one day in late september i received the following letter from my lawyer:—

"my dear bell,—

"i shall esteem it a favour if you can make it convenient to call upon me at ten o'clock to-morrow morning on a matter of extreme privacy."

at the appointed hour i was shown into mr. edgcombe's private room. i had known him for years—we were, in fact, old friends—and i was startled now by the look of worry, not to say anxiety, on his usually serene features.

"you are the very man i want, bell," he cried. "sit down; i have a great deal to say to you. there is a mystery of a very grave nature which i hope you may solve for me. it is in connection with a house said to be haunted."

he fixed his bright eyes on my face as he spoke. i sat perfectly silent, waiting for him to continue.

"in the first place," he resumed, "i must ask you to regard the matter as confidential."

"certainly," i answered.

"you know," he went on, "that i have often laughed at your special hobby, but it occurred to me yesterday that the experiences you have lived through may enable you to give me valuable assistance in this difficulty."

"i will do my best for you, edgcombe," i replied.

he lay back in his chair, folding his hands.

"the case is briefly as follows," he began. "it is connected with the family of the

wentworths. the only son, archibald, the artist, has just died under most extraordinary circumstances. he was, as you probably know, one of the most promising water-colour painters of the younger school, and his pictures in this year's academy met with universal praise. he was the heir to the wentworth estates, and his death has caused a complication of claims from a member of a collateral branch of the family, who, when the present squire dies, is entitled to the money. this man has spent the greater part of his life in australia, is badly off, and evidently belongs to a rowdy set. he has been to see me two or three times, and i must say frankly that i am not taken with his appearance."

"had he anything to do with the death?" i interrupted.

"nothing whatever, as you will quickly perceive. wentworth has been accustomed from time to time to go alone on sketching tours to different parts of the country. he has tramped about on foot, and visited odd, out-of-the-way nooks searching for subjects.

he never took much money with him, and always travelled as an apparently poor man. a month ago he started off alone on one of these tours. he had a handsome commission from barlow & co., picture-dealers in the strand. he was to paint certain parts of the river merran; and although he certainly did not need money, he seemed glad of an object for a good ramble. he parted with his family in the best of health and spirits, and wrote to them from time to time; but a week ago they heard the news that he had died suddenly at an inn on the merran. there was, of course, an inquest and an autopsy. dr. miles gordon, the wentworths' consulting physician, was telegraphed for, and was present at the post-mortem examination. he is absolutely puzzled to account for the death. the medical examination showed wentworth to be in apparently perfect health at the time. there was no lesion to be discovered upon which to base a different opinion, all the organs being healthy. neither was there any trace of poison, nor marks of violence.

the coroner's verdict was that wentworth died of syncope, which, as you know perhaps, is a synonym for an unknown cause. the inn where he died is a very lonely one, and has the reputation of being haunted. the landlord seems to bear a bad character, although nothing has ever been proved against him. but a young girl who lives at the inn gave evidence which at first startled every one. she said at the inquest that she had earnestly warned wentworth not to sleep in the haunted room. she had scarcely told the coroner so before she fell to the floor in an epileptic fit. when she came to herself she was sullen and silent, and nothing more could be extracted from her. the old man, the innkeeper, explained that the girl was half-witted, but he did not attempt to deny that the house had the reputation of being haunted, and said that he had himself begged wentworth not to put up there. well, that is about the whole of the story. the coroner's inquest seems to deny the evidence of foul play, but i have my very strong suspicions.

what i want you to do is to ascertain if they are correct. will you undertake the case?"

"i will certainly do so," i replied. "please let me have any further particulars, and a written document to show, in case of need, that i am acting under your directions."

edgcombe agreed to this, and i soon afterwards took my leave. the case had the features of an interesting problem, and i hoped that i should prove successful in solving it.

that evening i made my plans carefully. i would go into ——shire early on the following morning, assuming for my purpose the character of an amateur photographer. having got all necessary particulars from edgcombe, i made a careful mental map of my operations. first of all i would visit a little village of the name of harkhurst, and put up at the inn, the crown and thistle. here wentworth had spent a fortnight when he first started on his commission to make drawings of the

river merran. i thought it likely that i should obtain some information there. circumstances must guide me as to my further steps, but my intention was to proceed from harkhurst to the castle inn, which was situated about six miles further up the river. this was the inn where the tragedy had occurred.

towards evening on the following day i arrived at harkhurst. when my carriage drew up at the crown and thistle, the landlady was standing in the doorway. she was a buxom-looking dame, with a kindly face. i asked for a bed.

