trifle close. He got out of bed and threw open the window.
Then, returning to bed, he picked up a book and began to read. He was
conscious of feeling a little jumpy, and reading generally sent him to
sleep.

Much has been written on the subject of bed-books. The general consensus
of opinion is that a gentle, slow-moving story makes the best opiate.
If this be so, dear old Squiffy's choice of literature had been rather
injudicious. His book was The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and the
particular story, which he selected for perusal was the one entitled,
"The Speckled Band." He was not a great reader, but, when he read, he
liked something with a bit of zip to it.

Squiffy became absorbed. He had read the story before, but a long time
back, and its complications were fresh to him. The tale, it may be
remembered, deals with the activities of an ingenious gentleman who kept
a snake, and used to loose it into people's bedrooms as a preliminary to
collecting on their insurance. It gave Squiffy pleasant thrills, for he
had always had a particular horror of snakes. As a child, he had shrunk
from visiting the serpent house at the Zoo; and, later, when he had come
to man's estate and had put off childish things, and settled down
in real earnest to his self-appointed mission of drinking up all the
alcoholic fluid in England, the distaste for Ophidia had lingered. To
a dislike for real snakes had been added a maturer shrinking from
those which existed only in his imagination. He could still recall his
emotions on the occasion, scarcely three months before, when he had seen
a long, green serpent which a majority of his contemporaries had assured
him wasn't there.

Squiffy read on:--

"Suddenly another sound became audible--a very gentle, soothing sound,
like that of a small jet of steam escaping continuously from a kettle."

Lord Seacliff looked up from his book with a start Imagination was
beginning to play him tricks. He could have sworn that he had actually
heard that identical sound. It had seemed to come from the window. He
listened again. No! All was still. He returned to his book and went on
reading.

"It was a singular sight that met our eyes. Beside the table, on a
wooden chair, sat Doctor Grimesby Rylott, clad in a long dressing-gown.
His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid
stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar
yellow band, with brownish speckles, which