I found afterwards that my would-be sceptical companion had his troubles
too. But of these I knew nothing yet. One night, for a wonder, I was
sleeping soundly, when I was roused by a step on the lobby outside my
room, followed by the loud clang of what turned out to be a large brass
candlestick, flung with all his force by poor Tom Ludlow over the
banisters, and rattling with a rebound down the second flight of stairs;
and almost concurrently with this, Tom burst open my door, and bounced
into my room backwards, in a state of extraordinary agitation.

I had jumped out of bed and clutched him by the arm before I had any
distinct idea of my own whereabouts. There we were--in our
shirts--standing before the open door--staring through the great old
banister opposite, at the lobby window, through which the sickly light
of a clouded moon was gleaming.

"What's the matter, Tom? What's the matter with you? What the devil's
the matter with you, Tom?" I demanded shaking him with nervous
impatience.

He took a long breath before he answered me, and then it was not very
coherently.

"It's nothing, nothing at all--did I speak?--what did I say?--where's
the candle, Richard? It's dark; I--I had a candle!"

"Yes, dark enough," I said; "but what's the matter?--what _is_ it?--why
don't you speak, Tom?--have you lost your wits?--what is the matter?"

"The matter?--oh, it is all over. It must have been a dream--nothing at