I knew then that the type-writing machine was in action; but
this was by no means a reassuring discovery. Who or what could
it be that was engaged upon the type-writer at that unholy hour,
3 A.M.? If a mortal being, why was my coming no interruption? If
a supernatural being, what infernal complication might not
the immediate future have in store for me?

My first impulse was to flee the house, to go out into the night
and pace the fields--possibly to rush out to the golf links and
play a few holes in the dark in order to cool my brow, which
was rapidly becoming fevered. Fortunately, however, I am not
a man of impulse. I never yield to a mere nerve suggestion,
and so, instead of going out into the storm and certainly
contracting pneumonia, I walked boldly into the library to
investigate the causes of the very extraordinary incident. You
may rest well assured, however, that I took care to go armed,
fortifying myself with a stout stick, with a long, ugly steel
blade concealed within it--a cowardly weapon, by-the-way, which
I permit to rest in my house merely because it forms a part
of a collection of weapons acquired through the failure of a
comic paper to which I had contributed several articles. The
editor, when the crash came, sent me the collection as part
payment of what was owed me, which I think was very good of
him, because a great many people said that it was my stuff
that killed the paper. But to return to the story. Fortifying
myself with the sword-cane, I walked boldly into the library,
and, touching the electric button, soon had every gas-jet in
the room giving forth a brilliant flame; but these, brilliant
as they were, disclosed nothing in the chair before the machine.