“No danger of my being a miser of life,” he said.  “You’ve given me leave to spend freely what’s left of it.”  Well, he spent.  Freely and splendidly!

The spacious old library on the second floor—­you know it, Dominie, smelt of disuse, as we entered, Ned’s servant bringing up the rear with a handbag.  Dust had settled down like an army of occupation over everything.  The furniture was shrouded in denim.  The tall clock in the corner stood voiceless.  Three months of desertion will change any house into a tomb.  And the Worth mansion was never too cheerful, anyway.  Since the others of the family died, Ned hadn’t stayed there long enough at a time to humanize it.

Ned’s man set down the grip, unstrapped it, took his orders for some late purchases, and left to execute them.  I went over to open the two deep-set windows on the farther side of the room.  It was a still, close October night, and the late scent of warmed-over earth came up to me out of Ely Crouch’s garden next door.  From where I stood in the broad embrasure of the south window, I was concealed from the room.  But I could see everything through a tiny gap in the hangings.  Ned sat at his desk sorting some papers.  A sort of stern intentness had settled upon his face, without marring its curious faun-like beauty.  I carry the picture in my mind.

“What’s become of you, Chris?” he demanded presently.  I came out into the main part of the room.  “Oh, there you are!  You’ll look after a few little matters for me, won’t you?” He indicated a sheaf of papers.

“You needn’t be in such a hurry,” said I with illogical resentment.  “It isn’t going to be to-morrow or next week.”

“Isn’t it?” Something in his tone made me look at him sharply.  “Six months or three months or to-morrow,” he added, more lightly; “what does it matter as long as it’s sure!  You know, what I appreciate is that you gave me the truth straight.”

“It’s a luxury few of my patients get.  Their constitutions won’t stand it.”

“It’s a compliment to my nerve.  Strangely enough I don’t feel nervous about it.”

“I do.  Damnably!  About something, anyway.  There’s something wrong with this room, Ned.  What is it?”

“Don’t you know?” he laughed.  “It’s the sepulchral silence of Old Grandfather Clock, over there.  You’re looking right at him and wondering subconsciously why he doesn’t make a noise like Time.”

“That’s easily remedied.”  Consulting my watch I set and wound the ancient timepiece.  Its comfortable iteration made the place at once more livable.  Immediately it struck the hour.

“Ten o’clock,” I said, and parted the draperies at the lower window to look out again.  “Ten o’clock of a still, cloudy night and—­and the devil is on a prowl in his garden.”

“Meaning my highly respected neighbor and ornament to the local bar, the Honorable Ely Crouch?”

“Exactly.  Preceded by a familiar spirit in animal form.”