When I had dined—they gave me for nothing a better dinner than the one I had had in the middle of the day for one-and-sevenpence—the feeling that, to say the least of it, I was in an equivocal position, began to chasten. Instead, I began to feel, as the schoolboys have it, that I was in for a lark. That I really was going to hear, either through Messrs. Cleaver and Caxton, or through anybody else, of something to my advantage, I never for a moment believed. I was an orphan. I had what I take it are the best of reasons for knowing I have not a single living relative. I have no friends: I never had. I was, at my mother’s death, employed in an office from which I was shortly after ignominiously ejected, owing to a difference of opinion I was so unfortunate as to have with the senior clerk. I had spent my substance, such as it was, and twelve months, in seeking for other occupation.

My story was a prosaic and a sordid one. That I could hear of something to my advantage, from any source whatever, was an idea I utterly scouted.

I dined alone. The waiter informed me that, for the moment, I was the only visitor in the house. No doubt, under those circumstances, I was welcome. This waiter was a man with iron-grey hair and a pair of curiously big, black eyes; I noticed them as he flitted about the room, but I had much better reason to notice them a little later on. As I rose from the table I gave outspoken utterance to words which were a sort of tag to the sequence of my thoughts —

“Well, James Southam,” I exclaimed, “you’re in for it at last.”

This I said out loud, foolishly, no doubt. The waiter was moving towards the door. He had some plates in his hand; as I spoke, he dropped these plates. They smashed to pieces on the floor. He turned to me as if he turned on a pivot. The fashion of his countenance changed; he glared at me as if I or he had suddenly gone mad. The pupils of his eyes dilated—it was then I realised what curious eyes they were.

“Who the devil are you?” he cried. “How do you know my name’s James Southam?”

I do not know how it was, but a splash of inspiration seemed all at once to come to me—I do not know from where.

“You are James Southam,” I said; “at one time of Dulborough.”

I could plainly see that the man was trembling, either with fear or with rage, and it struck me that it was with a mixture of both.

“What has that to do with you?” he gasped.

“It has this to do with me—that I want you.”

An empty beer-bottle was on the table. With the rapidity of some frantic wild animal, rushing forward he caught this bottle by the neck, and, before I had realised his intention, he struck me with it on the head. He was a smaller man than I, but, when next I began to take an interest in the things of this world, I was lying on the floor, and the room was empty. My namesake, all the evidence went to show, had felled me like a log, and, without any sort of ceremony, had left me where I fell.

I sat up on the floor, I put my hand to my head. It ached so badly that I could scarcely see out of my eyes. With some difficulty I sprang to my feet. On attaining a more or less upright position I became conscious that the trepidation of my legs inclined me in another direction.

“If this,” I told myself, “is hearing of something to my advantage, I’ve heard enough.”

As I endeavoured to obtain support by leaning against the mantelpiece the room door opened, and the tall, thin woman, whom I had been told was Mrs. Barnes, came in.

“I beg your pardon,” she began. She looked round the room, then she looked at me. So far as I could judge in the then state of my faculties, she appeared surprised. “I thought the waiter was here.”

“He was here.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Some minutes.”

“It is very odd! I have been looking for him everywhere. I thought that he was still upstairs with you.” She glanced at the ruined crockery. “What has happened?—who has broken the plates?”

“The waiter—he dropped them. He also dropped the bottle.”

I did not explain that he had dropped the latter on my head, and almost broken it into as many pieces as the plates.

“It is very careless of him. I must see where he is.”

I fancied, from the expression of her face, that she perceived that there was more in the matter than met the eye. But, if so, she did not give audible expression to her perceptions. She left the room, and, when she had gone, I also left the room, and went to bed. I realised that the complications, and, if I may be permitted to say so, the ramifications of the situation, were for the moment beyond my grasp. In the morning I might be able to look the position fairly in the face, but, just then—no! I hastened to put myself between the sheets. Scarcely was I between them than I fell asleep.

I was awakened, as it seemed to me, just after I had fallen asleep, by some one knocking at the bedroom door. The knocking must have startled me out of a dreamless slumber, because it was a moment or two before I could remember where I was. Then I understood that some one was endeavouring to attract my attention from without.

“Who’s there?” I said.

“It is I, Mrs. Barnes, the landlady. I wish to speak to you.”

“What, now? What time is it? Won’t the morning do?

“No, I must speak to you at once.”

It seemed that, in my hurry to get into bed, I had forgotten to put the gas out. Slipping into some garments I opened the door. There stood Mrs. Barnes, with a lighted candle in her hand. For some cause or other she was in a state of unmistakable uneasiness. She looked white and haggard.

“I cannot find the waiter,” she said.

