"Yes, my child, and I think I will sleep well to-night. I feel
very tired." Liska carried the things out, shaking her head in
surprise at this thin little man who did not seem to know what it
was to be afraid. Half an hour later the rectory was in darkness.
Before he retired, Muller had made a careful examination of the
pastor's bedroom. Nothing was disturbed anywhere, and it was
evident that the priest had not made any preparations for the
night, but was still at work at his desk in the study when death
overtook him. When he came to this conclusion, the detective went
to bed and soon fell asleep.

In his little hut near the asylum gates, shepherd Janci slept as
sound as usual. But he was dreaming and he spoke in his sleep.
There was no one to hear him, for his faithful Margit was snoring
loudly. Snatches of sentences and broken words came from Janci's
lips: "The hand--the big hand--I see it--at his throat--the
face--the yellow face--it laughs--"

Next morning the children on their way to school crept past the
rectory with wide eyes and open mouths. And the grown people
spoke in lower tones when their work led them past the handsome
old house. It had once been their pride, but now it was a place
of horror to them. The old housekeeper had succumbed to her
fright and was very ill. Liska went about her work silently,
and the farm servants walked more heavily and chattered less than
they had before. The hump-backed sexton, who had not been allowed
to enter the church and therefore had nothing to do, made an early
start for the inn, where he spent most of the day telling what
little he knew to the many who made an excuse to follow him there.