"certainly, sir," she answered. she turned with me into the little inn, and taking me upstairs, showed me a small room, quite clean and comfortable, looking out on the yard. i said it would do capitally, and she hurried downstairs to prepare my supper. after this meal, which proved to be excellent, i determined to visit the landlord in the bar. i found him chatty and communicative.

"this is a lonely place," he said; "we

don't often have a soul staying with us for a month at a time." as he spoke he walked to the door, and i followed him. the shades of night were beginning to fall, but the picturesqueness of the little hamlet could not but commend itself to me.

"and yet it is a lovely spot," i said. "i should have thought tourists would have thronged to it. it is at least an ideal place for photographers."

"you are right there, sir," replied the man; "and although we don't often have company to stay in the inn, now and then we have a stray artist. it's not three weeks back," he continued, "that we had a gentleman like you, sir, only a bit younger, to stay with us for a week or two. he was an artist, and drew from morning till night—ah, poor fellow!"

"why do you say that?" i asked.

"i have good cause, sir. here, wife," continued the landlord, looking over his shoulder at mrs. johnson, the landlady, who now appeared on the scene, "this gentleman has been asking me questions about

our visitor, mr. wentworth, but perhaps we ought not to inflict such a dismal story upon him to-night."

"pray do," i said; "what you have already hinted at arouses my curiosity. why should you pity mr. wentworth?"

"he is dead, sir," said the landlady, in a solemn voice. i gave a pretended start, and she continued,—

"and it was all his own fault. ah, dear! it makes me almost cry to think of it. he was as nice a gentleman as i ever set eyes on, and so strong, hearty, and pleasant. well, sir, everything went well until one day he said to me, 'i am about to leave you, mrs. johnson. i am going to a little place called the castle inn, further up the merran.'

"'the castle inn!' i cried. 'no, mr. wentworth, that you won't, not if you value your life.'

"'and why not?' he said, looking at me with as merry blue eyes as you ever saw in anybody's head. 'why should i not visit the castle inn? i have a commission to

make some drawings of that special bend of the river.'

"'well, then, sir,' i answered, 'if that is the case, you'll just have a horse and trap from here and drive over as often as you want to. for the castle inn ain't a fit place for a christian to put up at.'

"'what do you mean?' he asked of me.

"'it is said to be haunted, sir, and what does happen in that house the lord only knows, but there's not been a visitor at the inn for some years, not since bailiff holt came by his death.'

"'came by his death?' he asked. 'and how was that?'

"'god knows, but i don't,' i answered. 'at the coroner's inquest it was said that he died from syncope, whatever that means, but the folks round here said it was fright.' mr. wentworth just laughed at me. he didn't mind a word i said, and the next day, sir, he was off, carrying his belongings with him."

"well, and what happened?" i asked, seeing that she paused.

"what happened, sir? just what i expected. two days afterwards came the news of his death. poor young gentleman! he died in the very room where holt had breathed his last; and, oh, if there wasn't a fuss and to-do, for it turned out that, although he seemed quite poor to us, with little or no money, he was no end of a swell, and had rich relations, and big estates coming to him; and, of course, there was a coroner's inquest and all the rest, and great doctors came down from london, and our dr. stanmore, who lives down the street, was sent for, and though they did all they could, and examined him, as it were, with a microscope, they could find no cause for death, and so they give it out that it was syncope, just as they did in the case of poor holt. but, sir, it wasn't; it was fright, sheer fright. the place is haunted. it's a mysterious, dreadful house, and i only hope you won't have nothing to do with it."

she added a few more words and presently left us.

"that's a strange story," i said, turning to johnson; "your wife has excited my curiosity. i should much like to get further particulars."

"there don't seem to be anything more to tell, sir," replied johnson. "it's true what the wife says, that the castle inn has a bad name. it's not the first, no, nor the second, death that has occurred there."

"you mentioned your village doctor; do you think he could enlighten me on the subject?"

"i am sure he would do his best, sir. he lives only six doors away, in a red house. maybe you wouldn't mind stepping down the street and speaking to him?"

"you are sure he would not think it a liberty?"

"not he, sir; he'll be only too pleased to exchange a word with some one outside this sleepy little place."

"then i'll call on him," i answered, and taking up my hat i strolled down the street. i was lucky in finding dr. stanmore

at home, and the moment i saw his face i determined to take him into my confidence.

