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  THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS

  BY E. W. HOWE

  AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF A COUNTRY TOWN"

  BOSTON JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 1885

  _Copyright, 1885_, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY.

  _All Rights Reserved._

  C. J. PETERS AND SON, ELECTROTYPERS.

  CONTENTS.

  I. THE TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS

  II. THE LOCKS

  III. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW

  IV. DAVY'S BEND

  V. A TROUBLED FANCY

  VI. PICTURES IN THE FIRE

  VII. THE LOCKS' GHOST

  VIII. A REMARKABLE GIRL

  IX. THE "APRON AND PASSWORD"

  X. TUG WHITTLE'S BOOTY

  XI. THE WHISPERS IN THE AIR

  XII. RUINED BY KINDNESS

  XIII. THE REBELLION OF THE BARITONE

  XIV. THE ANCIENT MAIDEN

  XV. A SHOT AT THE SHADOW

  XVI. THE STEP ON THE STAIR

  XVII. THE PURSUING SHADOW

  XVIII. THE RISE IN THE RIVER

  XIX. MR. WHITTLE MAKES A CONFESSION

  XX. THE SEARCH IN THE WOODS

  XXI. LITTLE BEN

  XXII. TUG'S RETURN

  XXIII. THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN

  THE MYSTERY OF THE LOCKS.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE TOWN OF DARK NIGHTS.

  Davy's Bend--a river town, a failing town, and an old town, on a darknight, with a misty rain falling, and the stars hiding from thedangerous streets and walks of the failing town down by the sluggishriver which seems to be hurrying away from it, too, like itsinstitutions and its people, and as the light of the wretched day thathas just closed hurried away from it a few hours since.

  The darkness is so intense that the people who look out of their windowsare oppressed from staring at nothing, for the shadows are obliterated,and for all they know there may be great caverns in the streets, filledwith water from the rising river, and vagabond debris on their frontsteps. It occurs to one of them who opens the blind to his window amoment, and looks out (and who notices incidentally that the rays fromhis lamp seem afraid to venture far from the casement) that a hard crustwill form somewhere above the town, up where there is light for theliving, and turn the people of Davy's Bend into rocks as solid as thosethousands of feet below, which thought affects him so much that hecloses his blinds and shutters tighter than before, determined that hisrooms shall become caves.

  The rain comes down steadily, plashing into little pools in the roadwith untiring energy, where it joins other vagrant water, and creeps offat last into the gutter, into the rivulet, and into the river, where itjoins the restless tide which is always hurrying away from Davy's Bend,and bubbles and foams with joy.

  The citizen who observed the intense blackness of the night comes to hiswindow again, and notes the steady falling of the rain, and in hisreverie pretends to regret that it is not possible for the water to comeup until his house will float away like an ark, that he may get rid ofliving in a place where the nights are so dark and wet that he cannotsleep for thinking of them. When he returns to his chair, and attemptsto read, the pattering rain is so persistent on the roof and at thewindows that the possibility of a flood occurs to his mind, and hethinks with satisfaction that, should it come to pass, Davy's Bend wouldat last be as well off as Ben's City; and this possibility is sopleasant that he puts out his light, the only one showing in the town,and goes to bed.

  At the foot of a long street, so close to the river that its singlelight casts a ghastly glare into the water, stands the railroad station,where the agent awaits the arrival of the single train that visits theplace daily,--for only a few people want to go to Davy's Bend, and notmany are left to move away,--so the agent mutters at the rain and thedarkness, and growls at the hard fate that keeps him up so late; for, ofall the inhabitants of the place, he is the only one who has business tocall him out at night. There are no people in Davy's Bend who areoverworked, or whose business cares are so great as to make them nervousor fretful; so they sleep and yawn a great deal, and have plenty of timein which to tell how dull their own place is, and how distressinglyactive is Ben's City, located in the country below them, and which isadmired even by the river, for it is always going in that direction.

  Fortunately, on this misty night the agent has not long to wait; forjust as he curls himself up in his chair to rest comfortably, certainthat the train will be late, there is a hoarse blast from a steamwhistle up the road, which echoes through the woods and over the hillswith a dismal roar, and by the time he has seized his lantern, andreached the outside, the engine bell is ringing softly in the yard; theheadlight appears like a great eye spying out the dark places around thebuilding, and before he has had time to look about him, or express hissurprise that the wheels are on time, a few packages have been unloaded,and the train creeps out into the darkness, hurrying away from Davy'sBend, like the river and the people.