“You cannot find the waiter!” I stared. “I am sorry to hear it, if you want to find him. But may I ask what that has to do with me?”

“I believe it has a good deal to do with you. What took place between you in the coffee-room?”

“Really, I am not aware that anything took place between us in the coffee-room that was of interest to you.”

She came a step forward. Raising the lighted candle, she almost thrust it in my face. She stared at me with strained and eager eyes. She seemed to see something in my face: though what there was to see, except bewilderment, was more than I could guess.

“I don’t believe you. You are deceiving me. Did you quarrel with him? Who are you? Tell me! I have a right to know — I am his wife!”

“His wife!” Complications seemed to be increasing. “I thought your name was Barnes.”

“So is his name Barnes. What has happened? What do you know about him? Tell me.”

“What do I know about him? I know nothing. So far as I am aware, I never saw the man in my life before.”

“I don’t believe you—you are lying! Where has he gone, and why? You shall tell me—I’ll make you!”

She forced her way into the room; in doing so she forced me back. When she was in, she shut the door and stood with her back to it. Her voice had risen to a scream. Her manner almost threatened personal violence. I felt that the hotel to which I had been introduced was conducted on lines with which I had not been hitherto familiar.

“If, as you say, and as I have no reason to doubt, this person is your husband, and he has really disappeared, I can understand that your excitement is not unjustified; but you are mistaken if you suppose that I am in any way to blame. I will tell you exactly what happened between us.” I turned aside so that I might have some sort of chance of making up my mind as to how much, on the spur of the moment, it might be advisable to tell her. “Your husband waited on me at dinner. During dinner we scarcely exchanged half a dozen words. After dinner I said something which, although it was spoken out loud, was said to myself, but which affected him in the most extraordinary and unexpected manner.”

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘I want you.’”

“You said, ‘I want you’?” The woman gave a sort of nervous clutch at the door behind her. “Are you a policeman?”

“I am nothing of the kind. You ought to know better than I what your husband has on his conscience. I can only suppose that, for some cause, he stands in terror of the officers of the law; because, no sooner had I innocently uttered what, I believe, is a regular policeman’s formula, than, without a word of warning, he caught up the empty bottle which was on the table, like a madman, and knocked me down with it.”

“Knocked you down with it!” The woman’s face was as white as her own sheets. I saw that she needed the support of the door to aid her stand. “You said nothing to me when I came in.”

“I was so astounded by the man’s behaviour, and so stunned by his violence, that I was not in a fit state for saying anything. I intended to wait till the morning, and then have it out both with you and with him.”

“You are telling me the truth?”

“I am.”

So I was, though I might not have been telling all of it. I appeared to have told enough of it for her, because immediately afterwards she departed—unless I err, not much easier in her mind because of the visit she had paid to me.

In the morning, as might have been expected, I woke with a headache. I did not feel in the best of health, either physical or mental, when I went down to breakfast. That meal was served by a maidservant. Bringing in a letter on a waiter, she asked if it was for me. As it was addressed to me by name—“Mr. James Southam”—I not only claimed, I opened it. It contained a letter and some enclosures. Here is the letter, word for word:—

“Dear Sir—I have just had a telegram from Messrs. Cleaver and Caxton, acquainting me with your address. It gives me great pleasure to write to you. I am just now detained by business, but I hope to call on you at the very earliest opportunity, at latest in the course of a day or two. I assure you that it will be greatly to your advantage. As some slight guarantee of this I beg your acceptance of the enclosed. You need have no fear. You will find in me, in all respects, a friend.

“I will let you know, by telegram, when I am coming. Until then,

“Believe me, your sincere well-wisher,

“DUNCAN ROTHWELL.”

The “enclosed” took the shape of four five-pound bank-notes. Who “Duncan Rothwell” was I had not the faintest notion. To me the name was wholly unfamiliar. The letter was neither addressed nor dated. The post-mark on the envelope was Manchester. Messrs. Cleaver and Caxton must have telegraphed so soon as I had left them, and clearly Mr. Rothwell had written immediately on receipt of their wire. The letter was fairly worded, but something about the writing, and indeed about the whole get up of the thing, suggested that it had not been written by a highly educated man—a gentleman.

In any case it seemed sufficiently clear that it was not intended for me, until, fingering the thing, and turning it over and over, I chanced to open the sheet of paper on which it was written. It was a large sheet of business letter-paper. The communication was all contained on the front page, and as there was still plenty of room to spare, it did not occur to me that there could be additions, say, for instance, in the shape of a postscript. It was by the purest chance that my fidgety fingers pulled the sheet wide open. So soon as they had done so I perceived that I was wrong. In the middle of the third page was this:—

“P.S.—It was with great regret that I heard of your mother’s lamented death at Putney. I had the melancholy satisfaction of visiting her grave in Wandsworth Cemetery. This will facilitate matters greatly.”