"the fact is this," i said, when he had shaken hands with me, "i should not dream of taking this liberty did i not feel certain that you could help me."

"and in what way?" he asked, not stiffly, but with a keen, inquiring, interested glance.

"i have been sent down from london to inquire into the wentworth mystery," i said.

"is that so?" he said, with a start. then he continued gravely: "i fear you have come on a wild-goose chase. there was nothing discovered at the autopsy to account for the death. there were no marks on the body, and all the organs were healthy. i met wentworth often while he was staying here, and he was as hearty and strong-looking a young man as i have ever come across."

"but the castle inn has a bad reputation," i said.

"that is true; the people here are afraid of it. it is said to be haunted. but really, sir, you and i need not trouble ourselves about stupid reports of that sort. old bindloss, the landlord, has lived there for years, and there has never been anything proved against him."

"is he alone?"

"no; his wife and a grandchild live there also."

"a grandchild?" i said. "did not this girl give some startling evidence at the inquest?"

"nothing of any consequence," replied dr. stanmore; "she only repeated what bindloss had already said himself—that the house was haunted, and that she had asked wentworth not to sleep in the room."

"has anything ever been done to explain the reason why this room is said to be haunted?" i continued.

"not that i know of. rats are probably at the bottom of it."

"but have not there been other deaths in the house?"

"that is true."

"how many?"

"well, i have myself attended no less than three similar inquests."

"and what was the verdict of the jury?"

"in each case the verdict was death from syncope."

"which means, cause unknown," i said, jumping impatiently to my feet. "i wonder, dr. stanmore, that you are satisfied to leave the matter in such a state."

"and, pray, what can i do?" he inquired. "i am asked to examine a body. i find all the organs in perfect health; i cannot trace the least appearance of violence, nor can i detect poison. what other evidence can i honestly give?"

"i can only say that i should not be satisfied," i replied. "i now wish to add that i have come down from london determined to solve this mystery. i shall myself put up at the castle inn."

"well?" said dr. stanmore.

"and sleep in the haunted room."

"of course you don't believe in the ghost."

"no; but i believe in foul play. now, dr. stanmore, will you help me?"

"most certainly, if i can. what do you wish me to do?"

"this—i shall go to the castle inn to-morrow. if at the end of three days i do not return here, will you go in search of me, and at the same time post this letter to mr. edgcombe, my london lawyer?"

"if you do not appear in three days i'll kick up no end of a row," said dr. stanmore, "and, of course, post your letter."

soon afterwards i shook hands with the doctor and left him.

after an early dinner on the following day, i parted with my good-natured landlord and his wife, and with my knapsack and kodak strapped over my shoulders, started on my way. i took care to tell no one that i was going to the castle inn, and for this purpose doubled back through a wood, and so found the right road. the

sun was nearly setting when at last i approached a broken-down signpost, on which, in half-obliterated characters, i could read the words, "to the castle inn." i found myself now at the entrance of a small lane, which was evidently little frequented, as it was considerably grass-grown. from where i stood i could catch no sight of any habitation, but just at that moment a low, somewhat inconsequent laugh fell upon my ears. i turned quickly and saw a pretty girl, with bright eyes and a childish face, gazing at me with interest. i had little doubt that she was old bindloss's grand-daughter.

"will you kindly tell me," i asked, "if this is the way to the castle inn?"

my remark evidently startled her. she made a bound forward, seized me by my hand, and tried to push me away from the entrance to the lane into the high road.

"go away!" she cried; "we have no beds fit for gentlemen at the castle inn. go! go!" she continued, and she pointed up the winding road. her eyes were now blazing in her head, but i noticed that her

lips trembled, and that very little would cause her to burst into tears.

"but i am tired and footsore," i answered. "i should like to put up at the inn for the night."

"don't!" she repeated; "they'll put you into a room with a ghost. don't go; 'tain't a place for gentlemen." here she burst not into tears, but into a fit of high, shrill, almost idiotic laughter. she suddenly clapped one of her hands to her forehead, and, turning, flew almost as fast as the wind down the narrow lane and out of sight.

i followed her quickly. i did not believe that the girl was quite as mad as she seemed, but i had little doubt that she had something extraordinary weighing on her mind.

at the next turn i came in view of the inn. it was a queer-looking old place, and i stopped for a moment to look at it.

the house was entirely built of stone. there were two storeys to the centre part, which was square, and at the four corners stood four round towers. the house was built right on the river, just below a large

mill-pond. i walked up to the door and pounded on it with my stick. it was shut, and looked as inhospitable as the rest of the place. after a moment's delay it was opened two or three inches, and the surly face of an old woman peeped out.

