So then Number 13 was a man, not a woman. Just then he caught sight of
the number on the door. It was 14. He thought he must have passed
Number 13 without noticing it. Three stupid mistakes in twelve hours
were too much for a methodical, accurate-minded man, so he turned back
to make sure. The next number to 14 was number 12, his own room. There
was no Number 13 at all. After some minutes devoted to a careful consideration of everything he
had had to eat and drink during the last twenty-four hours, Anderson
decided to give the question up. If his eyes or his brain were giving
way he would have plenty of opportunities for ascertaining that fact;
if not, then he was evidently being treated to a very interesting
experience. In either case the development of events would certainly be
worth watching. During the day he continued his examination of the episcopal
correspondence which I have already summarized. To his disappointment,
it was incomplete. Only one other letter could be found which referred
to the affair of Mag Nicolas Francken. It was from the Bishop Jörgen
Friis to Rasmus Nielsen. He said:

“Although we are not in the least degree inclined to assent to your
judgement concerning our court, and shall be prepared if need be to
withstand you to the uttermost in that behalf, yet forasmuch as our
trusty and well-beloved Mag Nicolas Francken, against whom you have
dared to allege certain false and malicious charges, hath been suddenly
removed from among us, it is apparent that the question for this time
falls. But forasmuch as you further allege that the Apostle and
Evangelist St John in his heavenly Apocalypse describes the Holy Roman
Church under the guise and symbol of the Scarlet Woman, be it known to
you,” etc. Search as he might, Anderson could find no sequel to this letter nor
any clue to the cause or manner of the “removal” of the _casus belli_. He could only suppose that Francken had died suddenly; and as there
were only two days between the date of Nielsen’s last letter—when
Francken was evidently still in being—and that of the Bishop’s letter,
the death must have been completely unexpected. In the afternoon he paid a short visit to Hald, and took his tea at
Baekkelund; nor could he notice, though he was in a somewhat nervous
frame of mind, that there was any indication of such a failure of eye
or brain as his experiences of the morning had led him to fear. At supper he found himself next to the landlord. “What,” he asked him, after some indifferent conversation, “is the
reason why in most of the hotels one visits in this country the number
thirteen is left out of the list of rooms? I see you have none here.”

The landlord seemed amused. “To think that you should have noticed a thing like that! I’ve thought
about it once or twice myself, to tell the truth. An educated man, I’ve
said, has no business with these superstitious notions. I was brought
up myself here in the high school of Viborg, and our old master was
always a man to set his face against anything of that kind. He’s been
dead now this many years—a fine upstanding man he was, and ready with
his hands as well as his head. I recollect us boys, one snowy day—”

Here he plunged into reminiscence. “Then you don’t think there is any particular objection to having a
Number 13?” said Anderson. “Ah! to be sure. Well, you understand, I was brought up to the business
by my poor old father. He kept an hotel in Aarhuus first, and then,
when we were born, he moved to Viborg here, which was his native place,
and had the Phœnix here until he died. That was in 1876. Then I started
business in Silkeborg, and only the year before last I moved into this
house.”

Then followed more details as to the state of the house and business
when first taken over. “And when you came here, was there a Number 13?”

“No, no. I was going to tell you about that. You see, in a place like
this, the commercial class—the travellers—are what we have to provide
for in general. And put them in Number 13? Why, they’d as soon sleep in
the street, or sooner. As far as I’m concerned myself, it wouldn’t make
a penny difference to me what the number of my room was, and so I’ve
often said to them; but they stick to it that it brings them bad luck. Quantities of stories they have among them of men that have slept in a
Number 13 and never been the same again, or lost their best customers,
or—one thing and another,” said the landlord, after searching for a
more graphic phrase. “Then, what do you use your Number 13 for?” said Anderson, conscious as
he said the words of a curious anxiety quite disproportionate to the
importance of the question. “My Number 13? Why, don’t I tell you that there isn’t such a thing in
the house? I thought you might have noticed that. If there was it would
be next door to your own room.”

“Well, yes; only I happened to think—that is, I fancied last night that
I had seen a door numbered thirteen in that passage; and, really, I am
almost certain I must have been right, for I saw it the night before as
well.”

Of course, Herr Kristensen laughed this notion to scorn, as Anderson
had expected, and emphasized with much iteration the fact that no
Number 13 existed or had existed before him in that hotel. Anderson was in some ways relieved by his certainty, but still puzzled,
and he began to think that the best way to make sure whether he had
indeed been subject to an illusion or not was to invite the landlord to
his room to smoke a cigar later on in the evening. Some photographs of
English towns which he had with him formed a sufficiently good excuse. Herr Kristensen was flattered by the invitation, and most willingly
accepted it. At about ten o’clock he was to make his appearance, but
before that Anderson had some letters to write, and retired for the
purpose of writing them. He almost blushed to himself at confessing it,
but he could not deny that it was the fact that he was becoming quite
nervous about the question of the existence of Number 13; so much so
that he approached his room by way of Number 11, in order that he might
not be obliged to pass the door, or the place where the door ought to
be. He looked quickly and suspiciously about the room when he entered
it, but there was nothing, beyond that indefinable air of being smaller
than usual, to warrant any misgivings. There was no question of the
presence or absence of his portmanteau tonight. He had himself emptied
it of its contents and lodged it under his bed. With a certain effort
he dismissed the thought of Number 13 from his mind, and sat down to
his writing. His neighbours were quiet enough. Occasionally a door opened in the
passage and a pair of boots was thrown out, or a bagman walked past
humming to himself, and outside, from time to time, a cart thundered
over the atrocious cobble-stones, or a quick step hurried along the
flags.