I sat listening and reflecting for something like ten minutes.  Steadily, from one side the room overhead to the other, went the noise of feet; now slowly, now with a quicker motion:  and now with a sudden tramp, that sent the listener’s blood with a start along its courses.

“Won’t you see him, doctor?”

I did not answer at once, for I was in the dark as to what was best to be done.  If I had known the origin of his trouble, I could have acted understandingly.  As it was, any intrusion upon the young man might do harm rather than good.

“He has asked to be let alone,” I replied, “and it may be best to let him alone.  He says that he will come out right.  Give him a little more time.  Wait, at least, until to-morrow.  Then, if there is no change, I will see him.”

Still the mother urged.  At last I said—­

“Go to your son.  Suggest to him a visit from me, and mark the effect.”

I listened as she went up stairs.  On entering his room, I noticed that he ceased walking.  Soon came to my ears the murmur of voices, which rose to a sudden loudness on his part, and I distinctly heard the words: 

“Mother! you will drive me mad!  If you talk of that, I will go from the house.  I must be left alone!”

Then all was silent.  Soon Mrs. Wallingford came down.  She looked even more distressed than when she left the room.

“I’m afraid it might do harm,” she said doubtingly.

“So am I. It will, I am sure, be best to let him have his way for the present.  Something has disturbed him fearfully; but he is struggling hard for the mastery over himself, and you may be sure, madam, that he will gain it.  Your son is a young man of no light stamp of character; and he will come out of this ordeal, as gold from the crucible.”

“You think so, Doctor?”

She looked at me with a hopeful light in her troubled countenance.

“I do, verily.  So let your heart dwell in peace.”

I was anxious to get back to my good Constance, and so, after a few more encouraging words for Mrs. Wallingford, I tried the storm again, and went through its shivering gusts, to my own home.  There had been no calls in my absence, and so the prospect looked fair for a quiet evening—­just what I wanted; for the strange condition of Henry Wallingford, and the singular circumstance connected with the old Allen House, were things to be conned over with that second self, towards whom all thought turned and all interest converged as to a centre.

After exchanging wet outer garments and boots, for dressing gown and slippers; and darkness and storm for a pleasant fireside; my thoughts turned to the north-west chamber of the Allen House, and I said—­

“I have seen something to-night that puzzled me.”

“What is that?” inquired my wife, turning her mild eyes upon me.

“You know the room in which old Captain Allen died?”