“The Manor House has a high sound,” he told me, as we sat with our
feet up and talked, “but I believe it is little more than an overgrown
farmhouse in the desolate heather country beyond D----, and its owner,
Colonel Wragge, a retired soldier with a taste for books, lives there
practically alone, I understand, with an elderly invalid sister. So you
need not look forward to a lively visit, unless the case provides some
excitement of its own.”

“Which is likely?”

By way of reply he handed me a letter marked “Private.” It was dated a
week ago, and signed “Yours faithfully, Horace Wragge.”

“He heard of me, you see, through Captain Anderson,” the doctor
explained modestly, as though his fame were not almost world-wide; “you
remember that Indian obsession case----”

I read the letter. Why it should have been marked private was difficult
to understand. It was very brief, direct, and to the point. It referred
by way of introduction to Captain Anderson, and then stated quite
simply that the writer needed help of a peculiar kind and asked for a
personal interview--a morning interview, since it was impossible for
him to be absent from the house at night. The letter was dignified
even to the point of abruptness, and it is difficult to explain how
it managed to convey to me the impression of a strong man, shaken
and perplexed. Perhaps the restraint of the wording, and the mystery
of the affair had something to do with it; and the reference to the
Anderson case, the horror of which lay still vivid in my memory, may
have touched the sense of something rather ominous and alarming. But,
whatever the cause, there was no doubt that an impression of serious
peril rose somehow out of that white paper with the few lines of firm
writing, and the spirit of a deep uneasiness ran between the words and
reached the mind without any visible form of expression. “And when you saw him----?” I asked, returning the letter as the train
rushed clattering noisily through Clapham Junction. “I have not seen him,” was the reply. “The man’s mind was charged to
the brim when he wrote that; full of vivid mental pictures. Notice
the restraint of it. For the main character of his case psychometry
could be depended upon, and the scrap of paper his hand has touched
is sufficient to give to another mind--a sensitive and sympathetic
mind--clear mental pictures of what is going on. I think I have a very
sound general idea of his problem.”

“So there may be excitement after all?”

John Silence waited a moment before he replied. “Something very serious is amiss there,” he said gravely, at length. “Some one--not himself, I gather,--has been meddling with a rather
dangerous kind of gunpowder. So--yes, there may be excitement, as you
put it.”

“And my duties?” I asked, with a decidedly growing interest. “Remember,
I am your ‘assistant.’”

“Behave like an intelligent confidential secretary. Observe everything,
without seeming to. Say nothing--nothing that means anything. Be
present at all interviews. I may ask a good deal of you, for if my
impressions are correct this is----”

He broke off suddenly. “But I won’t tell you my impressions yet,” he resumed after a moment’s
thought. “Just watch and listen as the case proceeds. Form your
own impressions and cultivate your intuitions. We come as ordinary
visitors, of course,” he added, a twinkle showing for an instant in his
eye; “hence, the guns.”

Though disappointed not to hear more, I recognised the wisdom of
his words and knew how valueless my impressions would be once the
powerful suggestion of having heard his own lay behind them. I likewise
reflected that intuition joined to a sense of humour was of more use to
a man than double the quantity of mere “brains,” as such. Before putting the letter away, however, he handed it back, telling me
to place it against my forehead for a few moments and then describe any
pictures that came spontaneously into my mind. “Don’t deliberately look for anything. Just imagine you see the inside
of the eyelid, and wait for pictures that rise against its dark screen.”

I followed his instructions, making my mind as nearly a blank as
possible. But no visions came. I saw nothing but the lines of light
that pass to and fro like the changes of a kaleidoscope across the
blackness. A momentary sensation of warmth came and went curiously. “You see--what?” he asked presently. “Nothing,” I was obliged to admit disappointedly; “nothing but the
usual flashes of light one always sees. Only, perhaps, they are more
vivid than usual.”

He said nothing by way of comment or reply. “And they group themselves now and then,” I continued, with painful
candour, for I longed to see the pictures he had spoken of, “group
themselves into globes and round balls of fire, and the lines that
flash about sometimes look like triangles and crosses--almost like
geometrical figures. Nothing more.”

I opened my eyes again, and gave him back the letter. “It makes my head hot,” I said, feeling somehow unworthy for not seeing
anything of interest. But the look in his eyes arrested my attention at
once. “That sensation of heat is important,” he said significantly. “It was certainly real, and rather uncomfortable,” I replied, hoping
he would expand and explain. “There was a distinct feeling of
warmth--internal warmth somewhere--oppressive in a sense.”

“That is interesting,” he remarked, putting the letter back in his
pocket, and settling himself in the corner with newspapers and books. He vouchsafed nothing more, and I knew the uselessness of trying to
make him talk. Following his example I settled likewise with magazines
into my corner. But when I closed my eyes again to look for the
flashing lights and the sensation of heat, I found nothing but the
usual phantasmagoria of the day’s events--faces, scenes, memories,--and
in due course I fell asleep and then saw nothing at all of any kind. When we left the train, after six hours’ travelling, at a little
wayside station standing without trees in a world of sand and heather,
the late October shadows had already dropped their sombre veil upon the
landscape, and the sun dipped almost out of sight behind the moorland
hills. In a high dogcart, behind a fast horse, we were soon rattling
across the undulating stretches of an open and bleak country, the keen
air stinging our cheeks and the scents of pine and bracken strong
about us. Bare hills were faintly visible against the horizon, and the
coachman pointed to a bank of distant shadows on our left where he told
us the sea lay. Occasional stone farmhouses, standing back from the
road among straggling fir trees, and large black barns that seemed to
shift past us with a movement of their own in the gloom, were the only
signs of humanity and civilisation that we saw, until at the end of a
bracing five miles the lights of the lodge gates flared before us and
we plunged into a thick grove of pine trees that concealed the Manor
House up to the moment of actual arrival.