y rooms in Bloomsbury were not lonely. They had more than their share
of "brawling brats" on either side; there were no gloomy recesses or
ghost-suggestive cupboards, and I never once experienced in them the
slightest apprehension of sudden superphysical manifestations, yet I
cannot help saying that as I met that glance from the pseudo-Tristram's
eyes I felt my flesh begin to creep.

He sat for so long in silence that I began to wonder if he ever meant to
speak.

"The secret of success in seeing certain classes of apparitions," he
said at length, "to a very great extent lies in sympathy. Sympathy! And
now for my story. I will tell it to you in the 'third person.'"

I looked at Tristram's face in dismay. "The third person!"

"Yes, the third person," he gravely rejoined, "and under the
circumstances the only person. You see it is now close on midnight."

I looked at the clock. Great heavens! What he said was correct. A whole
evening had slipped by without my knowledge. He would, of course, have
to stay the night. I suggested it to him.

"My dear fellow," he replied, with an odd smile, "don't worry about me.
I am not dependent on any trains. I shall be home by two o'clock."

I shivered--a draught of cold air had in all probability stolen through
the cracks of the ill-fitting window-frames.

"You have on one of your queer moods, Martin," I expostulated. "To be
home by two o'clock you must fly! But proceed--at all costs, the story."

Tristram raised an eyebrow, a true sign that something of special
interest would follow.

"You know Bruges?" he began.

I nodded.

"Very well, then," he went on. "Exactly a week ago Martin Tristram
arrived there from Antwerp. The hour was late, the weather boisterous,
Tristram was tired, and any lodging was better than none.

"Hailing a four-wheeler, he asked the Jehu to drive him to some decent
hostel where the sheets were clean and the tariff moderate; and the
fellow, gathering up the reins, took him at a snail's pace to a
mediaeval-looking tavern in La Rue Croissante. You remember that street?
Perhaps not! It is quite a back street, extremely narrow, very tortuous,
and miserably lighted with a few gas-lamps of the usual antique Belgian
order.

"Tristram was too tired, however, to be fastidious; he felt he could lie
down and go to sleep anywhere, and what scruples he might have had were
entirely dissipated by the appearance of the charming girl who answered
the door.

"It is