A sombre two-storey house; a light burning in one of the windows,
a dim light, almost subdued and uncanny. I had never seen anything
so lonely as that light; it was grey, uncertain, scarcely a
flicker. Perhaps it was my nerves. I had scarcely strength to
climb the steps. Hobart grasped the knob and thrust open the door;
I can never forget it.

It is hard to write. The whole thing! The room; the walls lined
with books; the dim, pale light, the faded green carpet, and the
man. Pale, worn, almost a shadow of his former self. Was it Harry
Wendel? He had aged forty years. He was stooped, withered,
exhausted. A bottle of brandy on the desk before him. In his weak,
thin hand an empty wineglass. The gem upon his finger glowed with
a flame that was almost wicked; it was blue, burning, giving out
sparkles of light--like a colour out of hell. The path of its
light was unholy--it was too much alive.

We both sprang forward. Hobart seized him by the shoulders.

"Harry, old boy; Harry! Don't you know us? It's Hobart and
Charlotte."

It was terrible. He didn't seem to know. He looked right at us.
But he spoke in abstractions.

"Two," he said. And he listened. "Two! Don't you hear it?" He
caught Hobart by the arm. "Now, listen. Two! No, it's three. Did I
say three? Can't you hear? It's the old lady. She speaks out of
the shadows. There! There! Now, listen. She has been counting to
me. Always she says three! Soon it will be four."