particular. When he had concluded his narration, the doctor shifted his position several times, and then said,— “That’s all?” “Yes—and enough too.” “More than enough, I should say, my young friend. You astonish me.” “Can you form any supposition, sir, on the subject?” “Not just now. What is your own idea?” “I cannot be said to have one about it. It is too absurd to tell you that my brother George is impressed with a belief a vampyre has visited the house.” “I never in all my life heard a more circumstantial narrative in favour of so hideous a superstition.” “Well, but you cannot believe—” “Believe what?” “That the dead can come to life again, and by such a process keep up vitality.” “Do you take me for a fool?” “Certainly not.” “Then why do you ask me such questions?” “But the glaring facts of the case.” “I don’t care if they were ten times more glaring, I won’t believe it. I would rather believe you were all mad, the whole family of you—that at the full of the moon you all were a little cracked.” “And so would I.” “You go home now, and I will call and see your sister in the course of two hours. Something may turn up yet, to throw some new light upon this strange subject.” With this understanding Henry went home, and he took care to ride as fast as before, in order to avoid questions, so that he got back to his old ancestral home without going through the disagreeable ordeal of having to explain to any one what had disturbed the peace of it.