A clock chimed out--an old-world chime in keeping with the
loneliness, the curiously remote loneliness, of the locality. Less
than five miles from St. Paul's are spots whereto, with the
persistence of Damascus attar, clings the aroma of former days.
This iron gateway fronting the old chapel was such a spot.

Just within stood a plain-clothes man, who saluted my companion
respectfully.

"Professor Deeping," I began.

The man, with a simple gesture, conveyed the dreadful news.

"Dead! dead!" I cried incredulously.

He glanced at Bristol.

"The most mysterious case I have ever had anything to do with,
sir," he said.

The power of speech seemed to desert me. It was unthinkable that
Deeping, with whom I had been speaking less than an hour ago,
should now be no more; that some malign agency should thus
murderously have thrust him into the great borderland.

In that kind of silence which seems to be peopled with whispering
spirits we strode forward along the elm avenue. It was very dark
where the moon failed to penetrate. The house, low and rambling,
came into view, its facade bathed in silver light. Two of the