me--so intently that I was
conscious of a little embarrassment and confusion. His mouth was set like
a dash between brackets, and his eyes glistened. Now his features
relaxed, and he gave a short high neigh of a laugh.

"My dear fellow, you must make allowances for the rough old lurcher. He
was a soldier. He is all cut and measured out to the regimental pattern.
With him Major Shrike, like the king, can do no wrong. Did I ever tell
you he served under me in India? He did; and, moreover, I saved his life
there."

"In an engagement?"

"Worse--from the bite of a snake. It was a mere question of will. I told
him to wake and walk, and he did. They had thought him already in rigor
mortis; and, as for him--well, his devotion to me since has been single
to the last degree."

"That's as it should be."

"To be sure. And he's quite in my confidence. You must pass over the old
beggar's churlishness."

I laughed an assent. And then an odd thing happened. As I spoke, I had
walked over to a bookcase on the opposite side of the room to that on
which my host stood. Near this bookcase hung a mirror--an oblong affair,
set in brass _repousse_ work--on the wall; and, happening to glance into
it as I approached, I caught sight of the Major's reflection as he turned
his face to follow my movement.

I say "turned his face"--a formal description only. What met my startled
gaze was an image of some nameless horror--of features grooved, and
battered, and shapeless, as if they had been torn by a wild beast.

I gave a little indrawn gasp and turned about. There stood the Major,
plainly himself, with a pleasant smile on his face.

"What's up?" said he.

He spoke abstractedly, pulling at his cigar; and I answered rudely,
"That's a damned bad looking-glass of yours!"

"I didn't know there was anything wrong with it," he said, still
abstracted and apart. And, indeed, when by sheer mental effort I forced
myself to look again, there stood my companion as he stood in the room.

I gave a tremulous laugh, muttered something or nothing, and fell to
examining the books in the case. But my fingers shook a trifle as I
aimlessly pulled out one volume after another.

"Am I getting fanciful?" I thought--"I whose business it is to give
practical account of every bugbear of the nerves. Bah! My liver must be
out of order. A speck of bile in one's eye may look a flying dragon."

I dismissed the folly from my mind, and set myself resolutely to
inspect