He slapped him lightly on the shoulder, and went back into his
private office. He worked for some time at his desk, and then laid
his pen aside, put away his papers methodically, placing a large
envelope on his private secretary's vacant table. He then opened
the office door and ascended the staircase. He stopped on the
first landing to listen to the sound of rain on the glass skylight,
that seemed to echo through the empty hall like the gloomy roll of
a drum. It was evident that the searching water had found out the
secret sins of the house's construction, for there were great
fissures of discoloration in the white and gold paper in the
corners of the wall. There was a strange odor of the dank forest
in the mirrored drawing-room, as if the rain had brought out the
sap again from the unseasoned timbers; the blue and white satin
furniture looked cold, and the marble mantels and centre tables had
taken upon themselves the clamminess of tombstones. Mr. Mulrady,
who had always retained his old farmer-like habit of taking off his
coat with his hat on entering his own house, and appearing in his
shirt-sleeves, to indicate domestic ease and security, was obliged
to replace it, on account of the chill. He had never felt at home
in this room. Its strangeness had lately been heightened by Mrs.
Mulrady's purchase of a family portrait of some one she didn't
know, but who, she had alleged, resembled her "Uncle Bob," which
hung on the wall beside some paintings in massive frames. Mr.
Mulrady cast a hurried glance at the portrait that, on the strength
of a high coat-collar and high top curl--both rolled with equal
precision and singular sameness of color--had always glared at
Mulrady as if HE was the intruder; and, passing through his wife's
gorgeous bedroom, entered the little dressing-room, where he still
slept on the smallest of cots, with hastily improvised
surroundings, as if he was a bailiff in "possession." He didn't