to my mind compared unfavorably with one certain other I had
shared.

A sense of uneasiness began to oppress me, I knew not why, before I had
gone half way down the little street from the corner where we turned. It
was gloomy and dismal enough at the best, and on this morning an unusual
apathy seemed to sit upon it, for few of the shutters were down,
although the hour was now mid-morning. Here and there a homely habitant
appeared, and bade us good morning; and once in a while we saw the face
of a good wife peering from the window. Thus we passed some dozen houses
or so, in a row, and paused opposite the little gate. I saw that the
shutters were closed, or at least all but one or two, which were partly
ajar. Something said to me that it would be as well for me to turn back.

I might as well have done so. We passed up the little walk, and I raised
the knocker at the door; but even as it sounded I knew what would
happen. There came to me that curious feeling which one experiences when
one knocks at the door of a house which lacks human occupancy. Even more
strongly I had that strange feeling now, because this sound was not
merely that of unoccupied rooms--it came from rooms empty and echoing!

I tried the door. It was not locked. I flung it wide, and stepped
within. At first I could not adjust my eyes to the dimness. Absolute
silence reigned. I pushed open a shutter and looked about me. The rooms
were not only unoccupied, but unfurnished! The walls and floors were
utterly bare! Not a sign of human occupancy existed. I hastened out to
the little walk, and looked up and down the street, to satisfy myself
that I had made no mistake. No, this was the number--this was the place.
Yesterday these rooms were fitted sumptuously as for a princess; now
they were naked. Not a stick of the furniture existed, nor was there any
trace either of haste or deliberation in this removal. What had been,
simply was not; that was all.

Followed by my wondering companion, I made such inquiry as I could in
the little neighborhood. I could learn nothing. No one knew anything of
the occupant of these rooms. No one had heard any carts approach, nor
had distinguished any sounds during the night.

"Sir," said I to my friend, at last; "I do not understand it. I have
pursued, but it seems the butterfly has flown." So, both silent, myself
morosely so, we turned and made our way back across the town.

Half an hour later we were on the docks at the rive