“Certainly not,” he said brusquely, moving to the door. As he placed his hand on the door-handle, he felt as though the evil spirit of Mukalog were serpentining towards him over the poet’s shoulders and over the smooth Boule table.

“I’m not one to listen to tales from anyone, Mr. Otter,” he said as he went out.

He crossed the landing and entered his own room. Now that he was alone, he fell into a very grave meditation, as he slowly laced up his boots. “No wonder,” he said to himself, “that poor chap Redfern committed suicide! What with this man’s demon and Mr. Urquhart’s devilish History, this place doesn’t seem a paradisal retreat. Well! Well! We shall see what we shall see.”

He carried his coat and hat quietly downstairs and managed to get out of the house unobserved by either Mrs. Otter or the old servant.