  There is but one passenger to-night: a man above the medium height andweight, dressed like a city tradesman, who seems to own the packages putoff, for he is standing among them, and apparently wondering whatdisposition he is to make of them; for the agent is about to retire intothe station with his books under his arm. Evidently the stranger is notgood natured, for he hails the official impatiently, and inquires, in avoice that is a mixture of indignation and impudence, if the hotels haveno representatives about, and if he is expected to remain out in therain all night to guard his property.

  The agent does not know as to that, but he does know that the strangeris welcome to leave his packages in the building until morning, whicharrangement seems to be the best offering, for it is accepted, afterboth men have denounced the town until they are satisfied; for no onepretends to defend Davy's Bend, so the agent readily assents to whateverthe stranger desires to say that is discreditable to his native place,while he is helping him to carry the trunks and bundles into the light.

  When the rays of the single lamp in the station fall upon the stranger,the agent at first concludes that he is middle-aged, for a new growth ofwhiskers covers his face completely; but he thinks better of this duringthe course of his inspection, and remarks to himself that the owner ofthe packages is not as old as he seemed at first glance, but he is a mannot satisfied with himself, or with anything around him,--the agent issure of that; and as he helps with the baggage, of which there is agreat deal, he keeps thinking to himself that it will stand him in handto be more polite than usual, for the stranger looks sullen enough tofight with very little provocation. His quick, restless eyes were alwaysbusy,--the agent feels certain that he has been measured and disposed ofin a glance,--but the longer he looks at the stranger the more certainhe becomes that the packages he is helping to handle contains goods ofimportance, for their owner is evidently a man of importance.

  "There must be gold in that," the agent says, as he puts his end of oneof the trunks down, and pauses to rest. "I have been agent here a goodmany years; but if that is not an excess, I never had hold of one. Nowfor the rest of them."

  The work is soon finished, and after extinguishing the light the agentsteps upon the outside, locks the door, and puts the key into hispocket.

  "I am sorry," he says, as he stands with the stranger outside the door,on a covered platform, where they are protected from the rain, "but I goin this direction, while the hotel lies in that," pointing the way."It's a rough road, and you may have trouble in getting them up, but Iguess you will get th
ere if you go far enough, for the hotel standsdirectly at the head of the street. It's a pity that the town does notafford an omnibus, or a public carriage, but it doesn't, and that endsit. I intend to go away myself as soon as I can, for the company doesnot treat me any too well, though it is generally said that another mancould not be found to do the work as I do it for the money."

  By this time the agent has his umbrella up, which appears to be asdilapidated as the town, for it comes up with difficulty, so he saysgood night cheerily, and disappears; and the traveller, after shiveringawhile on the platform, starts out to follow the direction given him,floundering in the mud at every step.

  There is a row of houses on either side, with great gaps between them,and he is barely able to make out the strip of lighter shade which hejudges is the street he is to follow, the night is so dark; but as thehotel is said to lie directly across his path, he argues that he is sureto run into it sooner or later, so he blunders on, shivering when herealizes that he is becoming wet to the skin. After travelling in thismanner much longer than was desirable, finding the sidewalks so bad thathe takes to the middle of the street, and finally goes back to the walkagain in desperation; stumbling over barrels and carts, and so muchrubbish that is oozy and soft as to cause him to imagine that everythingis turning into a liquid state in order that it may leave the place byway of the gutters, the rivulets, and the river, he becomes aware that alantern, carried by one of two men, whose legs are to be seen in longshadows, is approaching, and that they are very merry, for they aremaking a good deal of noise, and stop frequently to accuse each other ofbeing jolly old boys, or thorough scoundrels, or dreadful villains, orto lean up against the buildings to discuss ribald questions which seemto amuse them. Apparently they have no destination, for after one oftheir bursts of merriment they are as apt to walk up the street as downit; and believing them to be the town riff-raff out for a lark, thestranger tries to pass them without attracting attention when he comesup to their vicinity; but the one who carries the lantern sees him, and,locking arms with his companion, adroitly heads the traveller off, andputs the lantern so close to his face that he dodges back to avoid it.

  "Tug," the man says, in an amused way, "a stranger. There will be asensation in Davy's Bend to-morrow; it hasn't happened before in ayear."