Then the letter was intended for me after all. My mother had died at Putney—she had been buried in Wandsworth Cemetery. There might, although I had not been aware of it, have been two James Southams in Dulborough; the coincidence was credible. But it was scarcely credible that the other James Southam’s mother could also have died at Putney, and have been buried in Wandsworth Cemetery. Why, or in what sense, my mother’s death might facilitate matters, was more than I could say. But, in the face of that postscript, there still seemed sufficient doubt as to which James Southam was about to hear of something to his advantage, to justify me in remaining where I was, and allowing events to take their course.

As I was standing at the window, meditating whether or not I should go for a stroll, the maidservant appeared with a message.

“Mrs. Barnes’s compliments, and if you are at liberty, could she speak to you in the private parlour?”

I was not anxious to see Mrs. Barnes. I had a suspicion that if I was not careful I might become more involved than was desirable in her private affairs. Still, if I remained in her house I could scarcely avoid speaking to her. My impulse was to go to Messrs. Cleaver and Caxton, and ask them to shift my quarters. But they might decline, and—well, I shrugged my shoulders, and went and spoke to her.

The private parlour proved to be a small room, and a stuffy one. Mrs. Barnes received me on the threshold. She opened the door to permit me to enter, and having followed me in she shut it behind us.

“He has not returned,” she said.

“You mean ——?”

“I mean my husband.”

“Frankly, I think it is almost as well that he should not have returned—at least, while I remain an inmate of your house. You can scarcely expect me to pass over his extraordinary behaviour in silence.”

She stood staring at me in that strained, eager manner which I had noticed overnight. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her fingers were twisting and untwisting themselves in what seemed pure nervousness.

“I have been married to Mr. Barnes twelve months.” As she paused, I nodded—I did not know what else to do. “I have regretted it ever since. There is a mystery about him.”

“I am bound to admit that there is a good deal about him which is mysterious to me; but whether it is equally mysterious to you is another question.”

“He is a mystery to me—he always has been.” She paused again. She drew in her lips as if to moisten them. “You are a stranger to me, but I want a confidant. I must speak to some one.”

“I beg that you will not make a confidant of me—I do assure you ——”

As she interrupted me, her voice rose almost to a scream.

“I must speak to you—I will! I can endure no longer. Sit down and let me speak to you.”

Perceiving that, unless I made a scene, I should have to let her at least say something, I did as she requested and sat down. I wished that she would sit down also, instead of standing in front of the door, twisting her hands and her body, and pulling faces—for only so can I describe what seemed to be the nervous spasms which were continually causing her to distort her attenuated countenance.

“I never wished to marry him,” she began. “He made me.”

“I suppose you mean that he made you in the sense in which all ladies, when their time comes, are made to marry.”

“No, I don’t. I never wanted to marry him—never. He was almost as great a stranger to me as you are. Why should I marry a perfect stranger, without a penny to his name—me, who had been a single woman, and content to be a single woman, for nearly forty years?”— I could not tell her; I am sure I had no notion. —“This house belongs to me; It was my mother’s house before me. He came in one day and asked me if I wanted a waiter—came in with hardly a shoe to his foot. It was like his impudence! I did not want a waiter, and I told him so; but he mesmerised me, and made me have him!”

“Mesmerised you, Mrs. Barnes! You are joking!”

“I’m not joking.” To do her justice any one who looked less like joking I never saw. “I’ve always been a nervous sort of a body. Directly he saw me he could do anything he liked with me. He was always mesmerising me. In less than a month he had mesmerised me into marrying him. As soon as we were married I began to think that he was mad!”— In that case, I told myself, that most promising couple must have been something very like a pair! —“He was always asking me if I would like to sell myself to the devil. He used to say that he would arrange it for me if I wanted. Then he used to dream out loud—such dreams! Night after night I’ve lain and listened to him, frightened half out of my wits. Then he took to walking in his sleep. The only thing he brought into the place was a little wooden box, tied up in a pocket-handkerchief. I never could make out what was in this box. Once when I asked him I thought he would have killed me. One night, in the middle of a dream, he got out of bed and went downstairs. Although I was so frightened that my knees were knocking together, I went after him. He came in here. This box of his was in that bureau—it’s in that bureau now.” She pointed to a tall, old-fashioned bureau which was just behind my chair. “He kept muttering to himself all the time; I could not catch all that he said, he spoke so low, but he repeated over and over again something about the devil. He took this box of his out of the bureau. He did something to it with his hands. What he did I don’t know. I suppose there was a secret spring about it, or something. But though I’ve tried to make it out over and over again since then, I’ve never been able to find the secret of it to this day. When he handled it the top flew open. He put the box down upon that table; and I stood watching him in the open doorway—just about where I am standing now—without his having the least notion I was there. I believe that, if he had known, he would have killed me.”

