Last night, while the three of us sat together in the spacious drawing room of this building, the lamp was blown out. I say ‘blown out’ because there is no doubt that it was, and by some superhuman agency. There was not a breath of air stirring outside, yet I, who was sitting just across from the lamp, felt a cool draft. No one else noticed this draft. It was just as if someone directly opposite me had blown forcibly at the lamp, or as if the wing of a powerful bird had passed by it.

There can be no doubt there is something radically wrong, in this house, and I am determined to find out what it is, regardless of consequences.

(Here the letter terminates abruptly, as if it were to be completed at a later date.)

The two doctors bending over the body of Sir Harry Barclay in Lohrville Manor at last ceased their examinations.

“I cannot account for this astounding loss of blood, Dr. Mordaunt.”

“Neither can I, Dr. Greene. He is so devoid of blood that some supernatural agency must have kept him alive!” He laughed lightly.

“About this loss of blood—I was figuring on internal hemorrhages as the cause, but there are absolutely no signs of anything of the sort. According to the expression of his features, which is too horrible for even me to gaze at—”

“And me.”

“—he died from some terrible fear of something, or else he witnessed some horrifying scene.”

“Most likely the latter.”

“I think we had better pronounce death due to internal hemorrhage and apoplexy.”

“I agree.”

“Then we shall do so.”

The physicians bent over the open book on the table. Suddenly Dr. Greene straightened up and his hand delved into his pocket and came out with a match.

“Here is a match, Dr. Mordaunt. Scratch it and apply the flame to that book and say nothing to anyone.”

“It is for the best”

Excerpts from the journal of Sir Harry E. Barclay, found beside his body in Lohrville Manor on July 17, 1925.

June 25—Last night I had a curious nightmare, I dreamed that I met a beautiful girl in the wood around my father’s castle in Lancaster. Without knowing why, we embraced, our lips meeting and remaining in that position for at least half an hour! Queer dream that! I must have had another nightmare of a different nature, although I cannot recall it; for, upon looking in the mirror, this morning, I found my face devoid of all color—rather drawn.

Later—Leon has told me that he had a similar dream, and as he is a confirmed misogynist, I cannot interpret it. Strange that it should be so parallel to mine in every way.