“Of course I’ve come, old fellow,” I responded, as bluffly as I could. “As soon as I got your letter. But what the devil’s the matter? You look as if you’ve been through Hell.”

At this, some memory seemed to rekindle the terror in his eyes. He turned from me and stared into the now-blazing fire. “You were wrong, you know, Neville.”

“Wrong? In what respect?”

“All of it. All of it,” said he, his tone mournful.

“There is a world beyond the world we know. There is a world beyond, and it’s … it’s …” But he did not—could not—finish. Rather, lifting his face once more, he showed to me an expression of such pitiable horror that no further utterance was necessary. “Neville,” he whispered then, galvanized suddenly, leaning towards me urgently. “Neville, I have seen it. I have seen her.”

“Her? Who?” I said sharply. I was moved to irritation by the chill that had begun to edge up my spine.

“What the devil are you talking about? Whom have you seen?”

With that, the energy seemed to drain out of him. The poor fellow subsided weakly in his chair, his chin sunk on his chest, his features limp. His voice, when it came again, was as solemn as the echo from an empty tomb.

“Black Annie!” was all he said.

I did not know whether to laugh at this or to recoil at the further evidence of his disturbed senses. In the end, averting my face to hide my reactions from him, I said merely, “I say, do you think there’s anything to eat in this mausoleum?”

Fortunately, there was. For it now transpired that not all the servants had entirely deserted the place. One girl, at least—in very pity for her young master, as I suspected—remained. She had agreed to attend to my friend’s needs by daylight on the stipulation that she might be well away from the house before the onset of dusk. Thus, on investigation, I found a cold repast had already been laid out in the dining room. No more than a modest portion of mutton, a half loaf of bread and a rather unfortunate claret, still it sufficed. I brought the provisions into the sitting room, where we made a rude feast of them before the hearth.

We ate in silence. To be honest, we drank a good deal more than we ate. Quentin, at my urging, did manage to pick desultorily at his chop. For my own part, however, I mostly sat brooding over my wine, reflecting on what I had so far heard.