Opening the door quietly, he lit a match as soon as he was inside, and turned the key in the lock. He then took the precaution of taking off his shoes; and lightly and stealthily he slipped upstairs and entered his room.

He had no sooner done so than a figure rose up from a chair by the fire and stumbled towards him. It was a middle-aged man, in a long, white, old-fashioned nightshirt, with a woollen shawl wrapped about his shoulders. There was no light but the firelight in the room; and the man’s countenance was a mere blur above the folded shawl.

“Was writing poetry⁠ ⁠… let my fire out⁠ ⁠… came before expected⁠ ⁠… humbly apologize⁠ ⁠… hope you’ll sleep well⁠ ⁠…” Without further explanation the man pushed past him and went out, leaving these broken sentences humming in the air like the murmurs of some thick, muffled, mechanical instrument. Once more Wolf found himself alone with the Landseer and the Alma-Tadema pictures.