my revolver. I unlocked the door, and went out into the passage, holding
my candle high, and keeping the pistol ready. Then a queer thing
happened. I could not go a step toward the Grey Room. You all know I am
not really a cowardly chap. I've gone into too many cases connected with
ghostly things, to be accused of that; but I tell you I funked it; simply
funked it, just like any blessed kid. There was something precious unholy
in the air that night. I ran back into my bedroom, and shut and locked
the door. Then I sat on the bed all night, and listened to the dismal
thudding of a door up the corridor. The sound seemed to echo through all
the house.

"Daylight came at last, and I washed and dressed. The door had not
slammed for about an hour, and I was getting back my nerve again. I felt
ashamed of myself; though, in some ways it was silly; for when you're
meddling with that sort of thing, your nerve is bound to go, sometimes.
And you just have to sit quiet and call yourself a coward until daylight.
Sometimes it is more than just cowardice, I fancy. I believe at times it
is something warning you, and fighting _for_ you. But, all the same, I
always feel mean and miserable, after a time like that.

"When the day came properly, I opened my door, and, keeping my revolver
handy, went quietly along the passage. I had to pass the head of the
stairs, along the way, and who should I see coming up, but the old
butler, carrying a cup of coffee. He had merely tucked his nightshirt
into his trousers, and he had an old pair of carpet slippers on.

"'Hullo, Peter!' I said, feeling suddenly cheerful; for I was as glad as
any lost child to have a live human being close to me. 'Where are you off
to with the refreshments?'