I dismissed these speculations as I entered the bedroom and began to
fling off my dusty clothes. I had almost forgotten about them by the
time I began to wash away my travel-stains, and rinse the coal-dust out
of my hair. My spirits revived, and I began mentally to arrange my
plans for the next day. The prospect of dinner, too, after my cold
drive was wonderfully comforting. Perhaps (thought I), there is good
wine in this inn; it is just the house wherein travellers find, or boast
that they find, forgotten bins of Burgundy or Teneriffe. When my
landlord returned to conduct me to the Blue Room, I followed him down to
the first landing in the lightest of spirits.

Therefore, I was startled when, as the landlord threw open the door and
stood aside to let me pass, _it_ came upon me again--and this time not
as a merely vague sensation, but as a sharp and sudden fear taking me
like a cold hand by the throat. I shivered as I crossed the threshold
and began to look about me. The landlord observed it, and said--

"It's chilly weather for travelling, to be sure. Maybe you'd be better
down-stairs in the coffee-room, after all."

I felt that this was probable enough. But it seemed a pity to have put
him to the pains of lighting this fire for nothing. So I promised him I
should be comfortable enough.

He appeared to be relieved, and asked me what I would drink with my
dinner. "There's beer--I brew it myself; and sherry--"

I said I would try his beer.