now appear, diminished by
distance, did certainly at the time serve to whet my appetite for change
considerably.

A night or two after the departure of my comrade, I was sitting by my
bedroom fire, the door locked, and the ingredients of a tumbler of hot
whisky-punch upon the crazy spider-table; for, as the best mode of
keeping the

Black spirits and white,
Blue spirits and grey,

with which I was environed, at bay, I had adopted the practice
recommended by the wisdom of my ancestors, and "kept my spirits up by
pouring spirits down." I had thrown aside my volume of Anatomy, and was
treating myself by way of a tonic, preparatory to my punch and bed, to
half-a-dozen pages of the _Spectator_, when I heard a step on the flight
of stairs descending from the attics. It was two o'clock, and the
streets were as silent as a churchyard--the sounds were, therefore,
perfectly distinct. There was a slow, heavy tread, characterised by the
emphasis and deliberation of age, descending by the narrow staircase
from above; and, what made the sound more singular, it was plain that
the feet which produced it were perfectly bare, measuring the descent
with something between a pound and a flop, very ugly to hear.

I knew quite well that my attendant had gone away many hours before, and
that nobody but myself had any business in the house. It was quite plain
also that the person who was coming down stairs had no intention
whatever of concealing his movements; but, on the contrary, appeared
disposed to make even more noise, and proceed more deliberately, than
was at all necessary. When the step reached the foot of the stairs
outside my room, it seemed to stop; and I expected every moment to see
my door open spontaneously, and give admission to the original of my
detested portrait. I was, however, relieved in a few seconds by hearing
the descent renewed, just in the same manner, upon the staircase leading
down to the drawing-rooms, and thence, after another pause, down the
next flight, and so on to the hall, whence I heard no more.

Now, by the time the sound had ceased, I was wound up, as they say, to a
very unpleasant pitch of excitement. I listened, but there was not a
stir. I screwed up my courage to a decisive experiment--opened my door,
and in a stentorian voice bawled over the banisters, "Who's there?"
There was no answer but the ringing of my own voice through the empty
old house,--no renewal of the movement; nothing, in short,