"You don't believe in this nonsense?"

I smiled. Certainly the man was perverse in his agnosticism; he
was stubborn in disbelief. It was on his nerves; on his
conscience; he was afraid.

"I believe nothing," I answered; "neither do I disbelieve. I know
all the story that has been told or written. I am a friend of
Watson. You need not scruple in making me out a bill of sale. It's
my own funeral. I abide by the consequences."

He gave a sigh of relief. After all, he was human. He had honour;
but it was after the brand of Pontius Pilate. He wished nothing on
his conscience.

Armed with the keys and the legal title, I took possession. In the
daylight it was much as it had been the night before. Once across
its threshold, one was in dank and furtive suppression; the air
was heavy; a mould of age had streaked the walls and gloomed the
shadows. I put up all the curtains to let in the rush of sunlight,
likewise I opened the windows. If there is anything to beat down
sin, it is the open measure of broad daylight.

The house was well situated; from the front windows one could look
down the street and out at the blue bay beyond the city. The fog
had lifted and the sun was shining upon the water. I could make
out the ferryboats, the islands, and the long piers that lead to
Oakland, and still farther beyond the hills of Berkeley. It was a
long time since those days in college. Under the shadow of those
hills I had first met the old doctor. I was only a boy then.