rly with reluctance. It was by now seven o' clock and Sir
Richard told me he dined at half past seven. There was no question of
clothes for me other than those I stood in, as my host was shorter and
broader. He showed me presently to the drawing-room and there he
reappeared before half past seven in evening dress and a white
waistcoat. The drawing-room was large and contained old furniture but
it was rather worn than venerable, an Aubusson carpet flapped about
the floor, the wind seemed momently to enter the room, and old
draughts haunted corners; the stealthy feet of rats that were never at
rest indicated the extent of the ruin that time had wrought in the
wainscot; somewhere far off a shutter flapped to and fro, the
guttering candles were insufficient to light so large a room. The
gloom that these things suggested was quite in keeping with Sir
Richard's first remark to me after he entered the room: "I must tell
you, sir, that I have led a wicked life. O, a very wicked life."

Such confidences from a man much older than oneself after one has
known him for half an hour are so rare that any possible answer merely
does not suggest itself. I said rather slowly, "O, really," and
chiefly to forestall another such remark I said "What a charming house
you have."

"Yes," he said, "I have not left it for nearly forty years. Since I
left the 'Varsity. One is young there, you know, and one has
opportunities; but I make no excuses, no excuses." And the door
slipping its rusty latch, came drifting on the draught into the room,
and the long carpet flapped and the hangings upon the walls, then the
draught fell rustling away and the door slammed to again.

"Ah, Marianne," he said, "we have a guest to-night. Mr. Linton. This
is Marianne Gib." And everything became clear to me. "Mad," I said to
myself, for no one had entered the room.

The rats ran up the length of the room behind the wainscot
ceaselessly, and the wind unlatched the door again and the folds of
the carpet fluttered up to our feet and stopped there, for our weight
held it down.

"Let me introduce Mr. Linton," said my host--"Lady Mary Errinjer."

The door slammed back again. I bowed politely. Even had I been invited
I should have humoured him, but it was the very least that an
uninvited guest could do.

This kind of thing happened eleven times, the rustling, and the
fluttering of the carpet and the footsteps of the rats, and the
restless door, and then the sad voic