invitation, and most willingly
accepted it. At about ten o'clock he was to make his appearance, but
before that Anderson had some letters to write, and retired for the
purpose of writing them. He almost blushed to himself at confessing it,
but he could not deny that it was the fact that he was becoming quite
nervous about the question of the existence of Number 13; so much so
that he approached his room by way of Number 11, in order that he might
not be obliged to pass the door, or the place where the door ought to
be. He looked quickly and suspiciously about the room when he entered
it, but there was nothing beyond that indefinable air of being smaller
than usual, to warrant any misgivings. There was no question of the
presence or absence of his portmanteau to-night. He had himself emptied
it of its contents and lodged it under his bed. With a certain effort he
dismissed the thought of Number 13 from his mind, and sat down to his
writing.

His neighbours were quiet enough. Occasionally a door opened in the
passage and a pair of boots was thrown out, or a bagman walked past
humming to himself, and outside, from time to time a cart thundered over
the atrocious cobble-stones, or a quick step hurried along the flags.

Anderson finished his letters, ordered in whiskey and soda, and then
went to the window and studied the dead wall opposite and the shadows
upon it.

As far as he could remember, Number 14 had been occupied by the lawyer,
a staid man, who said little at meals, being generally engaged in
studying a small bundle of papers beside his plate. Apparently, however,
he was in the habit of giving vent to his animal spirits when alone. Why
else should he be dancing? The shadow from the next room evidently
showed that he was. Again and again his thin form crossed the window,
his arms waved, and a gaunt leg was kicked up with surprising agility.
He seemed to be barefooted, and the floor must be well laid, for no
sound betrayed his movements. Sagfoerer Herr Anders Jensen, dancing at
ten o'clock at night in a hotel bedroom, seemed a fitting subject for a
historical painting in the grand style; and Anderson's thoughts, like
those of Emily in the "Mysteries of Udolpho," began to "arrange
themselves in the following lines":

"When I return to my hotel,
At ten o'clock P.M.,
The waiters think I am unwell;
I do not care for them.
But when I've locked my chamber door,
And put my boots outside,