that I, who at school had been one of the soundest of sleepers, had now
become one of the worst. It often happened that I would awake in the
middle of the night, even when there was no Lady Chillington to disturb
me, and would so lie, sleepless, with wide-staring eyes, for hours,
while all sorts of weird pictures would paint themselves idly in the
waste nooks and corners of my brain. One fancy I had, and for many
nights I thought it nothing more than fancy, that I could hear soft and
muffled footsteps passing up and down the staircase just outside my
door; and that at times I could even faintly distinguish them in the
room over mine, where, however, they never stayed for more than a few
minutes at any one time.

In one of my daylight explorations about the old house I ventured up the
flight of stairs that led from the landing outside my door to the upper
rooms. At the top of these stairs I found a door that differed from
every other door I had seen at Deepley Walls. In colour it was a dull
dead black, and it was studded with large square-headed nails. It was
without a handle of any kind, but was pierced by one tiny keyhole. To
what strange chamber did this terrible door give access? and who was the
mysterious visitor who came here night after night with hushed footsteps
and alone? These were two questions that weighed heavily on my mind,
that troubled me persistently when I lay awake in the dark, and even
refused by day to be put entirely on one side.

By-and-by the mystery deepened. In a recess close to the top of the
flight of stairs that led to the black door was an old-fashioned case
clock. When this clock struck the hour, two small mechanical figures
dressed like German burghers of the sixteenth century came out of two
little turrets, bowed gravely to each other, and then retired, like
court functionaries, backwards. It was a source of great pleasure to me