Anderson finished his letters, ordered in whisky and soda, and then
went to the window and studied the dead wall opposite and the shadows
upon it. As far as he could remember, Number 14 had been occupied by the lawyer,
a staid man, who said little at meals, being generally engaged in
studying a small bundle of papers beside his plate. Apparently,
however, he was in the habit of giving vent to his animal spirits when
alone. Why else should he be dancing? The shadow from the next room
evidently showed that he was. Again and again his thin form crossed the
window, his arms waved, and a gaunt leg was kicked up with surprising
agility. He seemed to be barefooted, and the floor must be well laid,
for no sound betrayed his movements. Sagförer Herr Anders Jensen,
dancing at ten o’clock at night in a hotel bedroom, seemed a fitting
subject for a historical painting in the grand style; and Anderson’s
thoughts, like those of Emily in the “Mysteries of Udolpho”, began to
“arrange themselves in the following lines”:

“When I return to my hotel,
    At ten o’clock p.m.,
The waiters think I am unwell;
    I do not care for them. But when I’ve locked my chamber door,
    And put my boots outside,
I dance all night upon the floor. And even if my neighbours swore,
I’d go on dancing all the more,
For I’m acquainted with the law,
And in despite of all their jaw,
Their protests I deride.”

Had not the landlord at this moment knocked at the door, it is probable
that quite a long poem might have been laid before the reader. To judge
from his look of surprise when he found himself in the room, Herr
Kristensen was struck, as Anderson had been, by something unusual in
its aspect. But he made no remark. Anderson’s photographs interested
him mightily, and formed the text of many autobiographical discourses. Nor is it quite clear how the conversation could have been diverted
into the desired channel of Number 13, had not the lawyer at this
moment begun to sing, and to sing in a manner which could leave no
doubt in anyone’s mind that he was either exceedingly drunk or raving
mad. It was a high, thin voice that they heard, and it seemed dry, as
if from long disuse. Of words or tune there was no question. It went
sailing up to a surprising height, and was carried down with a
despairing moan as of a winter wind in a hollow chimney, or an organ
whose wind fails suddenly. It was a really horrible sound, and Anderson
felt that if he had been alone he must have fled for refuge and society
to some neighbour bagman’s room. The landlord sat open-mouthed. “I don’t understand it,” he said at last, wiping his forehead. “It is
dreadful. I have heard it once before, but I made sure it was a cat.”

“Is he mad?” said Anderson. “He must be; and what a sad thing! Such a good customer, too, and so
successful in his business, by what I hear, and a young family to bring
up.”

Just then came an impatient knock at the door, and the knocker entered,
without waiting to be asked. It was the lawyer, in _déshabille_ and
very rough-haired; and very angry he looked. “I beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but I should be much obliged if you
would kindly desist—”

Here he stopped, for it was evident that neither of the persons before
him was responsible for the disturbance; and after a moment’s lull it
swelled forth again more wildly than before. “But what in the name of Heaven does it mean?” broke out the lawyer. “Where is it? Who is it? Am I going out of my mind?”

“Surely, Herr Jensen, it comes from your room next door? Isn’t there a
cat or something stuck in the chimney?”

This was the best that occurred to Anderson to say, and he realized its
futility as he spoke; but anything was better than to stand and listen
to that horrible voice, and look at the broad, white face of the
landlord, all perspiring and quivering as he clutched the arms of his
chair. “Impossible,” said the lawyer, “impossible. There is no chimney. I came
here because I was convinced the noise was going on here. It was
certainly in the next room to mine.”

“Was there no door between yours and mine?” said Anderson eagerly. “No, sir,” said Herr Jensen, rather sharply. “At least, not this
morning.”

“Ah!” said Anderson. “Nor tonight?”

“I am not sure,” said the lawyer with some hesitation. Suddenly the crying or singing voice in the next room died away, and
the singer was heard seemingly to laugh to himself in a crooning
manner. The three men actually shivered at the sound. Then there was a
silence. “Come,” said the lawyer, “what have you to say, Herr Kristensen? What
does this mean?”

“Good Heaven!” said Kristensen. “How should I tell! I know no more than
you, gentlemen. I pray I may never hear such a noise again.”

“So do I,” said Herr Jensen, and he added something under his breath. Anderson thought it sounded like the last words of the Psalter, “_omnis
spiritus laudet Dominum_,” but he could not be sure. “But we must do something,” said Anderson—“the three of us. Shall we go
and investigate in the next room?”

“But that is Herr Jensen’s room,” wailed the landlord. “It is no use;
he has come from there himself.”

“I am not so sure,” said Jensen. “I think this gentleman is right: we
must go and see.”

The only weapons of defence that could be mustered on the spot were a
stick and umbrella. The expedition went out into the passage, not
without quakings. There was a deadly quiet outside, but a light shone
from under the next door. Anderson and Jensen approached it. The latter
turned the handle, and gave a sudden vigorous push. No use. The door
stood fast. “Herr Kristensen,” said Jensen, “will you go and fetch the strongest
servant you have in the place? We must see this through.”

The landlord nodded, and hurried off, glad to be away from the scene of
action. Jensen and Anderson remained outside looking at the door. “It _is_ Number 13, you see,” said the latter. “Yes; there is your door, and there is mine,” said Jensen. “My room has three windows in the daytime,” said Anderson, with
difficulty suppressing a nervous laugh. “By George, so has mine!” said the lawyer, turning and looking at
Anderson. His back was now to the door. In that moment the door opened,
and an arm came out and clawed at his shoulder. It was clad in ragged,
yellowish linen, and the bare skin, where it could be seen, had long
grey hair upon it. Anderson was just in time to pull Jensen out of its reach with a cry of
disgust and fright, when the door shut again, and a low laugh was
heard. Jensen had seen nothing, but when Anderson hurriedly told him what a
risk he had run, he fell into a great state of agitation, and suggested
that they should retire from the enterprise and lock themselves up in
one or other of their rooms. However, while he was developing this plan, the landlord and two
able-bodied men arrived on the scene, all looking rather serious and
alarmed. Jensen met them with a torrent of description and explanation,
which did not at all tend to encourage them for the fray.