now not; a sensation of coldness caused me to
awake, only to find the fire nearly out, my reading-lamp smouldering,
and the moon brightly shining into the room. Imagine, if you can, my
surprise, when, turning round, there, full in the light of the moon, was
a figure writing at my table. It was an old man dressed in old-fashioned
style, just like what was worn two hundred or more years ago. There was
the wig, the coat with square flaps, the shoes with silver
buckles--everything except the sword. The face could not be clearly
defined, but the figure was most distinct.

"My first sensations were, to say the least, peculiar. I was for the
moment frightened, and it was several moments before common sense
asserted itself. A feeling of intense curiosity soon overpowered all
sense of fear. Sitting in my chair I could hear the scratching of his
pen upon the paper. He wrote at a very rapid pace and seemed too intent
upon his labours to notice my presence. I waited for some time in
absolute stillness, but then, becoming weary of the situation,
endeavoured to attract his attention with a cough. He took no notice,
and so I arose and walked towards him.

"I am telling you the entire truth when I assure you I could find
nothing in that chair. I grasped nothing tangible, and the chair
appeared quite empty, while still the scratching of the pen continued;
and as I walked away from the window the apparition appeared as plain as
ever. Every line of the figure was clear as if in life. At last while I
watched, the sound of writing ceased, and the figure vanished from my
view, leaving the roll of manuscript just as it had been before I fell
asleep.

"Rushing up to the mantelpiece I seized a box of matches, hurriedly
lighted a candle, and approached the desk, and there found the Service
written out in full in a strange handwriting. My own work was
obliterated, the pen drawn through it all with the exception of the
Kyrie, which was as I left it, save that the word Kyrie was written over
it in the strange handwriting. At the conclusion of the Service were
written these words: 'E.I. hoc fecit. R.I.P.'"

As the Doctor uttered these words, he went to the bookshelf and drew
down a book bound carefully in calf, which he opened and passed to me.
It was the original copy as he had found it, his own work crossed out
just as he had said, and the Service written in an altogether strange
hand.

"I took those letters, R.I.P., to impose a solemn oblig