Next day, and for several weeks thereafter, the business of the office
went on as usual, and Jones did his work well and behaved outwardly with
perfect propriety. No more visions troubled him, and his relations with
the Manager became, if anything, somewhat smoother and easier.

True, the man _looked_ a little different, because the clerk kept seeing
him with his inner and outer eye promiscuously, so that one moment he
was broad and red-faced, and the next he was tall, thin, and dark,
enveloped, as it were, in a sort of black atmosphere tinged with red.
While at times a confusion of the two sights took place, and Jones saw
the two faces mingled in a composite countenance that was very horrible
indeed to contemplate. But, beyond this occasional change in the outward
appearance of the Manager, there was nothing that the secretary noticed
as the result of his vision, and business went on more or less as
before, and perhaps even with a little less friction.

But in the rooms under the roof in Bloomsbury it was different, for
there it was perfectly clear to Jones that Thorpe had come to take up
his abode with him. He never saw him, but he knew all the time he was
there. Every night on returning from his work he was greeted by the
well-known whisper, "Be ready when I give the sign!" and often in the
night he woke up suddenly out of deep sleep and was aware that Thorpe
had that minute moved away from his bed and was standing waiting and
watching somewhere in the darkness of the room. Often he followed him
down the stairs, though the dim gas jet on the landings never revealed
his outline; and sometimes he did not come into the room at all, but
hovered outside the window, peering through the dirty panes, or sending
his whisper into the chamber in the whistling of the wind.