"and what may you be wanting?" she asked.

"a bed for the night," i replied; "can you accommodate me?"

she glanced suspiciously first at me and then at my camera.

"you are an artist, i make no doubt," she said, "and we don't want no more of them here."

she was about to slam the door in my face, but i pushed my foot between it and the lintel.

"i am easily pleased," i said; "can you not give me some sort of bed for the night?"

"you had best have nothing to do with us," she answered. "you go off to harkhurst; they can put you up at the crown and thistle."

"i have just come from there," i answered. "as a matter of fact, i could not walk another mile."

"we don't want visitors at the castle inn," she continued. here she peered forward and looked into my face. "you had best be off," she repeated; "they say the place is haunted."

i uttered a laugh.

"you don't expect me to believe that?" i said. she glanced at me from head to foot. her face was ominously grave.

"you had best know all, sir," she said, after a pause. "something happens in this house, and no living soul knows what it is, for they who have seen it have never yet survived to tell the tale. it's not more than a week back that a young gentleman came here. he was like you, bold as brass, and he too wanted a bed, and would take no denial. i told him plain, and so did my man, that the place was haunted. he didn't mind no more than you mind. well, he slept in the only room we have got for guests, and he—he died there."

"what did he die of?" i asked.

"fright," was the answer, brief and laconic. "now do you want to come or not?"

"yes; i don't believe in ghosts. i want the bed, and i am determined to have it."

the woman flung the door wide open.

"don't say as i ain't warned you," she cried. "come in, if you must." she led me into the kitchen, where a fire burned sullenly on the hearth.

"sit you down, and i'll send for bindloss," she said. "i can only promise to give you a bed if bindloss agrees. liz, come along here this minute."

a quick young step was heard in the passage, and the pretty girl whom i had seen at the top of the lane entered. her eyes sought my face, her lips moved as if to say something, but no sound issued from them.

"go and find your grandad," said the old woman. "tell him there is a gentleman here that wants a bed. ask him what's to be done."

the girl favoured me with a long and peculiar glance, then turning on her heel she left the room. as soon as she did so the old woman peered forward and looked curiously at me.

"i'm sorry you are staying," she said; "don't forget as i warned you. remember, this ain't a proper inn at all. once it was a mill, but that was afore bindloss's day and mine. gents would come in the summer and put up for the fishing, but then the story of the ghost got abroad, and lately we have no visitors to speak of, only an odd one now and then who ain't wanted—no, he ain't wanted. you see, there was three deaths here. yes"—she held up one of her skinny hands and began to count on her fingers—"yes, three up to the present; three, that's it. ah, here comes bindloss."

a shuffling step was heard in the passage, and an old man, bent with age, and wearing a long white beard, entered the room.

"we has no beds for strangers," he said,

speaking in an aggressive and loud tone. "hasn't the wife said so? we don't let out beds here."

"as that is the case, you have no right to have that signpost at the end of the lane," i retorted. "i am not in a mood to walk eight miles for a shelter in a country i know nothing about. cannot you put me up somehow?"

"i have told the gentleman everything, sam," said the wife. "he is just for all the world like young mr. wentworth, and not a bit frightened."

the old landlord came up and faced me.

"look you here," he said, "you stay on at your peril. i don't want you, nor do the wife. now is it 'yes' or 'no'?"

"it is 'yes,'" i said.

"there's only one room you can sleep in."

"one room is sufficient."

"it's the one mr. wentworth died in. hadn't you best take up your traps and be off?"

"no, i shall stay."

"then there's no more to be said."

"run, liz," said the woman, "and light the fire in the parlour."

the girl left the room, and the woman, taking up a candle, said she would take me to the chamber where i was to sleep. she led me down a long and narrow passage, and then, opening a door, down two steps into the most extraordinary-looking room i had ever seen. the walls were completely circular, covered with a paper of a staring grotesque pattern. a small iron bedstead projected into the middle of the floor, which was uncarpeted except for a slip of matting beside it. a cheap deal wash-hand-stand, a couple of chairs, and a small table with a blurred looking-glass stood against the wall beneath a deep embrasure, in which there was a window. this was evidently a room in one of the circular towers. i had never seen less inviting quarters.

