who had come in for my clothes, and upset the boxes by accident.
Whoever it was, he went out and the light with him. I was about to
settle again, when, the curtain being a little open at the foot of the
bed, I saw a light on the wall opposite; such as a candle from outside
would cast if the door were very cautiously opening. I started up in
the bed, drew the side curtain, and saw that the door _was_ opening,
and admitting light from outside. It is close, you know, to the head
of the bed. A hand was holding on the edge of the door and pushing it
open; not a bit like yours; a very singular hand. Let me look at
yours."

He extended it for my inspection.

"Oh no; there's nothing wrong with your hand. This was differently
shaped; fatter; and the middle finger was stunted, and shorter than
the rest, looking as if it had once been broken, and the nail was
crooked like a claw. I called out 'Who's there?' and the light and the
hand were withdrawn, and I saw and heard no more of my visitor."

"So sure as you're a living man, that was him!" exclaimed Tom
Wyndsour, his very nose growing pale, and his eyes almost starting out
of his head.

"Who?" I asked.

"Old Squire Bowes; 'twas _his_ hand you saw; the Lord a' mercy on us!"
answered Tom. "The broken finger, and the nail bent like a hoop. Well
for you, sir, he didn't come back when you called, that time. You came
here about them Miss Dymock's business, and he never meant they should
have a foot o' ground in Barwyke; and he was making a will to give it
away quite different, when death took him short. He never was uncivil
to no one; but he couldn't abide them ladies. My mind misgave me when
I heard 'twas about their business you were coming; and now you see
how it is; he'll be at his old tricks again!"

With some pressure and a little more punch, I induced Tom Wyndsour to
explain his mysterious allusions by recounting the occurrences which
followed the old Squire's death.

"Squire Bowes of Barwyke died without making a will, as you know,"
said Tom. "And all the folk round were sorry; that is to say, sir, as
sorry as folk will be for an old man that has seen a long tale of
years, and has no right to grumble that death has knocked an hour too
soon at his door. The Squire was well liked; he was never in a
passion, or said a hard word; and he would not hurt a fly; and that
made what happened after his decease the more surprising.

"The first thing these ladies did, when they