and with Captain Lockwood's
taste in wines. "What's the matter? You look to me to be in an absolute
blue funk."

"That old devil of an uncle of mine," began Eustace--"oh, I can't
explain it all. It's his hand that's been playing old Harry all the
evening. But I've got it cornered behind these books. You've got to
help me catch it."

"What's up with you, Eustace? What's the game?"

"It's no game, you silly idiot! If you don't believe me take out one of
those books and put your hand in and feel."

"All right," said Saunders; "but wait till I've rolled up my sleeve. The
accumulated dust of centuries, eh?" He took off his coat, knelt down,
and thrust his arm along the shelf.

"There's something there right enough," he said. "It's got a funny
stumpy end to it, whatever it is, and nips like a crab. Ah, no, you
don't!" He pulled his hand out in a flash. "Shove in a book quickly. Now
it can't get out."

"What was it?" asked Eustace.

"It was something that wanted very much to get hold of me. I felt what
seemed like a thumb and forefinger. Give me some brandy."

"How are we to get it out of there?"

"What about a landing net?"

"No good. It would be too smart for us. I tell you, Saunders, it can
cover the ground far faster than I can walk. But I think I see how we
can manage it. The two books at the end of the shelf are big ones that
go right back against the wall. The others are very thin. I'll take out
one at a time, and you slide the rest along until we have it squashed
between the end two."

It certainly seemed to be the best plan. One by one, as they took out
the books, the space behind grew smaller and smaller. There was
something in it that was certainly very much alive. Once they caught
sight of fingers pressing outward for a way of escape. At last they had
it pressed between the two big books.

"There's muscle there, if there isn't flesh and blood," said Saunders,
as he held them together. "It seems to be a hand right enough, too. I
suppose this is a sort of infectious hallucination. I've read about such
cases before."

"Infectious fiddlesticks!" said Eustace, his face white with anger;
"bring the thing downstairs. We'll get it back into the box."

It was not altogether easy, but they were successful at last. "Drive in
the screws," said Eustace, "we won't run any risks. Put the box in this
old desk of mine. There's nothing in it that I want. Here's the key.
Thank goodness, there's nothing wrong with