"your supper will be ready directly, sir," said the woman, and placing the candle on the little table, she left me.

the place felt damp and draughty, and the flame of the candle flickered about, causing the tallow to gutter to one side. there was no fireplace in the room, and above, the walls converged to a point, giving the whole place the appearance of an enormous extinguisher. i made a hurried and necessarily limited toilet, and went into the parlour. i was standing by the fire, which was burning badly, when the door opened, and the girl liz came in, bearing a tray in her hand. she laid the tray on the table and came up softly to me.

"fools come to this house," she said, "and you are one."

"pray let me have my supper, and don't talk," i replied. "i am tired and hungry, and want to go to bed."

liz stood perfectly still for a moment.

"'tain't worth it," she said; then, in a meditative voice, "no, 'tain't worth it. but i'll say no more. folks will never be warned!"

her grandmother's voice calling her caused her to bound from the room.

my supper proved better than i had expected, and, having finished it, i strolled into the kitchen, anxious to have a further talk with the old man. he was seated alone by the fire, a great mastiff lying at his feet.

"can you tell me why the house is supposed to be haunted?" i asked suddenly, stooping down to speak to him.

"how should i know?" he cried hoarsely. "the wife and me have been here twenty years, and never seen nor heard anything, but for certain folks do die in the house. it's mortal unpleasant for me, for the doctors come along, and the coroner, and there's an inquest and no end of fuss. the folks die, although no one has ever laid a finger on 'em; the doctors can't prove why they are dead, but dead they be. well, there ain't no use saying more. you are here, and maybe you'll pass the one night all right."

"i shall go to bed at once," i said, "but i should like some candles. can you supply me?"

the man turned and looked at his wife, who at that moment entered the kitchen. she went to the dresser, opened a wooden box, and taking out three or four tallow candles, put them into my hand.

i rose, simulating a yawn.

"good-night, sir," said the old man; "good-night; i wish you well."

a moment later i had entered my bedroom, and having shut the door, proceeded to give it a careful examination. as far as i could make out, there was no entrance to the room except by the door, which was shaped to fit the circular walls. i noticed, however, that there was an unaccountable draught, and this i at last discovered came from below the oak wainscoting of the wall. i could not in any way account for the draught, but it existed to an unpleasant extent. the bed, i further saw, was somewhat peculiar; it had no castors on the four legs, which were let down about half an inch into sockets provided for them in the wooden floor. this discovery excited my suspicions still further. it was evident that the bed

was intended to remain in a particular position. i saw that it directly faced the little window sunk deep into the thick wall, so that any one in bed would look directly at the window. i examined my watch, found that it was past eleven, and placing both the candles on a tiny table near the bed, i lay down without undressing. i was on the alert to catch the slightest noise, but the hours dragged on and nothing occurred. in the house all was silence, and outside the splashing and churning of the water falling over the wheel came distinctly to my ears.

i lay awake all night, but as morning dawned fell into an uneasy sleep. i awoke to see the broad daylight streaming in at the small window.

making a hasty toilet, i went out for a walk, and presently came in to breakfast. it had been laid for me in the big kitchen, and the old man was seated by the hearth.

"well," said the woman, "i hope you slept comfortable, sir."

i answered in the affirmative, and now

perceived that old bindloss and his wife were in the humour to be agreeable. they said that if i was satisfied with the room i might spend another night at the inn. i told them that i had a great many photographs to take, and would be much obliged for the permission. as i spoke i looked round for the girl, liz. she was nowhere to be seen.

"where is your grand-daughter?" i asked of the old woman.

"she has gone away for the day," was the reply. "it's too much for liz to see strangers. she gets excited, and then the fits come on."

"what sort of fits?"

"i can't tell what they are called, but they're bad, and weaken her, poor thing! liz ought never to be excited." here bindloss gave his wife a warning glance; she lowered her eyes, and going across to the range, began to stir the contents of something in a saucepan.

that afternoon i borrowed some lines from bindloss, and, taking an old boat which

was moored to the bank of the mill-pond, set off under the pretence of fishing for pike. the weather was perfect for the time of year.

waiting my opportunity, i brought the boat up to land on the bank that dammed up the stream, and getting out walked along it in the direction of the mill-wheel, over which the water was now rushing.

as i observed it from this side of the bank, i saw that the tower in which my room was placed must at one time have been part of the mill itself, and i further noticed that the masonry was comparatively new, showing that alterations must have taken place when the house was abandoned as a mill and was turned into an inn. i clambered down the side of the wheel, holding on to the beams, which were green and slippery, and peered through the paddles.

as i was making my examination, a voice suddenly startled me.

