The landlady went to bed at ten o’clock punctually, after which hour nothing would induce her to pretend she heard the bell, so Marriott jumped up from his books with an exclamation that augured ill for the reception of his caller, and prepared to let him in with his own hand.

The streets of Edinburgh town were very still at this late hour—­it was late for Edinburgh—­and in the quiet neighbourhood of F——­ Street, where Marriott lived on the third floor, scarcely a sound broke the silence.  As he crossed the floor, the bell rang a second time, with unnecessary clamour, and he unlocked the door and passed into the little hallway with considerable wrath and annoyance in his heart at the insolence of the double interruption.

“The fellows all know I’m reading for this exam.  Why in the world do they come to bother me at such an unearthly hour?”

The inhabitants of the building, with himself, were medical students, general students, poor Writers to the Signet, and some others whose vocations were perhaps not so obvious.  The stone staircase, dimly lighted at each floor by a gas-jet that would not turn above a certain height, wound down to the level of the street with no pretence at carpet or railing.  At some levels it was cleaner than at others.  It depended on the landlady of the particular level.

The acoustic properties of a spiral staircase seem to be peculiar.  Marriott, standing by the open door, book in hand, thought every moment the owner of the footsteps would come into view.  The sound of the boots was so close and so loud that they seemed to travel disproportionately in advance of their cause.  Wondering who it could be, he stood ready with all manner of sharp greetings for the man who dared thus to disturb his work.  But the man did not appear.  The steps sounded almost under his nose, yet no one was visible.

A sudden queer sensation of fear passed over him—­a faintness and a shiver down the back.  It went, however, almost as soon as it came, and he was just debating whether he would call aloud to his invisible visitor, or slam the door and return to his books, when the cause of the disturbance turned the corner very slowly and came into view.

It was a stranger.  He saw a youngish man short of figure and very broad.  His face was the colour of a piece of chalk and the eyes, which were very bright, had heavy lines underneath them.  Though the cheeks and chin were unshaven and the general appearance unkempt, the man was evidently a gentleman, for he was well dressed and bore himself with a certain air.  But, strangest of all, he wore no hat, and carried none in his hand; and although rain had been falling steadily all the evening, he appeared to have neither overcoat nor umbrella.

A hundred questions sprang up in Marriott’s mind and rushed to his lips, chief among which was something like “Who in the world are you?” and “What in the name of heaven do you come to me for?” But none of these questions found time to express themselves in words, for almost at once the caller turned his head a little so that the gas light in the hall fell upon his features from a new angle.  Then in a flash Marriott recognised him.