very dear
friend--were living together in a strange old house. I don't think
anybody else dwelt in the house but just we two. One day, wandering
about this strange old rambling place, I discovered the hidden door of a
secret room, and in this room were many iron-bound chests, and when I
raised the heavy lids I saw that each chest was full of gold.

And, when I saw this, I stole out softly and closed the hidden door, and
drew the worn tapestries in front of it again, and crept back along the
dim corridor, looking behind me, fearfully.

And the friend that I had loved came towards me, and we walked together
with our hands clasped. But I hated him.

And all day long I kept beside him, or followed him unseen, lest by
chance he should learn the secret of that hidden door; and at night I lay
awake watching him.

But one night I sleep, and, when I open my eyes, he is no longer near me.
I run swiftly up the narrow stairs and along the silent corridor. The
tapestry is drawn aside, and the hidden door stands open, and in the room
beyond the friend that I loved is kneeling before an open chest, and the
glint of the gold is in my eyes.

His back is towards me, and I crawl forward inch by inch. I have a knife
in my hand, with a strong, curved blade; and when I am near enough I kill
him as he kneels there.

His body falls against the door, and it shuts to with a clang, and I try
to open it, and cannot. I beat my hands against its iron nails, and
scream, and the dead man grins at me. The light streams in through the
chink beneath the massive door, and fades, and comes again, and fades
again, and I gnaw at the oaken lids of the iron-bound chests, for the
madness of hunger is climbing into my brain.

Then I awake, and find that I really am hungry, and remember that in
consequence of a headache I did not eat any dinner. So I slip on a few
clothes, and go down to the kitchen on a foraging expedition.

It is said that dreams are momentary conglomerations of thought, centring
round the incident that awakens us, and, as with most scientific facts,
this is occasionally true. There is one dream that, with slight
variations, is continually recurring to me. Over and over again I dream
that I am suddenly called upon to act an important part in some piece at
the Lyceum. That poor Mr. Irving should invariably be the victim seems
unfair, but really it is entirely his own fault. It is he who persuades
and urges me. I myself woul