“Ah, there it is; it was a tack.”

The lady contemplated him doubtfully a moment, then said, pretty snappishly: 

“All that for a tack!  Praise goodness it wasn’t a shingle nail, it would have landed you in the Milky Way.  I do hate to have my nerves shook up so.”  And she turned on her heel and went her way.

As soon as she was safely out, the Colonel said, in a suppressed voice: 

“Come—­we must see for ourselves.  It must be a mistake.”

They hurried softly down and peeped in.  Sellers whispered, in a sort of despair—­

It is eating!  What a grisly spectacle!  Hawkins it’s horrible!  Take me away—­I can’t stand—­

They tottered back to the laboratory.

CHAPTER XX.

Tracy made slow progress with his work, for his mind wandered a good deal.  Many things were puzzling him.  Finally a light burst upon him all of a sudden—­seemed to, at any rate—­and he said to himself, “I’ve got the clew at last—­this man’s mind is off its balance; I don’t know how much, but it’s off a point or two, sure; off enough to explain this mess of perplexities, anyway.  These dreadful chromos which he takes for old masters; these villainous portraits—­which to his frantic mind represent Rossmores; the hatchments; the pompous name of this ramshackle old crib—­ Rossmore Towers; and that odd assertion of his, that I was expected.  How could I be expected? that is, Lord Berkeley.  He knows by the papers that that person was burned up in the New Gadsby.  Why, hang it, he really doesn’t know who he was expecting; for his talk showed that he was not expecting an Englishman, or yet an artist, yet I answer his requirements notwithstanding.  He seems sufficiently satisfied with me.  Yes, he is a little off; in fact I am afraid he is a good deal off, poor old gentleman.  But he’s interesting—­all people in about his condition are, I suppose.  I hope he’ll like my work; I would like to come every day and study him.  And when I write my father—­ah, that hurts!  I mustn’t get on that subject; it isn’t good for my spirits.  Somebody coming—­I must get to work.  It’s the old gentleman again.  He looks bothered.  Maybe my clothes are suspicious; and they are—­for an artist.  If my conscience would allow me to make a change, but that is out of the question.  I wonder what he’s making those passes in the air for, with his hands.  I seem to be the object of them.  Can he be trying to mesmerize me?  I don’t quite like it.  There’s something uncanny about it.”

The colonel muttered to himself, “It has an effect on him, I can see it myself.  That’s enough for one time, I reckon.  He’s not very solid, yet, I suppose, and I might disintegrate him.  I’ll just put a sly question or two at him, now, and see if I can find out what his condition is, and where he’s from.”

He approached and said affably: