Can Such Things Be?

its kind its disapproval of dwelling without dwellers.  It is two stories in height, nearly square, its front pierced by a single doorway flanked on each side by a window boarded up to the very top.  Corresponding windows above, not protected, serve to admit light and rain to the rooms of the upper floor.  Grass and weeds grow pretty rankly all about, and a few shade trees, somewhat the worse for wind, and leaning all in one direction, seem to be making a concerted effort to run away.  In short, as the Marshall town humorist explained in the columns of the Advance, “the proposition that the Manton house is badly haunted is the only logical conclusion from the premises.”  The fact that in this dwelling Mr. Manton thought it expedient one night some ten years ago to rise and cut the throats of his wife and two small children, removing at once to another part of the country, has no doubt done its share in directing public attention to the fitness of the place for supernatural phenomena.

To this house, one summer evening, came four men in a wagon.  Three of them promptly alighted, and the one who had been driving hitched the team to the only remaining post of what had been a fence.  The fourth remained seated in the wagon.  “Come,” said one of his companions, approaching him, while the others moved away in the direction of the dwelling - “this is the place.”

The man addressed did not move.  “By God!” he said harshly, “this is a trick, and it looks to me as if you were in it.”

“Perhaps I am,” the other said, looking him straight in the face and speaking in a tone which had something of contempt in it.  “You will remember, however, that the choice of place was with your own assent left to the other side.  Of course if you are afraid of spooks - ”

“I am afraid of nothing,” the man interrupted with another oath, and sprang to the ground.  The two then joined the others at the door, which one of them had already opened with some difficulty, caused by rust of lock and hinge.  All entered.  Inside it was dark, but the man who had unlocked the door produced a candle and matches and made a light.  He then unlocked a door on their right as they stood in the passage.  This gave them entrance to a large, square room that the candle but dimly lighted.  The floor had a thick carpeting of dust, which partly muffled their footfalls.  Cobwebs were in the angles of the walls and depended from the ceiling like strips of rotting lace, making undulatory movements in the disturbed air.  The room had two windows in adjoining sides, but from neither could anything be seen except the rough inner surfaces of boards a few inches from the glass.  There was no fireplace, no furniture; there was nothing: besides the cobwebs and the dust, the four men were the only objects there which were not a part of the structure.

Strange enough they looked in the yellow light of the candle.  The one who had so reluctantly alighted was especially spectacular - he might have been called sensational.  He was of middle age, heavily built, deep chested and broad shouldered.  Looking at his figure, one would have said that he had a giant’s strength; at his features, that he would use it like a giant.  He was clean shaven, his hair rather closely cropped and gray.  His low forehead was seamed with wrinkles above the eyes, and over the nose these became vertical.  The heavy black brows followed the same law, saved from meeting only by an upward turn at what would otherwise have been the point of contact.  Deeply sunken beneath these, glowed in the obscure light a pair of eyes of uncertain color, but obviously enough too small.  There was something forbidding in their expression, which was not bettered by the cruel mouth and wide jaw.  The nose was well enough, as noses go; one does not expect much of noses.  All that was sinister in the man’s face seemed accentuated by an unnatural pallor - he appeared altogether bloodless.

The appearance of the other men was sufficiently commonplace: they were such persons as one meets and forgets that he met.  All were younger than the man described, between whom and the eldest of the others, who stood apart, there was apparently no kindly feeling.  They avoided looking at each other.

“Gentlemen,” said the man holding the candle and keys, “I believe everything is right.  Are you ready, Mr. Rosser?”

The man standing apart from the group bowed and smiled.

“And you, Mr. Grossmith?”

The heavy man bowed and scowled.

“You will be pleased to remove your outer clothing.”

Their hats, coats, waistcoats and neckwear were soon removed and thrown outside the door, in the passage.  The man with the candle now nodded, and the fourth man - he who had urged Grossmith to leave the wagon - produced from the pocket of his overcoat two long, murderous-looking bowie-knives, which he drew now from their leather scabbards.

“They are exactly alike,” he said, presenting one to each of the two principals - for by this time the dullest observer would have understood the nature of this meeting.  It was to be a duel to the death.

Each combatant took a knife, examined it critically near the candle and tested the strength of blade and handle across his lifted knee.  Their persons were then searched in turn, each by the second of the other.

“If it is agreeable to you, Mr. Grossmith,” said the man holding the light, “you will place yourself in that corner.”

He indicated the angle of the room farthest from the door, whither Grossmith retired, his second parting from him with a grasp of the hand which had nothing of cordiality in it.  In the angle nearest the door Mr. Rosser stationed himself, and after a whispered consultation his second left him, joining the other near the door.  At that moment the candle was suddenly extinguished, leaving all in profound darkness.  This may have been done by a draught from the opened door; whatever the cause, the effect was startling.

“Gentlemen,” said a voice which sounded strangely unfamiliar in the altered condition affecting the relations of the senses - “gentlemen, you will not move until you hear the closing of the outer door.”

A sound of trampling ensued, then the closing of the inner door; and finally the outer one closed with a concussion which shook the entire building.

A few minutes afterward a belated farmer’s boy met a light wagon which was being driven furiously toward the town of Marshall.  He declared that behind the two figures on the front seat stood a third, with its hands upon the bowed shoulders of the others, who appeared to struggle vainly to free themselves from its grasp.  This figure, unlike the others, was clad in white, and had undoubtedly boarded the wagon as it passed the haunted house.  As the lad could boast a considerable former experience with the supernatural thereabouts his word had the weight justly due to the testimony of an expert.  The story (in connection with the next day’s events) eventually appeared in the Advance, with some slight literary embellishments and a concluding intimation that the gentlemen referred to would be allowed the use of the paper’s columns for their version of the night’s adventure.  But the privilege remained without a claimant.

II

The events that led up to this “duel in the dark” were simple enough.  One evening three young men of the town of Marshall were sitting in a quiet corner of the porch of the village hotel, smoking and discussing such matters as three educated young men of a Southern village would naturally find interesting.  Their names were King, Sancher and Rosser.  At a little distance, within easy hearing, but taking no part in the conversation, sat a fourth.  He was a stranger to the others.  They merely knew that on his arrival by the stage-coach that afternoon he had written in the hotel register the name Robert Grossmith.  He had not been observed to speak to anyone except the hotel clerk.  He seemed, indeed, singularly fond of his own company - or, as the personnel of the Advance expressed it, “grossly addicted to evil associations.”  But then it should be said in justice to the stranger that the personnel was himself of a too convivial disposition fairly to judge one differently gifted, and had, moreover, experienced a slight rebuff in an effort at an “interview.”

“I hate any kind of deformity in a woman,” said King, “whether natural or - acquired.  I have a theory that any physical defect has its correlative mental and moral defect.”

“I infer, then,” said Rosser, gravely, “that a lady lacking the moral advantage of a nose would find the struggle to become Mrs. King an arduous enterprise.”

“Of course you may put it that way,” was the reply; “but, seriously, I once threw over a most charming girl on learning quite accidentally that she had suffered amputation of a toe.  My conduct was brutal if you like, but if I had married that girl I should have been miserable for life and should have made her so.”