“Dead,” I replied in sorrow-choked voice. “Lo, these many years.”

Nodding grimly—as though my statement had only confirmed him in a bitter supposition—Asher declared: “But this, you see, is the perverse nature of life: that the good, the graceful, the gifted—those with power to bring light and joy to the world—are cruelly snatched from our midst in the very flower of their youth; while others”—and here, his countenance assumed an expression of the most profound resentment and distaste—“who do nothing but make each day a hell for those nearest to them, cling to their existence with a monstrous tenacity!”

This impassioned outburst left our frail and sickly host visibly shaken. For a moment, he seemed to totter on his feet—eyes shut tight—sunken chest heaving—gaunt frame quavering as though from the sudden onset of the Spanish influenza. Several moments elapsed before his inner tumult subsided. His eyelids fluttered open and his lips drew back into a mirthless smile that—while seemingly intended to convey a courteous hospitality—had all the warmth of a corpse’s grotesque rictus.

“So, gentlemen,” said he, “to what do I owe the honor of this unlooked-for visitation?”

I parted my lips to reply. Before I could produce a sound, a faint but startling cry—as ghastly as the supplications of a lost, tormented soul—drifted from the bowels of the house. My mouth grew instantly dry—the blood congealed in my veins—and my throat closed as tight as though an assassin’s garrote had been jerked around my neck, rendering me utterly incapable of speech!

Wearily shaking his head, Asher exhaled a soft, defeated sigh and said: “There she goes again. Forgive me, gentlemen—my sister beckons. She is, I fear, a most demanding, indeed a most tyrannical, patient. But what choice do I have? I am her sole source of comfort. It is I alone who can minister to her needs—no matter how burdensome, how onerous, how monstrously excessive they may be! But not for very much longer—oh, no! For the portion of life that remains to her is meagre indeed.”

In delivering himself of this extraordinary speech, our host had once again wrought himself up into a state of near-hysterical agitation. His bony hands trembled, his gaping eyes gleamed, and froths of spittle formed in the corners of his mouth.

“Please, gentlemen,” he gasped. “Make yourselves at home.” Then—as another shrill, unearthly cry wafted from the inner reaches of the house—he swivelled on his heels and bolted from the drawing room.

“Queer sort o’ feller,” Crockett mused, staring after our departed host.

“Indeed,” I replied. “Though whether his eccentricities are of the sort that might result in murder remains to be determined.”