than I suddenly collapsed with what I am bound to regard as a
comprehensible and quite excusable fear; for, while I do not quail
before men, and have a reasonable fortitude in the presence of most
dangers, corporeal and moral, I am not quite myself in face of a rampant
and barking dog. It is my one weakness, and while I usually can, and
under most circumstances do, succeed in hiding my inner trepidation
under the emergency just mentioned, I always feel that it would be a
happy relief for me if the day should ever come when these so-called
domestic animals would be banished from the affections and homes of men.
Then I think I would begin to live in good earnest and perhaps enjoy
trips into the country, which now, for all my apparent bravery, I regard
more in the light of a penance than a pleasure.

Imagine, then, how hard I found it to retain my self-possession or even
any appearance of dignity, when at the moment I was stretching forth my
hand toward the knocker of this inhospitable mansion I heard rising from
some unknown quarter a howl so keen, piercing, and prolonged that it
frightened the very birds over my head and sent them flying from the
vines in clouds.

It was the unhappiest kind of welcome for me. I did not know whether it
came from within or without, and when after a moment of indecision I saw
the door open, I am not sure whether the smile I called up to grace the
occasion had any of the real Amelia Butterworth in it, so much was my
mind divided between a desire to produce a favorable impression and a
very decided and not-to-be-hidden fear of the dog who had greeted my
arrival with such an ominous howl.

"Call off the dog!" I cried almost before I saw what sort of person I
was addressing.

Mr. Gryce, when I saw him later, declared this to be the most
significant introduction I could have made of myself upon entering the
Knollys mansion.

IV

A GHOSTLY INTERIOR

The hall into which I had stepped was so dark that for a few minutes I
could see nothing but the indistinct outline of a young woman with a
very white face. She had uttered some sort of murmur at my words, but
for some reason was strangely silent, and, if I could trust my eyes,
seemed rather to be looking back over her shoulder than into the face of
her advancing guest. This was odd, but before I could quite satisfy
myself as to the cause of her abstraction, she suddenly bethought
herself, and throwing open the door of an adjoining r