In the evening Dr. Crackenthorpe paid us a visit. He found my father out, but elected to sit with us and smoke his pipe expectant of the other’s return.

 

He always treated us boys as if we were so much dirt, and we respected his strength just sufficiently¹ to try no pranks² on him in the absence of the ruling power. But nevertheless we resented his presumption⁴ of authority, and whenever he sat with us alone made an exaggerated affectation of being thick in whispered confidences among ourselves.

 

Zyp was still upstairs and the doctor had not as yet seen her, but he was conscious, I think, in some telepathic way, of an alien presence in the house, for he kept shifting his position uneasily and looking toward the door. A screech⁵ from his lips suddenly startled us, and we turned round to see the long man standing⁶ bolt upright, with his face gone the color of a meal sack, and his bold eyes staring prominent.

 

“What’s the matter?” said Jason.

 

Gradually the doctor’s face assumed a dark look of rage.

 

“Which of you was it?” he cried in a broken voice; “tell me, or I’ll crack all your fingers up like fire sticks!”

 

“What’s the matter?” said Jason, again; “you see for yourself we’ve been sitting by the table all the time you’ve been there.”

 

“Something spoke⁷—somebody, I tell you, as I sat here in the chimney corner!” He was beside himself with fury and had great ado to crush his emotion under. But he succeeded, and sat down again trembling all over.

 

“A curse is on the house!” he muttered; then aloud: “I’ve had enough of your games, you black vermin! I won’t stand it, d’ye hear? Let there be an end!”

 

We stared, dropped into our seats and were beginning our confidences once more, when the doctor started up a second time with a loud oath, and leaped into the middle of the room.

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