muttered Stuart.
He became aware that the fear which held him was such that unless he
acted and acted swiftly he should become incapable of action, but he
remembered that whereas the moonlight poured into the bedroom, the
staircase would be in complete darkness. He walked barefooted across
to the dressing-table and took up an electric torch which lay there.
He had not used it for some time, and he pressed the button to learn
if the torch was charged. A beam of white light shone out across the
room, and at the same instant came another sound.
If it came from below or above, from the adjoining room or from
Outside in the road, Stuart knew not. But following hard upon the
mysterious disturbance which had aroused him it seemed to pour ice
into his veins, it added the complementary touch to his panic. For
it was a kind of low wail--a ghostly minor wail in falling
cadences--unlike any sound he had heard. It was so excessively
horrible that it produced a curious effect.
Discovering from the dancing of the torch-ray that his hand was
trembling, Stuart concluded that he had awakened from a nightmare
and that this fiendish wailing was no more than an unusually delayed
aftermath of the imaginary horrors which had bathed him in cold
perspiration.
He walked resolutely to the door, threw it open and cast the beam of
light on to the staircase. Softly he began to descend. Before the
study door he paused. There was no sound. He threw open the door,
directing the torch-ray into the room.
Cutting a white lane through the blackness, it shone fully upon his
writing-table, which was a rather fine Jacobean piece having a sort
of quaint bureau superstructure containing cabinets and drawers. He
could detect nothing unusual in the appearance of the littered table.
A tobacco jar stood there, a pipe resting in the lid. Papers and
books were scattered untidily as he had left them, surrounding a tray
full of pipe and cigarette ash. Then, suddenly, he saw something else.
One of the bureau drawers was half opened.
Stuart stood quite still, staring at the table. There was no sound in
the room. He crossed slowly, moving the light from right to left. His
papers had been overhauled methodically. The drawers had been
replaced, but he felt assured that all had been examined. The light
switch was immediately beside the outer door, and Stuart walked
over to it and switched on both lamps. Turning, he surveyed the
brilliantly illuminated room. Save for himself, it was empty. He
looked out into the hallway again. There was no one there. No sound
broke the stillness. But that consciousness of some near presence
asserted itself persistently and uncannily.
"My nerves are out of order!" he muttered. "No one has touched my
papers. I must have left the drawer open myself."
He switched off the light and walked across to the door. He had
actually passed out intending to return to his room, when he became
aware of a slight draught. He stopped.
Someone or something, evil and watchful, seemed to be very near again.
Stuart turned and found himself gazing fearfully in the direction of
the open study door. He became persuaded anew that someone was hiding
there, and snatching up an ash stick which lay upon a chair in the
hall he returned to the door. One step into the room he took and
paused--palsied with a sudden fear which exceeded anything he had
known.
A white casement curtain was drawn across the French windows ... and
outlined upon this moon-bright screen he saw a tall figure. It was
that of a _cowled man_!
Such an apparition would have been sufficiently alarming had the cowl
been that of a monk, but the outline of this phantom being suggested
that of one of the Misericordia brethren or the costume worn of old
by the familiars of the Inquisition!
His heart leapt wildly, and seemed to grow still. He sought to cry out
in his terror, but only emitted a dry gasping sound.
The psychology of panic is obscure and has been but imperfectly
explored. The presence of the terrible cowled figure afforded a
confirmation of Stuart's theory that he was the victim of a species
of waking nightmare.
Even as he looked, the shadow of the cowled man moved--and was gone.
Stuart ran across the room, jerked open the curtains and stared out
across the moon-bathed lawn, its prospect terminated by high privet
hedges. One of the French windows was wide open. There was no one on
the lawn; there was no sound.
"Mrs. M'Gregor swears that I always forget to shut these windows at
night!" he muttered.
He closed and bolted the window, stood for a moment looking out across
the empty lawn, then turned and went out of the room.
THE PIBROCH OF THE M'GREGORS
Dr. Stuart awoke in the morning and tried to recall what had occurred
during the night. He consulted his watch and found the hour to be six
a. m. No one was stirring in the house, and he rose and put on a
bath robe. He felt perfectly well and could detect no symptoms of
nervous disorder. Bright sunlight was streaming into the room, and
he went out on to the landing, fastening the cord of his gown as he
descended the stairs.
His study door was locked, with the key outside. He remembered having
locked it. Opening it, he entered and looked about him. He was
vaguely disappointed. Save for the untidy litter of papers upon the
table, the study was as he had left it on retiring. If he could
believe the evidence of his senses, nothing had been disturbed.
Not content with a casual inspection, he particularly examined those
papers which,