xcept that she
wore a man's hat. Closing the gate behind us, without a word of welcome
or explanation, she led the way to the house. Mrs. Macallan followed her
easily, knowing the place; and I walked in Mrs. Macallan's footsteps as
closely as I could. "This is a nice family," my mother-in-law whispered
to me. "Dexter's cousin is the only woman in the house--and Dexter's
cousin is an idiot."

We entered a spacious hall with a low ceiling, dimly lighted at its
further end by one small oil-lamp. I could see that there were pictures
on the grim, brown walls, but the subjects represented were invisible in
the obscure and shadowy light.

Mrs. Macallan addressed herself to the speechless cousin with the man's
hat.

"Now tell me," she said. "Why can't we see Dexter?"

The cousin took a sheet of paper off the table, and handed it to Mrs.
Macallan.

"The Master's writing," said this strange creature, in a hoarse whisper,
as if the bare idea of "the Master" terrified her. "Read it. And stay or
go, which you please."

She opened an invisible side door in the wall, masked by one of the
pictures--disappeared through it like a ghost--and left us together
alone in the hall.

Mrs. Macallan approached the oil-lamp, and looked by its light at the
sheet of paper which the woman had given to her. I followed and
peeped over her shoulder without ceremony. The paper exhibited written
characters, traced in a wonderfully large and firm handwriting. Had I
caught the infection of madness in the air of the house? Or did I really
see before me these words?

"NOTICE.--My immense imagination is at work. Visions of heroes unroll
themselves before me. I reanimate in myself the spirits of the departed
great. My brains are boiling in my head. Any persons who disturb
me, under existing circumstances, will do it at the peril of their
lives.--DEXTER."

Mrs. Macallan looked around at me quietly with her sardonic smile.

"Do you still persist in wanting to be introduced to him?" she asked.

The mockery in the tone of the question roused my pride. I determined
that I would not be the first to give way.

"Not if I am putting you in peril of your life, ma'am," I answered,
pertly enough, pointing to the paper in her hand.

My mother-in-law returned to the hall table, and put the paper back on
it without condescending to reply. She then led the way to an arched
recess on our right hand, beyond which I dimly discerned a broad flight
of oaken stairs