  Believing the men to be good-natured prowlers who can give him theinformation he is seeking, the stranger patiently waits while they enjoytheir joke; which they do in a very odd fashion, for the man who carriesthe lantern, and who, the stranger noticed when the lantern was raised,was rather small, and old, and thin-faced, leans against his companion,and laughs in an immoderate but meek fashion. The fellow who had beenaddressed as Tug had said nothing at all, though he snorted once, in aqueer way, which threw his companion into greater convulsions ofmerriment than ever, and changing their position so that they supportthemselves against a building, one of them continues to laugh gayly, andthe other to chuckle and snort, until they are quite exhausted, asthough a stranger in Davy's Bend is very funny indeed.

  "There will be a train going the other way in three hours,--for both thetrains creep through the town at night, as if they were ashamed to beseen here in daylight," the little man says to the traveller, recoveringhimself, and with a show of seriousness. "You had better take it, and goback; really you had. Davy's Bend will never suit you. It don't suitanybody. The last man that came here stood it a week, when off he went,and we never expected to see another one. Look at these deserted housesin every direction," he continues, stepping out farther into the middleof the street, as if to point around him, but remembering that the nightis so dark that nothing can be seen, he goes back to his companion, andpokes him in the ribs, which causes that worthy to snort once more inthe odd way that the stranger noticed on coming up. This reminds them oftheir joke again; so they return to the building, leaning against itwith their arms, their heads, and their backs, laughing as they didbefore. Meanwhile the stranger stands out in the rain, watching the twoodd men with an air of interest; but at last, recollecting hiscondition, he says,--

  "It happens that I am looking for a place that suits nobody, and onethat is generally avoided. If you will point out the way to the hotel, Iwill decide that question for myself to-morrow."

  The little man picks up the lantern immediately when the hotel ismentioned.

  "I never thought of the hotel," he exclaims, on the alert at once, andstarting up the street, followed by his snorting companion, who ambledalong like the front part of a wagon pushed from behind. "It is mybusiness to be at the station when the train arrives, to look forpassengers," the man continues as he hurries on with the light; "but itseemed like a waste of time to go down there, for nobody ever comes; soI thought I'd spend the time with Tug."

  The man says this in a tone of apology, as though accustomed to makingexplanations for lack of attention to business; and as he leads the wayhe is not at all like the jolly fellow who laughed so immoderately,while leaning against the building, at his own weak joke; but perhaps heis one thing when on duty, and another when he is out airing himself.However this may be, the stranger follows, taking long strides to keepup, and occasionally stumbling over the person who has been referred toas Tug, and who appears to be unjointed in his legs; for when room ismade for him on the left-hand side of the walk, he is sure suddenly toturn up on the right.

  Thus they hurry along without speaking, until at length a dim lightappears directly ahead of them, and coming up to this presently, thestranger finds that it comes from a building lying across the course inwhich they are travelling; for the street leading up from the river andthe station ends abruptly in that direction with the hotel, as it endedin the other with the station. Another street crosses here at rightangles, and the hotel turns travellers either to the right or to theleft.

  When the three men enter the place, and the light is turned up, thetraveller sees that it had formerly been a business place; that it hasbeen patched and pieced, and does not seem to answer the purpose forwhich it is being used without a protest, for the guests fall down twosteps when they attempt to enter the dining-room, and everyone iscompelled to go outside the office to get to the stairway leading to therooms above. In its better days the room used as an office had probablybeen a provision store; for the whitewash on the walls does not entirelycover price-lists referring to chickens and hams and oats and flour.

  "I am the clerk here," the man who had carried the lantern says, as hebrings out a chair for the stranger, but condemns it after examinationbecause both the back legs are gone, and it can only be used whenleaning against the wall. "I am sorry I was not at the station to meetyou; but it is so seldom that anyone comes that I hope you will notmention it to him," pointing his thumb upward, evidently referring tothe proprietor sleeping above.

  The arrival was thinking that queer little men like the one before himwere to be found at every country hotel he had ever visited, acting asclerk during the hours when there was no business, and as hostler andwaiter during the day, but he rather liked the appearance of thisfellow, for he seemed more intelligent than the most of them, so heturned to listen to what he was saying, at the same time recollectingthat he himself had suddenly become very grave.

  "This is not much of a hotel," the clerk continues, at last fishing outa chair that seems to be strong, and placing it in front of the guest;"but it is the best Davy affords. The hotel, though, is better than thetown; you will find that out soon enough."

  A small man, of uncertain age, the clerk turns out to be, now that thelight is upon him. He may be thirty, or forty, or fifty; for, judged insome ways, he looks old, while judged in other ways he looks young; butit is certain that he is not jolly around the hotel as he was on thestreet, for he is very meek, and occasionally strokes his pale face,which is beardless, with the exception of a meek little tuft on eitherside, as though he thinks that since he has been caught laughing it willgo hard with him.

