or behind me. I felt my way to the
mantelpiece and took down the two brass twenty-lighted candelabra. I
placed these on a table a yard or two from the window, and in them set
up my candles. It is astonishingly difficult in the dark to do anything,
even a thing so simple as the setting up of a candle.

Then I went back into my little room, put on the Inverness cape and the
slouch hat, and looked at my watch. Eleven-thirty. I must wait. I sat
down and waited. I thought how rich I was--the thought fell flat; I
wanted this house. I thought of my beautiful pink lady; but I put that
thought aside; I had an inward consciousness that my conduct, more
heroic than enough in one sense, would seem mean and crafty in her eyes.
Only ten minutes had passed. I could not wait till twelve. The chill of
the night and of the damp, unused house, and, perhaps, some less
material influence, made me shiver.

I opened the door, crept on hands and knees to the table, and, carefully
keeping myself below the level of the window, I reached up a trembling
arm, and lighted, one by one, my forty candles. The room was a blaze of
light. My courage came back to me with the retreat of the darkness. I
was far too excited to know what a fool I was making of myself. I rose
boldly, and struck an attitude over against the window, where the
candle-light shone upon as well as behind me. My Inverness was flung
jauntily over my shoulder, my soft, black felt twisted and slouched over
my eyes.

There I stood for the world, and particularly for my cousin Selwyn, to
see, the very image of the ghost that haunted that chamber. And from my
window I could see the light in that other window, and indistinctly the
lounging figure there. Oh, my cousin Selwyn, I wished many things to
your address in that moment! For it was only a moment that I had to feel
brave and daring in. Then I heard, deep down in the house, a sound, very
slight, very faint. Then came silence. I drew a deep breath. The silence
endured. And I stood by my lighted window.

After a very long time, as it seemed, I heard a board crack, and then a
soft rustling sound that drew near and seemed to pause outside the very
door of my parlour.

Again I held my breath, and now I thought of the most horrible story Poe
ever wrote--"The Fall of the House of Usher"--and I fancied I saw the
handle of that door move. I fixed my eyes on it. The fancy passed: and
returned.

Then again there was silence. And then the doo