have preferred to leave untouched--things he personally would rather
have treated with ridicule if possible. It made his words peculiarly
dignified and impressive, and I listened with an increasing uneasiness
as to the sort of help the doctor would look to me for later. It seemed
as though I were a spectator of some drama of mystery in which any
moment I might be summoned to play a part.

"It was twenty years ago," continued the Colonel, "but there was much
talk about it at the time, unfortunately, and you may, perhaps, have
heard of the affair. Stride, the keeper, was a passionate, hot-tempered
man but I regret to say, so was my brother, and quarrels between them
seem to have been frequent."

"I do not recall the affair," said the doctor. "May I ask what was the
cause of death?" Something in his voice made me prick up my ears for the
reply.

"The keeper, it was said, from suffocation. And at the inquest the
doctors averred that both men had been dead the same length of time when
found."

"And your brother?" asked John Silence, noticing the omission, and
listening intently.

"Equally mysterious," said our host, speaking in a low voice with
effort. "But there was one distressing feature I think I ought to
mention. For those who saw the face--I did not see it myself--and though
Stride carried a gun its chambers were undischarged--" He stammered
and hesitated with confusion. Again that sense of terror moved between
his words. He stuck.