It is not worth your while
to try to account for anything. I have been inclined to think that you
were right--that she, the woman at the window, was a fancy, that I had
fallen in love with a creation of my own brain; but I saw her again
to-night. You must have seen her yourself--she was within a couple of
feet of you. Why did you not try and save her? It was nothing short of
murder to let her go over like that. I did my best.”

“You certainly did--to kill us both,” said Ned, grimly. Gilbert gave him a wild look. After luncheon Ned persuaded him to rest--watched him fall asleep, and
then went out. In the porch of the hotel he was met by a waiter on his return who told
him that Gilbert had left about a quarter of an hour after he had
himself gone out. Directly he heard this he feared the worst; having, as is usual in such
cases, a very hazy idea of what the worst might be. Of course he must
follow without a moment’s delay; but a reference to the time-table told
him that there was not another train for an hour, and that was slow. It was already getting dusk when he arrived there. He felt certain that
Gilbert would go there. He got to the end of the lane and walked up it
slowly, examining every house. There would be no difficulty in
recognizing the one he wanted; Gilbert had described it in detail more
than once. He stood outside the loosely hanging gate at last, and stared through
the darkness at the shabby stucco front and rank garden. He went down a flight of steps to the back door, and finding it
unfastened, stepped into a stone passage. It was one of the problems of
the place that he should have avoided the main entrance door with a
half-admitted dread, and that, only half admitting still, he was afraid
to mount the long flight of stone stairs leading from the servants’
quarters. However, he pulled himself together and went up to the room. It was quite dark inside. He heard something scuttle across the floor;
he felt the grit and dust of years under his feet. He struck a
match--just as Gilbert had done--and looked first at the recess in which
the window was built. The match flared round the room for a moment and
gave him a flash picture of his surroundings. He saw the stripes of
gaudy paper moving almost imperceptibly, like tentacles of some sea
monster, from the wall; he saw a creature--it looked like a rat--scurry
across the floor from the window to the great mantelpiece of hard white
marble. If he had seen nothing more than this. He saw in detail all that the first match had flashed at him. He saw his
brother lying on the floor; a ghastly coincidence, his hand was caught
round the edge of the work-table as hers had been. The other hand was
clenched across his breast; there was a look of great agony on his face. A dead face, of course. This was the end of the affair. He was lying
dead by the window where the woman had sat every night at dusk and
smiled at him. The second match went out; the brother of the dead man struck a third. He looked again and closely. Then he staggered to his feet and gave a
cry. It rang through the empty rooms and echoed without wearying down
the long, stone passages in the basement. Gilbert’s head was thrown back; his chin peaked to the ceiling. On his
throat were livid marks. The doctor saw them distinctly; he saw the grip
of small fingers; the distinct impression of a woman’s little hand. *       *       *       *       *

The curious thing about the whole story--the most curious thing,
perhaps--is that no other eye ever saw those murderous marks. So there
was no scandal, no chase after the murderer, no undiscovered crime. They
faded; when the doctor saw his brother again in the full light and in
the presence of others his throat was clear. And the post mortem proved
that death was due to natural causes. So the matter stands, and will. But where the house and its overgrown garden stood runs a new road with
neat red and white villas. Whatever secret it knew--if any--it kept discreetly. Ned Dent is morbid enough to go down the smart new road in the twilight
sometimes and wonder. THE PHANTOM HAG. The other evening in an old castle the conversation turned upon
apparitions, each one of the party telling a story. As the accounts grew
more horrible the young ladies drew closer together. “Have you ever had an adventure with a ghost?” said they to me. “Do you
not know a story to make us shiver? Come, tell us something.”

“I am quite willing to do so,” I replied. “I will tell you of an
incident that happened to myself.”

Toward the close of the autumn of 1858 I visited one of my friends,
sub-prefect of a little city in the center of France. Albert was an old
companion of my youth, and I had been present at his wedding. His
charming wife was full of goodness and grace. My friend wished to show
me his happy home, and to introduce me to his two pretty little
daughters. I was feted and taken great care of. Three days after my
arrival I knew the entire city, curiosities, old castles, ruins, etc. Every day about four o’clock Albert would order the phaeton, and we
would take a long ride, returning home in the evening. One evening my
friend said to me:

“To-morrow we will go further than usual. I want to take you to the
Black Rocks. They are curious old Druidical stones, on a wild and
desolate plain. They will interest you. My wife has not seen them yet,
so we will take her.”

The following day we drove out at the usual hour. Albert’s wife sat by
his side. I occupied the back seat alone. The weather was gray and
somber that afternoon, and the journey was not very pleasant. When we
arrived at the Black Rocks the sun was setting. We got out of the
phaeton, and Albert took care of the horses. We walked some little distance through the fields before reaching the
giant remains of the old Druid religion. Albert’s wife wished to climb
to the summit of the altar, and I assisted her. I can still see her
graceful figure as she stood draped in a red shawl, her veil floating
around her. “How beautiful it is! But does it not make you feel a little
melancholy?” said she, extending her hand toward the dark horizon, which
was lighted a little by the last rays of the sun. The afternoon wind blew violently, and sighed through the stunted trees
that grew around the stone cromlechs; not a dwelling nor a human being
was in sight. We hastened to get down, and silently retraced our steps
to the carriage. “We must hurry,” said Albert; “the sky is threatening, and we shall have
scarcely time to reach home before night.”

We carefully wrapped the robes around his wife. She tied the veil around
her face, and the horses started into a rapid trot. It was growing dark;
the scenery around us was bare and desolate; clumps of fir trees here
and there and furze bushes formed the only vegetation. We began to feel
the cold, for the wind blew with fury; the only sound we heard was the
steady trot of the horses and the sharp clear tinkle of their bells.