Then there came a crisp step on the gravel, a rattle at the front-door, and Jack came in.
“Good sport,” he said, “you gave up too soon.”
And he went straight to the table above which hung the picture of the man at the brickkiln, and looked at it. Then there was silence; and eventually I spoke, for I wanted to know one thing.
“Seen anybody?” I asked.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Because I have also; the man in that picture.”
Jack came and sat down near me.
“It’s a ghost, you know,” he said. “He came down to the river about dusk and stood near me for an hour. At first I thought he was—was real, and I warned him that he had better stand further off if he didn’t want to be hooked. And then it struck me he wasn’t real, and I cast, well, right through him, and about seven he walked up towards the house.”
“Were you frightened?”
“No. It was so tremendously interesting. So you saw him here too. Whereabouts?”
“Just outside. I think he is in the house now.”
Jack looked round.
“Did you see him come in?” he asked.
“No, but I felt him. There’s another queer thing too; the chimney of the brickkiln is smoking.”
Jack looked out of the window. It was nearly dark but the wreathing smoke could just be seen.
“So it is,” he said, “fat, greasy smoke. I think I’ll go up and see what’s on. Come too?”
“I think not,” I said.
“Are you frightened? It isn’t worth while. Besides, it is so tremendously interesting.”
Jack came back from his little expedition still interested. He had found nothing stirring at the kiln, but though it was then nearly dark the interior was faintly luminous, and against the black of the sky he could see a wisp of thick white smoke floating northwards. But for the rest of the evening we neither heard nor saw anything of abnormal import, and the next day ran a course of undisturbed hours. Then suddenly a hellish activity was manifested.
That night, while I was undressing for bed, I heard a bell ring furiously, and I thought I heard a shout also. I guessed where the ring came from, since Franklyn and his wife had long ago gone to bed, and went straight to Jack’s room. But as I tapped at the door I heard his voice from inside calling loud to me. “Take care,” it said, “he’s close to the door.”
A sudden qualm of blank fear took hold of me, but mastering it as best I could, I opened the door to enter, and once again something pushed softly by me, though I saw nothing.
Jack was standing by his bed, half-undressed. I saw him wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.
“He’s been here again,” he said. “I was standing just here, a minute ago, when I found him close by me. He came out of the inner room, I think. Did you see what he had in his hand?”
“I saw nothing.”
“It was a knife; a great long carving knife. Do you mind my sleeping on the sofa in your room tonight? I got an awful turn then. There was another thing too. All round the edge of his clothes, at his collar and at his wrists, there were little flames playing, little white licking flames.”
But next day, again, we neither heard nor saw anything, nor that night did the sense of that dreadful presence in the house come to us. And then came the last day. We had been out till it was dark, and as I said, had a wonderful day among the fish. On reaching home we sat together in the sitting-room, when suddenly from overhead came a tread of feet, a violent pealing of the bell, and the moment after yell after yell as of someone in mortal agony. The thought occurred to both of us that this might be Mrs. Franklyn in terror of some fearful sight, and together we rushed up and sprang into Jack’s bedroom.
The doorway into the room beyond was open, and just inside it we saw the man bending over some dark huddled object. Though the room was dark we could see him perfectly, for a light stale and impure seemed to come from him. He had again a long knife in his hand, and as we entered he was wiping it on the mass that lay at his feet. Then he took it up, and we saw what it was, a woman with head nearly severed. But it was not Mrs. Franklyn.
And then the whole thing vanished, and we were standing looking into a dark and empty room. We went downstairs without a word, and it was not till we were both in the sitting-room below that Jack spoke.
“And he takes her to the brickkiln,” he said rather unsteadily. “I say, have you had enough of this house? I have. There is hell in it.”
About a week later Jack put into my hand a guidebook to Sussex open at the description of Trevor Major, and I read:
“Just outside the village stands the picturesque manor house, once the home of the artist and notorious murderer, Francis Adam. It was here he killed his wife, in a fit, it is believed, of groundless jealousy, cutting her throat and disposing of her remains by burning them in a brickkiln. Certain charred fragments