  After looking at his companion, with an amused smile, for a moment, thestr
anger says that he will not mention anything, good or bad, "to him,"whoever he may be, and, while thinking to himself that "Davy" is afamiliar way of referring to Davy's Bend, he notices that the man whohas already been called Tug, and who has found a chair and is sittingbolt upright in it, is eyeing him closely. He also remarks that Tug ishideously ugly, and that he is dressed in a suit of seedy black, whichhas once been respectable, but is now so sleek, from long use, that itglistens in the lamplight. He has a shock of hair, and a shock of beard,both of which seem to have been trimmed recently by a very awkwardperson; and the stranger also notices, in the course of his idleexamination, that one of Tug's eyes, the left one, is very wide open,while the other is so nearly shut that generally the man seems to beaiming at something. When Tug winks with the eye that is wide open, theone that is nearly shut remains perfectly motionless, but follows theexample presently, and winks independently and of its own accord, sothat the stranger thinks of him as walking with his eyes, taking atremendous leap with his left, and then a limp with his right.

  Tug continues his observations, in spite of the cold stare of thestranger, and makes several discoveries, one of which is, that thestranger has a rather good-looking face and a large and restless eye.Tug imagines that he can read the man's character in his eye as easilyas in an open book, for it has varying moods, and seems to be resoluteat one moment, and gloomy and discontented at another. Although he islooking straight at him, Tug is certain that the stranger's thoughts arenot always in Davy's Bend; and, while thinking that the stranger hasimportant matters to think of somewhere, the clerk returns from thekitchen, carrying in his arms a great piece of cold beef, a loaf ofbread, a half a pie in a tin plate, and a coffee-pot and a tumbler.Covering with a newspaper a round table that stands in the room, heplaces the articles upon it, and asks the guest to sit up and helphimself.

  The stranger declined, but he noticed that Tug, from his positionagainst the wall, was walking toward the table with his eyes, with firsta long step and then a short one, and that at a sign from his friend hewalked over hurriedly with his legs, and went to work with a ravenousappetite, putting pieces of meat and bread into his mouth large enoughto strangle him. This convinced the stranger that the lunch was reallyprepared for Tug, and that there would have been disappointment had heaccepted the clerk's invitation.

  "I don't suppose you care to know it," the clerk said, seating himself,and apparently enjoying the manner in which Tug was disposing of thecold meat, "but my name is Silas Davy. I am what is known as a goodfellow, and my father was a good fellow before me. He discovered thistown, or located it, or settled here first, or something of that kind,and once had a great deal of property; but, being a good fellow, hecouldn't keep it. If you will give me your name, I will introduce you tomy friend, Mr. Tug Whittle."

  "I don't care to know him," the guest replied, somewhat ill-humoredly,his restless eyes indicating that his thoughts had just returned from ajourney out in the world somewhere, as they finally settled on Tug. "Idon't like his looks."

  Tug looked up at this remark, sighted awhile at the guest with his righteye, and, after swallowing his last mouthful, with an effort, pointed afinger at him, to intimate that he was about to speak.

  "Did you see any ragged or sore-eyed people get off the train to-night?"he inquired, in a deep bass voice, still pointing with his bony finger,and aiming along it with his little eye.

  The guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply, but at last saidhe was the only passenger for Davy's Bend.

  "I was expecting more of my wife's kin," Tug said, with an angry snort,taking down his finger to turn over the meat-bone, and using his eye tolook for a place not yet attacked. "Come to think about it, though, theyare not likely to arrive by rail; they will probably reach town on foot,in the morning. They are too poor to ride. I wish they were too sick towalk, damn them. Do you happen to know what the word ornery means?"

  The guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply again, but finallyshook his head, after some hesitation.

  "Well," the ugly fellow said, "if you stay here,--which I don't believeyou will, for you look too much like a good one to remain herelong,--I'll introduce you not only to the word but to the kin. After youhave seen my wife's relations, you'll fight when anybody calls youornery."

  Finding a likely spot on the meat-bone at the conclusion of this speech,Mr. Whittle went on with his eating, and was silent.

  "There are a great many people who do not like Tug's looks," the clerkwent on to say, without noticing the interruption, and lookingadmiringly at that individual, as though he could not understand why hewas not more generally admired; "so it is not surprising that you aresuspicious of him. I do not say it with reference to you, for you do notknow him; but my opinion is that the people dislike him because of hismind. He knows too much to suit them, and they hate him."

