light that candle must stand for as many years in any
correct reckoning of my age. When its beams at last
illumined the room, the strange face was still there. Had I
seen it before? It was marvellously like that other face
which had haunted my dreams so long. If it was the face of a
man he must be standing on the other side of the wall and
looking through a panel.

"Is Mr. Lane at home?" I asked in an unnatural tone that
startled me.

But no word of reply was spoken.

"I am his nephew and I have important news for him."

The face disappeared for a moment, and presently a shrunken
hand, holding a white sheet of paper, was extended through
the opening. I stepped forward, took the sheet and,
withdrawing to the centre of the room, sat down upon the
floor and wrote the following message in bold characters
with my pencil:

"Kendric Lane, son of Kendric Lane (deceased), late of
London, England, wishes to see Dr. Lane on business of
importance."

I handed the message to the strange man behind the wall, who
immediately disappeared with it, closing the panel. "The
worst is over," thought I, while I stood in that mysterious
and silent chamber waiting for his return. But I should not