ng in the coal-bin is brick; it won't be difficult to take
up a section large enough for--"

I nodded again.

I shan't forget what we did that night--the stealing down into the
echoing cellar--the flickering of the candle-light on the white-washed
walls--the sound of the spade clinking against a casual stone.

How we worked! Like slaves under the lash--an actual lash of terror.
For we were afraid, frankly and honestly afraid, of what we had done
and of what we were doing. I know that the sweat fairly poured off me.
My word! but it WAS hot, and there was a fearful significance in the
thought that urged us on to even greater exertions.

It had to be done, and at last it was, the bricks neatly replaced and
the surplus earth packed away in gunny-sacks to be removed at the first
favorable opportunity. Then in the gray dawn we drew ourselves wearily
up-stairs, and, separating without a word, went to our rooms. Was it
pure, malignant chance that the maid, Mary, passed me on her way
down-stairs and glanced, with a curious, shrinking repugnance, at my
earth-stained and dusty clothes? I did not care; I was dog-tired and I
wanted but one thing--bed. I reached my couch, fell sprawling upon it,
and slept for seven hours straight.

It was a relief to awake from the phantasmagoria of horrors that
crowded my dreams. It was nearly two o'clock, and I had written to my
friend Ellison asking him to luncheon at that hour. The meal was rather
a silent one for two of us, but Ellison talked incessantly. He was in
high spirits, having just been appointed to a university professorship
in physiology--his specialty. "I've been busy getting my lecture
material together," he explained, and "I had a beastly piece of bad
luck the other day. My own fault, I suppose, but it illustrates the
point that our American baggage system is still far from perfection.
Now the European idea--"

"Shall we go into the library for coffee," said Indiman, a little
abruptly, and I could see that Ellison's chatter was beginning to get
on his nerves; my own were vibrating like harp-strings. I walked over
to one of the library windows and looked out, just in time to catch
sight of a man backing quickly into the shadow of the areaway opposite.

From down the street came the sound of a childish voice singing. Great
Heavens! It was Verdi's aria "Celeste Aida," with F natural in the
third bar instead of F sharp.

"I am going out for a few minutes," I said, carelessly.