He called again, adjuring the man he saw to come at once and say why he
was there and what he wanted. No attention was paid to him; he might as
well have kept silent.

A minute or two more and he went in, shut and bolted his door, even
took the trouble to see that the door of the baggage-room was secured.
He took his lamp down from the wall where, by its tin reflector, it hung
on a nail, and set it on the table for company. He opened the damper of
the stove again, so that the logs within crackled. Then he sat down and
began to read the Shakespeare he had pushed from him before. What he had
seen and heard seemed to him very curious. No obligation rested upon
him, certainly, to go out and seek this weird-looking creature. There
was probably nothing supernatural, but--well, while a man is alone it is
wisest to shut out all that has even the appearance of the supernatural
from his house and from his mind. So Trenholme argued, choosing the
satirical fool of the Forest of Arden to keep him company.

"Now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home, I was in a
better place: but travellers must be content."

Trenholme smiled. He had actually so controlled his mind as to become
lost in his book.

There was a sound as if of movement on the light snow near by and of
hard breathing. Trenholme's senses were all alert again now as he turned
his head to listen. When the moving figure had seemed so indifferent to
his calls, what reason could it have now for seeking his door--unless,
indeed, it were a dead man retracing his steps by some mysterious
impulse, such as even the dead might feel? Trenholme's heart beat low
with the thought as he heard a heavy body bump clumsily against the