She was dressed in grey, and the
gaslight fell on a mass of deliberately brushed light hair. Stuffed,
dusty birds, and a shabby array of African spears, hung on the wall
behind her. A hat-rack, with a bronze plate full of very large cards,
led his eye swiftly to a dark staircase beyond. Mrs. Pender had round
eyes like a child’s, and she greeted him with an effusiveness that
barely concealed her emotion, yet strove to appear naturally cordial. Evidently she had been looking out for his arrival, and had outrun the
servant girl. She was a little breathless. “I hope you’ve not been kept waiting--I think it’s _most_ good of you
to come----” she began, and then stopped sharp when she saw his face in
the gaslight. There was something in Dr. Silence’s look that did not
encourage mere talk. He was in earnest now, if ever man was. “Good evening, Mrs. Pender,” he said, with a quiet smile that won
confidence, yet deprecated unnecessary words, “the fog delayed me a
little. I am glad to see you.”

They went into a dingy sitting-room at the back of the house, neatly
furnished but depressing. Books stood in a row upon the mantelpiece. The fire had evidently just been lit. It smoked in great puffs into the
room. “Mrs. Sivendson said she thought you might be able to come,” ventured
the little woman again, looking up engagingly into his face and
betraying anxiety and eagerness in every gesture. “But I hardly dared
to believe it. I think it is really too good of you. My husband’s case
is so peculiar that--well, you know, I am quite sure any _ordinary_
doctor would say at once the asylum----”

“Isn’t he in, then?” asked Dr. Silence gently. “In the asylum?” she gasped. “Oh dear, no--not yet!”

“In the house, I meant,” he laughed. She gave a great sigh. “He’ll be back any minute now,” she replied, obviously relieved to see
him laugh; “but the fact is, we didn’t expect you so early--I mean, my
husband hardly thought you would come at all.”

“I am always delighted to come--when I am really wanted, and can be of
help,” he said quickly; “and, perhaps, it’s all for the best that your
husband is out, for now that we are alone you can tell me something
about his difficulties. So far, you know, I have heard very little.”

Her voice trembled as she thanked him, and when he came and took a
chair close beside her she actually had difficulty in finding words
with which to begin. “In the first place,” she began timidly, and then continuing with a
nervous incoherent rush of words, “he will be simply delighted that
you’ve really come, because he said you were the only person he would
consent to see at all--the only doctor, I mean. But, of course, he
doesn’t know how frightened I am, or how much I have noticed. He
pretends with me that it’s just a nervous breakdown, and I’m sure he
doesn’t realise all the odd things I’ve noticed him doing. But the main
thing, I suppose----”

“Yes, the main thing, Mrs. Pender,” he said encouragingly, noticing her
hesitation. “----is that he thinks we are not alone in the house. That’s the chief
thing.”

“Tell me more facts--just facts.”

“It began last summer when I came back from Ireland; he had been here
alone for six weeks, and I thought him looking tired and queer--ragged
and scattered about the face, if you know what I mean, and his manner
worn out. He said he had been writing hard, but his inspiration had
somehow failed him, and he was dissatisfied with his work. His sense of
humour was leaving him, or changing into something else, he said. There
was something in the house, he declared, that”--she emphasised the
words--“prevented his feeling funny.”

“Something in the house that prevented his feeling funny,” repeated the
doctor. “Ah, now we’re getting to the heart of it!”

“Yes,” she resumed vaguely; “that’s what he kept saying.”

“And what was it he _did_ that you thought strange?” he asked
sympathetically. “Be brief, or he may be here before you finish.”

“Very small things, but significant it seemed to me. He changed his
workroom from the library, as we call it, to the sitting-room. He
said all his characters became wrong and terrible in the library;
they altered, so that he felt like writing tragedies--vile, debased
tragedies, the tragedies of broken souls. But now he says the same of
the smoking-room, and he’s gone back to the library.”

“Ah!”

“You see, there’s so little I can tell you,” she went on, with
increasing speed and countless gestures. “I mean it’s only very small
things he does and says that are queer. What frightens me is that he
assumes there is some one else in the house all the time--some one I
never see. He does not actually say so, but on the stairs I’ve seen him
standing aside to let some one pass; I’ve seen him open a door to let
some one in or out; and often in our bedroom he puts chairs about as
though for some one else to sit in. Oh--oh yes, and once or twice,” she
cried--“once or twice----”

She paused, and looked about her with a startled air. “Yes?”

“Once or twice,” she resumed hurriedly, as though she heard a sound
that alarmed her, “I’ve heard him running--coming in and out of the
rooms breathless as if something were after him----”

The door opened while she was still speaking, cutting her words off in
the middle, and a man came into the room. He was dark and clean-shaven
sallow rather, with the eyes of imagination, and dark hair growing
scantily about the temples. He was dressed in a shabby tweed suit, and
wore an untidy flannel collar at the neck. The dominant expression of
his face was startled--hunted; an expression that might any moment
leap into the dreadful stare of terror and announce a total loss of
self-control. The moment he saw his visitor a smile spread over his worn features,
and he advanced to shake hands. “I hoped you would come; Mrs. Sivendson said you might be able to find
time,” he said simply. His voice was thin and reedy. “I am very glad to
see you, Dr. Silence. It is ‘Doctor,’ is it not?”

“Well, I am entitled to the description,” laughed the other, “but I
rarely get it. You know, I do not practise as a regular thing; that is,
I only take cases that specially interest me, or----”

He did not finish the sentence, for the men exchanged a glance of
sympathy that rendered it unnecessary. “I have heard of your great kindness.”

“It’s my hobby,” said the other quickly, “and my privilege.”

“I trust you will still think so when you have heard what I have to
tell you,” continued the author, a little wearily. He led the way
across the hall into the little smoking-room where they could talk
freely and undisturbed. In the smoking-room, the door shut and privacy about them, Pender’s
attitude changed somewhat, and his manner became very grave. The doctor
sat opposite, where he could watch his face. Already, he saw, it
looked more haggard. Evidently it cost him much to refer to his trouble
at all. “What I have is, in my belief, a profound spiritual affliction,” he
began quite bluntly, looking straight into the other’s eyes.