"what are you doing down there?"

i looked up; old bindloss was standing

on the bank looking down at me. he was alone, and his face was contorted with a queer mixture of fear and passion. i hastily hoisted myself up, and stood beside him.

"what are you poking about down there for?" he said, pushing his ugly old face into mine as he spoke. "you fool! if you had fallen you would have been drowned. no one could swim a stroke in that mill-race. and then there would have been another death, and all the old fuss over again! look here, sir, will you have the goodness to get out of the place? i don't want you here any more."

"i intend to leave to-morrow morning," i answered in a pacifying voice, "and i am really very much obliged to you for warning me about the mill."

"you had best not go near it again," he said in a menacing voice, and then he turned hastily away. i watched him as he climbed up a steep bank and disappeared from view. he was going in the opposite direction from the house. seizing the opportunity of his

absence, i once more approached the mill. was it possible that wentworth had been hurled into it? but had this been the case there would have been signs and marks on the body. having reached the wheel, i clambered boldly down. it was now getting dusk, but i could see that a prolongation of the axle entered the wall of the tower. the fittings were also in wonderfully good order, and the bolt that held the great wheel only required to be drawn out to set it in motion.

that evening during supper i thought very hard. i perceived that bindloss was angry, also that he was suspicious and alarmed. i saw plainly that the only way to really discover what had been done to wentworth was to cause the old ruffian to try similar means to get rid of me. this was a dangerous expedient, but i felt desperate, and my curiosity as well as interest were keenly aroused. having finished my supper, i went into the passage preparatory to going into the kitchen. i had on felt slippers, and my footfall made no noise. as i approached

the door i heard bindloss saying to his wife,—

"he's been poking about the mill-wheel; i wish he would make himself scarce."

"oh, he can't find out anything," was the reply. "you keep quiet, bindloss; he'll be off in the morning."

"that's as maybe," was the answer, and then there came a harsh and very disagreeable laugh. i waited for a moment, and then entered the kitchen. bindloss was alone now; he was bending over the fire, smoking.

"i shall leave early in the morning," i said, "so please have my bill ready for me." i then seated myself near him, drawing up my chair close to the blaze. he looked as if he resented this, but said nothing.

"i am very curious about the deaths which occur in this house," i said, after a pause. "how many did you say there were?"

"that is nothing to you," he answered. "we never wanted you here; you can go when you please."

"i shall go to-morrow morning, but i wish to say something now."

"and what may that be?"

"i don't believe in that story about the place being haunted."

"oh, you don't, don't you?" he dropped his pipe, and his glittering eyes gazed at me with a mixture of anger and ill-concealed alarm.

"no," i paused, then i said slowly and emphatically, "i went back to the mill even after your warning, and——"

"what?" he cried, starting to his feet.

"nothing," i answered; "only i don't believe in the ghost."

his face turned not only white but livid. i left him without another word. i saw that his suspicions had been much strengthened by my words. this i intended. to induce the ruffian to do his worst was the only way to wring his secret from him.

my hideous room looked exactly as it had done on the previous evening. the grotesque pattern on the walls seemed to start out in bold relief. some of the ugly lines

seemed at that moment, to my imagination, almost to take human shape, to convert themselves into ogre-like faces, and to grin at me. was i too daring? was it wrong of me to risk my life in this manner? i was terribly tired, and, curious as it may seem, my greatest fear at that crucial moment was the dread that i might fall asleep. i had spent two nights with scarcely any repose, and felt that at any moment, notwithstanding all my efforts, slumber might visit me. in order to give bindloss full opportunity for carrying out his scheme, it was necessary for me to get into bed, and even to feign sleep. in my present exhausted condition the pretence of slumber would easily lapse into the reality. this risk, however, which really was a very grave one, must be run. without undressing i got into bed, pulling the bed-clothes well over me. in my hand i held my revolver. i deliberately put out the candles, and then lay motionless, waiting for events. the house was quiet as the grave—there was not a stir, and gradually my nerves, excited as they were, began to calm

down. as i had fully expected, overpowering sleepiness seized me, and, notwithstanding every effort, i found myself drifting away into the land of dreams. i began to wish that whatever apparition was to appear would do so at once and get it over. gradually but surely i seemed to pass from all memory of my present world, and to live in a strange and terrible phantasmagoria. in that state i slept, in that state also i dreamt, and dreamt horribly.

