"Because I'm not a Mohammedan," retorted Biggleswade.

"You might be worse," said Doyne.

Presently the dim outline of the little house grew perceptible. A faint
light shone from the window. It stood unfenced by any kind of hedge or
railing a few feet away from the road in a little hollow beneath some
rising ground. As far as they could discern in the darkness when they
drew near, the house was a mean, dilapidated hovel. A guttering candle
stood on the inner sill of the small window and afforded a vague view
into a mean interior. Doyne held up the lamp so that its rays fell full
on the door. As he did so, an exclamation broke from his lips and he
hurried forward, followed by the others. A man's body lay huddled
together on the snow by the threshold. He was dressed like a peasant, in
old corduroy trousers and rough coat, and a handkerchief was knotted
round his neck. In his hand he grasped the neck of a broken bottle.
Doyne set the lamp on the ground and the three bent down together over
the man. Close by the neck lay the rest of the broken bottle, whose
contents had evidently run out into the snow.

"Drunk?" asked Biggleswade.

Doyne felt the man and laid his hand on his heart.

"No," said he, "dead."

McCurdie leaped to his full height. "I told you the place was uncanny!"
he cried. "It's fey." Then he hammered wildly at the door.

There was no response. He hammered again till it rattled. This time a