But now,--now, as he sat all alone in
that big silent room, lit only with the reddish rays of a fast-setting
August sun, and stared into the gleaming eyes before him--he was obliged
to admit the extreme probability of spookdom. Never before had the
College seemed so quiet. Not a sound--not even the creaking of a board
or the far-away laugh of a student, common enough noises on most
nights--fell on his ears. The hush was omnipotent, depressing,
unnerving; he could only associate it with the supernatural. Though he
was too fascinated to remove his gaze from the thing before him, he
could feel the room fill with shadows, and feel them steal through the
half-open windows, and, uniting with those already in the corners, glide
noiselessly and surreptitiously towards him. He felt, too, that he was
under the surveillance of countless invisible visages, all scanning him
curiously, and delighted beyond measure at the sight of his terror. "The moments passed in a breathless state of tension. He stared at the
eyes, and the eyes stared back at him. Once he endeavoured to rise, but
a dead weight seemed to fall on his shoulders and hold him back; and
twice, when he tried to speak--to make some sound, no matter what, to
break the appalling silence--his throat closed as if under the pressure
of cruel, relentless fingers. "But the _Ultima Thule_ of his emotions had yet to come. There was a
slight stir behind the canvas, a thud, a hollow groan that echoed and
re-echoed throughout the room like the muffled clap of distant thunder,
and the eyes suddenly underwent a metamorphosis--they grew glazed and
glassy like the eyes of a dead person. A cold shudder ran through the
Dean, his hair stood on end, his blood turned to ice. Again he essayed
to move, to summon help; again he failed. The strain on his nerves
proved more than he could bear. A sudden sensation of nausea surged
through him; his eyes swam; his brain reeled; there was a loud buzzing
in his ears; he knew no more. Some moments later one of the College
servants arrived at the door with a bundle of letters, and on receiving
no reply to his raps, entered. "'Good heavens! What's the matter?' he cried, gazing at the figure of
the Dean, lolling head downward on the table. 'Merciful Prudence, the
gentleman is dead! No, he ain't--some of the young gents will be sorry
enough for that--he's fainted.' "The good fellow poured out some water in a tumbler, and was proceeding
to sprinkle the Dean's face with it, when, a noise attracting his
attention, he peered round at the picture. It was bulging from the wall;
it was falling! And, Good God, what was that that was falling with
it--that huge black object? A coffin? No, not a coffin, but a corpse! The servant ran to the door shrieking, and, in less than a minute,
passage and room were filled to overflowing with a scared crowd of
enquiring officials and undergraduates. "'What has happened? What's the matter with the Dean? Has he had a fit,
or what? And the picture? And--Anderson? Anderson lying on the floor! Hurt? No, not hurt, dead! Murdered!' "In an instant there was silence, and the white-faced throng closed in
on one another as if for protection. In front of them, beside the fallen
picture, lay the body of the most gay and popular student in the
College--Bob Anderson--Bob Anderson with a stream of blood running from
a deep incision in his back made with some sharp instrument, that had
been driven home with tremendous force. He had, without doubt, been
murdered. But by whom? Then one of the undergraduates, a bright, boyish,
fair-haired giant, named O'Farroll, immensely popular both on account of
his prowess in sport and an untold number of the most audacious
escapades, spoke out:

"'I saw Anderson, about an hour ago, crossing the quadrangle. I asked
him where he was going, and he replied, "To old Kelly. I intend paying
him out for 'gating' me last week." I enquired how, and he replied:
"I've a glorious plan. You know that portrait stuck over his
mantel-shelf? Well! In poking about the room the other day, when the old
man was out, I had a great find. Directly behind the picture is the door
of a secret room, so neatly covered by the designs on the wall that it
is not discernible. It was only by the merest fluke I discovered it. I
was taking down the picture with the idea of "touching up" the face,
when my knuckles bumped against the panels of the wall, touched a
spring, and the door flew open, revealing an apartment about six by
eight feet large. I at once explored it, and found it could be entered
by the chimney. An idea then struck me--I would play a trick upon the
Dean by hiding in this secret chamber one evening while he was feeding,
cutting out the eyes of the portrait, and peering through the cavities
at him. And this,' O'Farroll continued, pointing at the fallen picture,
'is what he evidently did after I left him. You can see the eyes of the
portrait have been removed.' "'That is so, shure,' one of the other undergraduates, Mick Maguire--six
feet two in his socks, every inch--exclaimed. 'And, what is more, I knew
all about it. Anderson told me yesterday what he was going to do, and I
wanted to join him, but he said I would never get up the chimney, I
would stick there. And, bedad, I think he was right.' "At this remark, despite the grimness of the moment, several of those
present laughed. "'Come, come, gentlemen!' one of the officials cried, 'this is no time
for levity. Mr. Anderson has been murdered, and the question is--by
whom?' "'Then, if that's the only thing that is troubling you,' O'Farroll put
in, 'I fancy the solution is right here at hand,' and he looked
significantly at the Dean. "An ominous silence followed, during which all eyes were fixed on John
Kelly, some anxiously, some merely enquiringly, but not a few angrily,
for Kelly, as I have said before, had made himself particularly
obnoxious just then by his behaviour to the rowdier students; and, as
has ever been the case at K., these formed no small portion of the
community. "The Dean hardly seemed to realize the situation. The dignity of office
blinded him to danger. "'What do you mean?' he spluttered. 'I know nothing of what happened to
Mr. Anderson! Really, really, O'Farroll, your presumption is
preposterous.' "'There was no one else in here but you and he, Mr. Kelly,' O'Farroll
retorted coolly. 'It's only natural we should think you know something
of what happened!' "On the arrival of the police who had been sent for somewhat
reluctantly--for the prestige of the College at that date was very dear
to all--the premises were thoroughly searched, and, no other culprit
being found, first of all Dean Kelly was apprehended, and then, to make
a good job of it, his accuser, Denis O'Farroll. "All the College was agog with excitement. No one could believe the Dean
was a murderer; and it was just as inconceivable to think O'Farroll had
committed the deed. And yet if neither of them had killed Anderson, who
in God's name had killed him?