An instant later a white-faced, hard-
breathing policeman had opened the door, the candle wavering in
his trembling hand.
"What's the matter, Walters?" asked Baynes sharply.
The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and agave a
long sigh of relief.
"I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I
don't think my nerve is as good as it was."
"Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve
in your body."
"Well, sir, it's this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in
the kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had
come again."
"That what had come again?"
"The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window."
"What was at the window, and when?"
"It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I
was sitting reading in the chair. I don't know what made me look
up, but there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane.
Lord, sir, what a face it was! I'll see it in my dreams."
"Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable."
"I know, sir, I know; but it shook me, sir, and there's no use to
deny it. It wasn't black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour
that I know but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of
milk in it.
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