“Do you mean to say, while he was doing all you have described, that he was asleep?”

“Fast asleep.”

“You are quite sure, Mrs. Barnes, that you also were not fast asleep?”

“Not me; I almost wish I had been. I’ve never had a good night’s sleep from that hour to this. I’ve grown that thin, for want of it, that I’m nothing but a skeleton. As I was saying, when he had opened it he put the box down on the table. He gave a laugh which made my blood run cold.”— She struck me as being the sort of woman whose blood on very slight provocation would run cold. —“Then he took something out of the box. When I saw what it was I thought I should have fainted.” A nervous paroxysm seemed to pass all over her; her voice dropped to a whisper: “It was a woman’s finger!”

“A woman’s finger, Mrs. Barnes?”

“It was a woman’s finger. There was a wedding-ring on it: it was too small for the finger, so that the ring seemed to have eaten into the flesh. He stood staring at this wedding-ring.”

“What! staring! and he was fast asleep!”

“I don’t know much about sleep-walkers; he was the first I ever saw, and I hope he’ll be the last. But I do know that when he was sleep-walking his eyes were wide open, and he used to stare at things which, I suppose, he wanted to see, in a way which was horrible to look at. It was like that he stared at this wedding-ring. Then he said, right out loud: ‘I’ll cut you off one of these fine days, and see how you look upon my finger.’ Then he put the finger down on the table, and out of the box he took three other fingers and a thumb.”

“You are quite sure they were real, genuine, human fingers, Mrs. Barnes?”

“I know fingers when I see them, I suppose. You hear me out. He placed them on the table, nails uppermost, close together, just as the fingers are upon your own hand. He spoke to them. ‘You’ll never play any more of your devil’s tricks with me that’s a certainty!’ he said. And he leered and grinned and chuckled more like a demon than a man. Then he took something out of the box, wrapped in a piece of calico. I saw that on the calico there were stains of blood. Out of it he took the palm of a woman’s hand. Raising it to his lips, he kissed it, looking like the perfect devil that he was. He put it down palm downwards on the table, and he did something to the fingers. Then”— Mrs. Barnes gave utterance to a gasping sound, which it did not do one good to hear —“he picked it up, and I saw that by some devil’s trickery he had joined the separate parts together, and made it look as if it were a perfect hand.”

She stopped. I do not mind owning that if I had had my way, she would have stopped for good. Unfortunately I did not see my way to compel her to leave her tale unfinished.

“I suppose that at that dreadful sight I must have fainted, because the next thing I can remember is finding myself lying on the floor and the room all dark. For some time I dared scarcely breathe, far less move; I did not know where my husband might be. How I summoned up courage to enable me to creep upstairs, to this hour I do not know. When I did I found my husband fast asleep in bed.”

“You really must excuse my asking, Mrs. Barnes, but do you happen to recollect what you ate for supper that night, and are you in the habit of suffering from nightmare?”

“Nightmare! That was the first time I watched him. I have watched him over and over again since then. I soon found out that regularly every Friday night he walked in his sleep, and went downstairs, and gloated over that dreadful hand.”

“You say that he did this every Friday. Are you suggesting that with him Friday was some sort of anniversary?”

“I don’t know. What was I to think? What was any one to think? Don’t laugh at me—don’t! You think I am a fool, or lying. You shall see the hand for yourself, and tell me what you make of it. I will show it you, if I have to break his box open with a hammer.”

In a state of considerable and evident excitement, she crossed the room. I rose to enable her to approach the bureau. She took a small canvas bag out of the pocket of her dress. Out of this bag she took some keys.

“He has my keys. He made me give him them. He never knew that I had duplicates. But I always have had. He seldom went outside the front door; I think he was afraid of being seen in the streets. Whenever he did go I used to lock myself in here, and try to find the spring which opened the box. I had an idea that there might be something in it which I had not seen. I will open it now, if I have to smash it into splinters.”

She let down the flap of the bureau. Within there were nests of drawers, and one small centre cupboard. This cupboard she unlocked. When she had done so, she gave a stifled exclamation. “It has gone!” she said.

I stooped beside her. “What has gone?”

She turned to me a face which was ghastly in its revelation of abject terror. Her voice had suddenly degenerated into a sort of panting hiss.

“The box! It was here last night. After he had gone I unlocked the bureau, and I looked, and saw it was there.” She caught me by the arm, she gripped me with a strength of which, in her normal condition, I should imagine her incapable. “He must have come back like a thief in the night and taken it. He may be hidden somewhere in the house this moment. Oh, my God!”