next residence, with its long frontage to the river, with its closed
gates and shuttered postern-door.

The entrance to it was not from the main highway, but from a lane which
led right down to the Thames; and I went to the very bottom of that lane
and swung myself by means of a post right over the river, so that I
might get a view of the windows of the room with which so ghostly a
character was associated. The blinds were all down and the whole place
looked innocent enough.

The strong, sweet, subtle smell of mignonette came wafted to my senses,
the odours of jessamine, roses, and myrtle floated to me on the evening
breeze. I could just catch a glimpse of the flower-gardens, radiant with
colour, full of leaf and bloom.

"No haunted look there," I thought. "The house is right enough, but some
one must have determined to keep it empty." And then I swung myself back
into the lane again, and the shadow of the high brick wall projected
itself across my mind as it did across my body.

"Is this place to let again, do you know?" said a voice in my ear, as I
stood looking at the private door which gave a separate entrance to that
evil-reputed library.

The question was a natural one, and the voice not unpleasant, yet I
started, having noticed no one near me.

"I beg your pardon," said the owner of the voice. "Nervous, I fear!"

"No, not at all, only my thoughts were wandering. I beg your pardon--I