i thought that i was dancing a waltz with an enormously tall woman. she towered above me, clasping me in her arms, and began to whirl me round and round at a giddy speed. i could hear the crashing music of a distant band. faster and faster, round and round some great empty hall was i whirled. i knew that i was losing my senses, and screamed to her to stop and let me go. suddenly there was a terrible crash close to me. good god! i found myself awake, but—i was still moving. where was i? where was i going? i leapt up on the bed, only to reel and fall heavily backwards upon the

floor. what was the matter? why was i sliding, sliding? had i suddenly gone mad, or was i still suffering from some hideous nightmare? i tried to move, to stagger to my feet. then by slow degrees my senses began to return, and i knew where i was. i was in the circular room, the room where wentworth had died; but what was happening to me i could not divine. i only knew that i was being whirled round and round at a velocity that was every moment increasing. by the moonlight that struggled in through the window i saw that the floor and the bed upon it was revolving, but the table was lying on its side, and its fall must have awakened me.

i could not see any other furniture in the room. by what mysterious manner had it been removed? making a great effort, i crawled to the centre of this awful chamber, and, seizing the foot of the bed, struggled to my feet. here i knew there would be less motion, and i could just manage to see the outline of the door. i had taken the precaution to slip the revolver into my pocket,

and i still felt that if human agency appeared, i had a chance of selling my life dearly; but surely the horror i was passing through was invented by no living man! as the floor of the room revolved in the direction of the door i made a dash for it, but was carried swiftly past, and again fell heavily. when i came round again i made a frantic effort to cling to one of the steps, but in vain; the head of the bedstead caught me as it flew round, and tore my arms away. in another moment i believe i should have gone raving mad with terror. my head felt as if it would burst; i found it impossible to think consecutively. the only idea which really possessed me was a mad wish to escape from this hideous place. i struggled to the bedstead, and dragging the legs from their sockets, pulled it into the middle of the room away from the wall. with this out of the way, i managed at last to reach the door in safety.

"i flung myself upon him." a master of mysteries. page 47

"i flung myself upon him."

a master of mysteries. page 47

the moment my hand grasped the handle i leapt upon the little step and tried to wrench the door open. it was locked, locked from without; it defied my every effort. i had only just standing room for my feet. below me the floor of the room was still racing round with terrible speed. i dared scarcely look at it, for the giddiness in my head increased each moment. the next instant a soft footstep was distinctly audible, and i saw a gleam of light through a chink of the door. i heard a hand fumbling at the lock, the door was slowly opened outwards, and i saw the face of bindloss.

for a moment he did not perceive me, for i was crouching down on the step, and the next instant with all my force i flung myself upon him. he uttered a yell of terror. the lantern he carried dropped and went out, but i had gripped him round the neck with my fingers, driving them deep down into his lean, sinewy throat. with frantic speed i pulled him along the passage up to a window, through which the moonlight was shining. here i released my hold of his throat, but immediately covered him with my revolver.

"down on your knees, or you are a dead

man!" i cried. "confess everything, or i shoot you through the heart."

his courage had evidently forsaken him; he began to whimper and cry bitterly.

"spare my life," he screamed. "i will tell everything, only spare my life."

"be quick about it," i said; "i am in no humour to be merciful. out with the truth."

i was listening anxiously for the wife's step, but except for the low hum of machinery and the splashing of the water i heard nothing.

"speak," i said, giving the old man a shake. his lips trembled, his words came out falteringly.

"it was wentworth's doing," he panted.

"wentworth? not the murdered man?" i cried.

"no, no, his cousin. the ruffian who has been the curse of my life. owing to that last death he inherits the property. he is the real owner of the mill, and he invented the revolving floor. there were deaths—oh yes, oh yes. it was so easy, and i

wanted the money. the police never suspected, nor did the doctors. wentworth was bitter hard on me, and i got into his power." here he choked and sobbed. "i am a miserable old man, sir," he gasped.

"so you killed your victims for the sake of money?" i said, grasping him by the shoulder.

"yes," he said, "yes. the bailiff had twenty pounds all in gold; no one ever knew. i took it and was able to satisfy wentworth for a bit."

"and what about archibald wentworth?"

"that was his doing, and i was to be paid."