  By this time Tug had wiped up everything before him, and aftertransferring the grease and pie crumbs from his lips and beard to hissleeve, the three men were silent, listening to the rain on the outside,and taking turns in looking out of the windows into the darkness.

  "I suppose the shutters are rattling dismally up at The Locks to-night,"Silas Davy said. "And the windows! Lord, how the windows must rattle!I've been told that when there isn't a breath of air the shutters andwindows at The Locks go on at a great rate, and they must be at itto-night, for I have never known it to be so oppressive and stillbefore."

  "And the light," Tug suggested, removing his aim from the stranger amoment, and directing it toward Davy.

  "Yes, the light, of course," Davy assented. "They say--I don't know whosays it in particular, but everybody says it in general--that on a nightlike this a light appears in the lower rooms, where it disappears and isseen in the front hall; then in the upper hall, and then in an upperroom, where it goes out finally, as if someone had been sittingdown-stairs, in the dark, and had struck a light to show him up to bed.There is no key to the room where the light disappears, and those whovisit the house are not permitted to enter it. I have never seen thelight myself, but I have been to the house on windy, noisy days, and itwas as silent on the inside as a tomb. The windows and shutters beingnoisy on quiet nights, I suppose they feel the need of a rest when thewind is blowing."

  The guest was paying a good deal of attention, and Davy went on talking.

  "The place has not been occupied in a great many years. The man whobuilt it, and occupied it, and who owns it now, made money in Davy'sBend, and went away to the city to live, where he has grown so rich thathe has never sent for the plunder locked up in the rooms; I suppose itis not good enough for him now, for I am told that he is very proud. Hehas been trying to sell the place ever since, but Davy began going downhill about that time, and the people have been kicking it so sturdilyever since that nobody will take it. And I don't blame them, for it isnothing more than a nest for ghosts, even if it is big, andrespectable-looking, and well furnished."

  The guest's mind is evidently in Davy's Bend now, for he has been payingclose attention to the clerk as he talks in a modest easy fashion, evenneglecting his first ambition to stare Mr. Whittle out of countenance.It may be that he is in need of an establishment, and is looking out forone; but certainly he takes considerable interest in the place SilasDavy referred to as The Locks.

  "Who has the renting of the house?" he interrupted the clerk to inquire.

  The clerk got up from his chair, and, walking over to that portion ofthe room where the counter was located, took from a nail a brass ringcontaining a number of keys of about the same size.

  "Here are the keys," Davy said, returning to his chair, and holding themup for inspection. "Number one admits you to the grounds through theiron gate; number two opens the front door; number three, any of therooms leading off from the hall down stairs; number four, any of therooms opening off from the hall up stairs; and number five and numbersix, any of the other rooms. _We_ are the agents, I believe, though amnot certain; but anyway we keep the keys. The place came
to be known asThe Locks because of the number of keys that were given to those whoapplied to see it, and The Locks it has been ever since."

  The stranger rose to his feet, and paced up and down the room awhile,thinking all the time so intently that it occurred to Tug that he waspuzzled to decide whether his family would consent to live in a placewhich had the reputation of being visited by a ghost carrying a light.

  "I would like to see this house," he said, stopping in his walk finally,and addressing Davy. "I may become a purchaser. Will you show me the wayto it, now?"

  Up to this time, since polishing the meat-bone, Tug had occupied himselfby aiming at the stranger, but as if the suggestion of a walk up to TheLocks was pleasing to him, he jumped to his feet, and walked towards thedoor. Silas Davy made no other reply than to put the ring containing thekeys on his arm, and, putting out the light, the three men stepped outinto the rain together.

  The Locks appear to be located towards the river; not down where therailway train stops to take people on who desire to get away from Davy'sBend, but higher up the street running at right angles in front of thehotel, for the men walk in that direction, Davy and Tug ahead carryingthe lantern, with their arms locked together, and the stranger behind,who thinks the two men are a queer pair, for they seem to enjoy beingout in the rain, and one of them, the smaller one, laughs frequently buttimidly, while the other snorts in a manner which the strangerrecognizes as signifying pleasure.

  Occasionally they stop to light the stranger's steps on reaching aparticularly bad place, and when he has passed it they go on again; uphill and down, toward the river, and when they stop at last, it is sodark that the stranger does not know that they have reached a stone wallwith an iron gate opening into an enclosure, until he comes entirely upto them.

  The lock turns heavily, and Tug condescends to hold the lantern whileSilas applies both hands to the key. Upon the inside a long stone walk,leading toward the house, then a flight of stone steps, and a porch isreached, where they are out of the rain.

