'I cannot undertake to say for certain,' was the grim reply of the
One old man.

'I think you saw me? Did you not?'

'Saw YOU?' said the old man. 'O yes, I saw you. But, I see many
who never see me.'

A chilled, slow, earthy, fixed old man. A cadaverous old man of
measured speech. An old man who seemed as unable to wink, as if
his eyelids had been nailed to his forehead. An old man whose
eyes--two spots of fire--had no more motion than if they had been
connected with the back of his skull by screws driven through it,
and rivetted and bolted outside, among his grey hair.

The night had turned so cold, to Mr. Goodchild's sensations, that
he shivered. He remarked lightly, and half apologetically, 'I
think somebody is walking over my grave.'

'No,' said the weird old man, 'there is no one there.'

Mr. Goodchild looked at Idle, but Idle lay with his head enwreathed
in smoke.

'No one there?' said Goodchild.

'There is no one at your grave, I assure you,' said the old man.

He had come in and shut the door, and he now sat down. He did not
bend himself to sit, as other people do, but seemed to sink bolt