"and now finally you wanted to get rid of me?"

"yes; for you suspected."

as i spoke i perceived by the ghastly light of the moon another door near. i opened it and saw that it was the entrance to a small dark lumber room. i pushed the old man in, turned the key in the lock, and

ran downstairs. the wife was still unaccountably absent. i opened the front door, and trembling, exhausted, drenched in perspiration, found myself in the open air. every nerve was shaken. at that terrible moment i was not in the least master of myself. my one desire was to fly from the hideous place. i had just reached the little gate when a hand, light as a feather, touched my arm. i looked up; the girl liz stood before me.

"you are saved," she said; "thank god! i tried all i could to stop the wheel. see, i am drenched to the skin; i could not manage it. but at least i locked grannie up. she's in the kitchen, sound asleep. she drank a lot of gin."

"where were you all day yesterday?" i asked.

"locked up in a room in the further tower, but i managed to squeeze through the window, although it half killed me. i knew if you stayed that they would try it on to-night. thank god you are saved."

"well, don't keep me now," i said; "i

have been saved as by a miracle. you are a good girl; i am much obliged to you. you must tell me another time how you manage to live through all these horrors."

"ain't i all but mad?" was her pathetic reply. "oh, my god, what i suffer!" she pressed her hand to her face; the look in her eyes was terrible. but i could not wait now to talk to her further. i hastily left the place.

how i reached harkhurst i can never tell, but early in the morning i found myself there. i went straight to dr. stanmore's house, and having got him up, i communicated my story. he and i together immediately visited the superintendent of police. having told my exciting tale, we took a trap and all three returned to the castle inn. we were back there before eight o'clock on the following morning. but as the police officer expected, the place was empty. bindloss had been rescued from the dark closet, and he and his wife and the girl liz had all flown. the doctor, the police officer, and i, all went up to the circular room. we

then descended to the basement, and after a careful examination we discovered a low door, through which we crept; we then found ourselves in a dark vault, which was full of machinery. by the light of a lantern we examined it. here we saw an explanation of the whole trick. the shaft of the mill-wheel which was let through the wall of the tower was continuous as the axle of a vertical cogged wheel, and by a multiplication action turned a large horizontal wheel into which a vertical shaft descended. this shaft was let into the centre of four crossbeams, supporting the floor of the room in which i had slept. all round the circular edge of the floor was a steel rim which turned in a circular socket. it needed but a touch to set this hideous apparatus in motion.

the police immediately started in pursuit of bindloss, and i returned to london. that evening edgcombe and i visited dr. miles gordon. hard-headed old physician that he was, he was literally aghast when i told him my story. he explained to me

that a man placed in the position in which i was when the floor began to move would by means of centrifugal force suffer from enormous congestion of the brain. in fact, the revolving floor would induce an artificial condition of apoplexy. if the victim were drugged or even only sleeping heavily, and the floor began to move slowly, insensibility would almost immediately be induced, which would soon pass into coma and death, and a post-mortem examination some hours afterwards would show no cause for death, as the brain would appear perfectly healthy, the blood having again left it.

from the presence of dr. miles gordon, edgcombe and i went to scotland yard, and the whole affair was put into the hands of the london detective force. with the clue which i had almost sacrificed my life to furnish, they quickly did the rest. wentworth was arrested, and under pressure was induced to make a full confession, but old bindloss had already told me the gist of the story. wentworth's father had owned the mill, had got into trouble with the law, and

changed his name. in fact, he had spent five years in penal servitude. he then went to australia and made money. he died when his son was a young man. this youth inherited all the father's vices. he came home, visited the mill, and, being of a mechanical turn of mind, invented the revolving floor. he changed the mill into an inn, put bindloss, one of his "pals," into possession with the full intention of murdering unwary travellers from time to time for their money.

the police, however, wanted him for a forged bill, and he thought it best to fly. bindloss was left in full possession. worried by wentworth, who had him in his power for a grave crime committed years ago, he himself on two occasions murdered a victim in the circular room. meanwhile several unexpected deaths had taken place in the older branch of the wentworth family, and archibald wentworth alone stood between his cousin and the great estates. wentworth came home, and with the aid of bindloss got archibald into his power. the

young artist slept in the fatal room, and his death was the result. at this moment wentworth and bindloss are committed for trial at the old bailey, and there is no doubt what the result will be.

the ghost mystery in connection with the castle inn has, of course, been explained away for ever.