'Oh, forgive me!' said Malcolmson presently. 'Don't think me rude; but
the idea was too much for me--that the old devil himself was on the
chair last night! And at the thought he laughed again. Then he went home
to dinner.

This evening the scampering of the rats began earlier; indeed it had
been going on before his arrival, and only ceased whilst his presence by
its freshness disturbed them. After dinner he sat by the fire for a
while and had a smoke; and then, having cleared his table, began to work
as before. Tonight the rats disturbed him more than they had done on the
previous night. How they scampered up and down and under and over! How
they squeaked, and scratched, and gnawed! How they, getting bolder by
degrees, came to the mouths of their holes and to the chinks and cracks
and crannies in the wainscoting till their eyes shone like tiny lamps as
the firelight rose and fell. But to him, now doubtless accustomed to
them, their eyes were not wicked; only their playfulness touched him.
Sometimes the boldest of them made sallies out on the floor or along the
mouldings of the wainscot. Now and again as they disturbed him
Malcolmson made a sound to frighten them, smiting the table with his
hand or giving a fierce 'Hsh, hsh,' so that they fled straightway to
their holes.

And so the early part of the night wore on; and despite the noise
Malcolmson got more and more immersed in his work.

All at once he stopped, as on the previous night, being overcome by a
sudden sense of silence. There was not the faintest sound of gnaw, or
scratch, or squeak. The silence was as of the grave. He remembered the
odd occurrence of the previous night, and instinctively he looked at the
chair standing close by the fireside. And then a very odd sensation