“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.
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:
