loud, startling ring at the front-door bell. I got up at once and
threw open a window over the door, calling out to know what was
wanted.

"It's I," said a voice I didn't know--a queer, hoarse voice. "Come
down."

"Who's 'I'?" I asked.

"Farwell Knowles," said the voice. "Let me in!"

I started, and looked down.

He was standing on the steps where the light of a street-lamp fell on
him, and I saw even by the poor glimmer that something was wrong; he
was white as a dead man. There was something wild in his attitude; he
had no hat, and looked all mixed-up and disarranged.

"Come down--come down!" he begged thickly, beckoning me with his arm.

I got on some clothes, slipped downstairs without wakening my wife,
lit the hall light, and took him into the library. He dropped in a
chair with a quick breath like a sob, and when I turned from lighting
the gas I was shocked by the change in him since afternoon. I never
saw such a look before. It was like a rat you've seen running along
the gutter side of the curbstone with a terrier after it.

"What's the matter, Farwell?" I asked.

"Oh, my God!" he whispered.