It like the hall was
oak-panelled, and in the panels hung some half-dozen of water-colour
sketches, which we examined, idly at first, and then with growing
interest, for they were executed with extraordinary finish and delicacy,
and each represented some aspect of the house or garden. Here you looked
up the gap in the fir-trees into a crimson sunset; here the garden, trim
and carefully tended, dozed beneath some languid summer noon; here an
angry wreath of storm-cloud brooded over the meadow where the
trout-stream ran grey and leaden below a threatening sky, while another,
the most careful and arresting of all, was a study of the brick-kiln. In
this, alone of them all, was there a human figure; a man, dressed in
grey, peered into the open door from which issued a fierce red glow. The
figure was painted with miniature-like elaboration; the face was in
profile, and represented a youngish man, clean-shaven with a long
aquiline nose and singularly square chin. The sketch was long and narrow
in shape, and the chimney of the kiln appeared against a dark sky. From
it there issued a thin streamer of grey smoke. Jack looked at this with attention. “What a horrible picture,” he said, “and how beautifully painted. I feel
as if it meant something, as if it was a representation of something
that happened, not a mere sketch. By Jove!----”

He broke off suddenly, and went in turn to each of the other pictures. “That’s a queer thing,” he said. “See if you notice what I mean.”

With the brick-kiln rather vividly impressed on my mind, it was not
difficult to see what he had noticed. In each of the pictures appeared
the brick-kiln, chimney and all, now seen faintly between trees, now in
full view, and in each the chimney was smoking. “And the odd part is that from the garden side, you can’t really see the
kiln at all,” observed Jack, “it’s hidden by the house, and yet the
artist F. A., as I see by his signature, puts it in just the same.”

“What do you make of that?” I asked. “Nothing. I suppose he had a fancy for brick-kilns. Let’s have a game of
picquet.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A fortnight of our three weeks passed without incident, except that
again and again the curious feeling of something dreadful being close at
hand was present in my mind. In a way, as I said, I got used to it, but
on the other hand the feeling itself seemed to gain in poignancy. Once
just at the end of the fortnight I mentioned it to Jack. “Odd you should speak of it,” he said, “because I’ve felt the same. When
do you feel it? Do you feel it now for instance?”

We were again sitting out after dinner, and as he spoke I felt it with
far greater intensity than ever before. And at the same moment the
house-door which had been closed, though probably not latched, swung
gently open, letting out a shaft of light from the hall, and as gently
swung to again, as if something had stealthily entered. “Yes,” I said. “I felt it then. I only feel it in the evening. It was
rather bad that time.”

Jack was silent a moment. “Funny thing the door opening and shutting like that,” he said. “Let’s
go indoors.”

We got up and I remember seeing at that moment that the windows of my
bedroom were lit; Mrs Franklyn probably was making things ready for the
night. Simultaneously, as we crossed the gravel, there came from just
inside the house the sound of a hurried footstep on the stairs, and
entering we found Mrs Franklyn in the hall, looking rather white and
startled. “Anything wrong?” I asked. She took two or three quick breaths before she answered:

“No, sir,” she said, “at least nothing that I can give an account of. I
was tidying up in your room, and I thought you came in. But there was
nobody, and it gave me a turn. I left my candle there; I must go up for
it.”

I waited in the hall a moment, while she again ascended the stairs, and
passed along the gallery to my room. At the door, which I could see was
open, she paused, not entering. “What is the matter?” I asked from below. “I left the candle alight,” she said, “and it’s gone out.”

Jack laughed. “And you left the door and window open,” said he. “Yes, sir, but not a breath of wind is stirring,” said Mrs Franklyn,
rather faintly. This was true, and yet a few moments ago the heavy hall-door had swung
open and back again. Jack ran upstairs. “We’ll brave the dark together, Mrs Franklyn,” he said. He went into my room, and I heard the sound of a match struck. Then
through the open door came the light of the rekindled candle and
simultaneously I heard a bell ring in the servant’s quarters. In a
moment came steps, and Franklyn appeared. “What bell was that?” I asked. “Mr Jack’s bedroom, sir,” he said. I felt there was a marked atmosphere of nerves about for which there was
really no adequate cause. All that had happened of a disturbing nature
was that Mrs Franklyn had thought I had come into my bedroom, and had
been startled by finding I had not. She had then left the candle in a
draught, and it had been blown out. As for a bell ringing, that, even if
it had happened, was a very innocuous proceeding. “Mouse on a wire,” I said. “Mr Jack is in my room this moment lighting
Mrs Franklyn’s candle for her.”

Jack came down at this juncture, and we went into the sitting-room. But
Franklyn apparently was not satisfied, for we heard him in the room
above us, which was Jack’s bedroom, moving about with his slow and
rather ponderous tread. Then his steps seemed to pass into the bedroom
adjoining, and we heard no more. I remember feeling hugely sleepy that night, and went to bed earlier
than usual, to pass rather a broken night with stretches of dreamless
sleep interspersed with startled awakenings, in which I passed very
suddenly into complete consciousness. Sometimes the house was absolutely
still, and the only sound to be heard was the sighing of the night
breeze outside in the pines, but sometimes the place seemed full of
muffled movements, and once I could have sworn that the handle of my
door turned. That required verification, and I lit my candle, but found
that my ears must have played me false. Yet even as I stood there, I
thought I heard steps just outside, and with a considerable qualm, I
must confess, I opened the door and looked out. But the gallery was
quite empty, and the house quite still. Then from Jack’s room opposite I
heard a sound that was somehow comforting, the snorts of the snorer, and
I went back to bed and slept again, and when next I woke, morning was
already breaking in red lines on the horizon, and the sense of trouble
that had been with me ever since last evening had gone. Heavy rain set in after lunch next day, and as I had arrears of
letter-writing to do, and the water was soon both muddy and rising, I
came home alone about five, leaving Jack still sanguine by the stream,
and worked for a couple of hours sitting at a writing-table in the room
overlooking the gravel at the front of the house, where hung the
water-colours.