The latter, apparently oblivious of my presence, went clicking
merrily and as rapidly along as though some expert young
woman were in charge. Imagine the situation if you can. A
type-writing machine of ancient make, its letters clear, but
out of accord with the keys, confronted by an empty chair,
three hours after midnight, rattling off page after page of
something which might or might not be readable, I could not
at the moment determine. For two or three minutes I gazed in
open-mouthed wonder. I was not frightened, but I did experience
a sensation which comes from contact with the uncanny. As I
gradually grasped the situation and became used, somewhat,
to what was going on, I ventured a remark.

"This beats the deuce!" I observed.

The machine stopped for an instant. The sheet of paper upon
which the impressions of letters were being made flew out
from under the cylinder, a pure white sheet was as quickly
substituted, and the keys clicked off the line:

"What does?"

I presumed the line was in response to my assertion, so
I replied:

"You do. What uncanny freak has taken possession of you to-night
that you start in to write on your own hook, having resolutely
declined to do any writing for me ever since I rescued you
from the dust and dirt and cobwebs of the attic?"