  Silas selects a key from the collection he carries on his arm, and, oncemore calling upon Tug to hold the light, opens the door, and they allenter the wide hall.

  Considering that the house has not been occupied for eight years, it isin good condition. As they walk through the different rooms, Davyopening the doors from the bunch of keys on his arm, the strangernotices that they are decently furnished, everything being plain andsubstantial; and he hears for the first time, while standing in front ofthe door that is not to be opened, that an old lady and hergrand-daughter live on the grounds in a detached building, who, when shesees fit, airs and dusts the rooms, and that she has lived there foreight years, in the pay of the owner. This explains the good conditionof everything, and they continue their investigation by the dim light ofthe lantern.

  There are ten rooms in all, counting the two in the attic, all of themfurnished, from the kitchen to the parlor; and the stranger is so wellpleased that he inquires the rent asked, and the purchase price. SilasDavy is not certain as to either, but promises that his proprietor willgive full particulars in the morning.

  "I will take the house," the stranger finally says, after a lamp hasbeen found and lighted, and seating himself in a chair as an intimationthat he is ready for the two men to depart. "If I do not buy it I willrent it, and I will stay here to-night."

  Tug is willing to depart at once, but Silas lags behind, and seems to beill at ease.

  "Have you any objection to giving me your name, that I may record it atthe house?" he respectfully asks.

  "Oh, my name," the stranger returns. "Sure enough; I had forgottenthat."

  It seems to have escaped him, for while Silas stands waiting, he studiesfor a long time, contracting his brow until he looks so fierce andsavage that Tug, who has been aiming at him from the door, steps outinto the hall to get out of the way.

  "You may register me as Allan Dorris," he said at last, getting up fromhis chair, and looking confused, "from Nowhere-in-Particular. It is notimportant where I am from, so long as I am responsible; and I willconvince your proprietor of that in the morning. You will oblige me ifyou will step over to the quarters of the old lady you spoke of, andinform her that there is a new master at The Locks, and that he hastaken possession. When you return I will show you out."

  "I neglected to mention," Silas says, after making a note of what thestranger has said on an envelope, "that you can open and close the gatefrom this room, and lock and unlock it. There is also a speaking-tubeleading from this room, whereby you can converse with persons on theoutside. I will call you up when I go out. It is located here, behindthe door."

  The two men step over to examine it, and Tug creeps in to look too, andafter sighting at it awhile returns to the hall.

  The apparatus consists of an iron lever, with a show of chains runningover pulleys and disappearing through the floor, and a speaking-tube.Silas explains that when the lever is up the gate is open, and when itis down the gate is shut and locked. Both men try it, and conclude that,with a little oil; it will work very well, leaving it open so that themen may pass out.

  There being no further excuse for remaining, Silas and his ugly friendstart down the stairs, the stranger holding the light at the top; andafter they have passed out of the door and slammed it to work the springlock, and tried it to see that it is locked, Allan Dorris returns to theroom they have just left.

  The grate in the room is filled with wood, and there is kindling at thebottom, probably put there years before, judging by the dust; and thestranger lights this, intending to dry his wet clothing. While about itthere is a whistle from the speaking-tube, and going over to it andreplying, a sepulchral voice comes to him from somewhere to the effectthat Mrs. Wedge, the housekeeper, is delighted to hear that the house isto be occupied at last; that she will call upon the new master in themorning to pay her respects, as well as to make her arrangements for thefuture; and, good night.

  The stranger says good night in return, pulls the lever down, whichcloses and locks the gate, and returns to the fire, which is burningbrightly by this time.

  "Allan Dorris, from Nowhere-in-Particular," he mutters after he isseated, and while watching his steaming garments. There is an amusedlook on his face at first, as he repeats the name, but a frown soontakes its place, that grows blacker as he crouches down into his chair,and looks at the fire.

  At length he seems to tire of his thoughts, for he gets up and walks thefloor, pausing occasionally to look curiously at the pictures on thewalls, or at the carpet, or at the furniture. If he returns to hischair, the frown appears on his face again, and once more he walks toget rid of his thoughts.

  This is continued so long that the darkness finally gets tired oflooking in at the windows, and hurries away at the approach of day. Fromtime to time, as the light increases, he steps to the window and looksout; and when walking away, after a long look at Davy's Bend through themorning mist, he mutters:--

  "Allan Dorris, if you are from Nowhere-in-Particular, you are at homeagain."