The story, I suppose, begins with Adrian Borlsover, whom I met when Iwas a little boy and he an old man. My father had called to appeal for asubscription, and before he left, Mr. Borlsover laid his right hand inblessing on my head. I shall never forget the awe in which I gazed up athis face and realized for the first time that eyes might be dark andbeautiful and shining and yet not able to see.

For Adrian Borlsover was blind.

He was an extraordinary man, who came of an eccentric stock. Borlsoversons for some reason always seemed to marry very ordinary women, whichperhaps accounted for the fact that no Borlsover had been a genius andonly one Borlsover had been mad. But they were great champions of littlecauses, generous patrons of odd sciences, founders of querulous sects,trustworthy guides to the bypath meadows of erudition.

Adrian was an authority on the fertilization of orchids. He had held atone time the family living at Borlsover Conyers, until a congenitalweakness of the lungs obliged him to seek a less rigorous climate in thesunny south-west watering-place where I had seen him. Occasionally hewould relieve one or other of the local clergy. My father described himas a fine preacher, who gave long and inspiring sermons from what manymen would have considered unprofitable texts. "An excellent proof," hewould add, "of the truth of the doctrine of direct verbal inspiration."

Adrian Borlsover was exceedingly clever with his hands. His penmanshipwas exquisite. He illustrated all his scientific papers, made his ownwoodcuts, and carved the reredos that is at present the chief feature ofinterest in the church at Borlsover Conyers. He had an exceedinglyclever knack in cutting silhouettes for young ladies and paper pigs andcows for little children, and made more than one complicated windinstrument of his own devising.

When he was fifty years old Adrian Borlsover lost his sight. In awonderfully short time he adapted himself to the new conditions of life.He quickly learn to read Braille. So marvellous indeed was his sense oftouch, that he was still able to maintain his interest in botany. Themere passing of his long supple fingers over a flower was sufficientmeans for its identification, though occasionally he would use his lips.I have found several letters of his among my father's correspondence; inno case was there anything to show that he was afflicted with blindness,and this in spite of the fact that he exercised undue economy in thespacing of lines. Towards the close of his life Adrian Borlsover wascredited with powers of touch that seemed almost uncanny. It has beensaid that he could tell at once the colour of a ribbon placed betweenhis fingers. My father would neither confirm nor deny the story.

Adrian Borlsover was a bachelor. His elder brother, Charles, had marriedlate in life, leaving one son, Eustace, who lived in the gloomy Georgianmansion at Borlsover Conyers, where he could work undisturbed incollecting material for his great book on heredity.

Like his uncle, he was a remarkable man. The Borlsovers had always beenborn naturalists, but Eustace possessed in a special degree the power ofsystematizing his knowledge. He had received his university education inGermany; and then, after post-graduate work in Vienna and Naples, hadtravelled for four years in South America and the East, getting togethera huge store of material for a new study into the processes ofvariation.

He lived alone at Borlsover Conyers with Saunders, his secretary, a manwho bore a somewhat dubious reputation in the district, but whose powersas a mathematician, combined with his business abilities, wereinvaluable to Eustace.

Uncle and nephew saw little of each other. The visits of Eustace wereconfined to a week in the summer or autumn--tedious weeks, that draggedalmost as slowly as the bath-chair in which the old man was drawn alongthe sunny sea-front. In their way the two men were fond of each other,though their intimacy would, doubtless, have been greater had theyshared the same religious views. Adrian held to the old-fashionedevangelical dogmas of his early manhood; his nephew for many years hadbeen thinking of embracing Buddhism. Both men possessed, too, thereticence the Borlsovers had always shown, and which their enemiessometimes called hypocrisy. With Adrian it was a reticence as to thethings he had left undone; but with Eustace it seemed that the curtainwhich he was so careful to leave undrawn hid something more than ahalf-empty chamber.

Two years before his death Adrian Borlsover developed, unknown tohimself, the not uncommon power of automatic writing. Eustace made thediscovery by accident, Adrian was sitting reading in bed, the forefingerof his left hand tracing the Braille characters, when his nephew noticedthat a pencil the old man held in his right hand was moving slowly alongthe opposite page. He left his seat in the window and sat down besidethe bed. The right had continued to move and now he could see plainlythat they were letters and words which it was forming.

"Adrian Borlsover," wrote the hand, "Eustace Borlsover, CharlesBorlsover, Francis Borlsover, Sigismund Borlsover, Adrian Borlsover,Eustace Borlsover, Saville Borlsover. B for Borlsover. Honesty is theBest Policy. Beautiful Belinda Borlsover."

"What curious nonsense!" said Eustace to himself.

"King George ascended the throne in 1760," wrote the hand. "Crowd, anoun of multitude; a collection of individuals. Adrian Borlsover,Eustace Borlsover."

"It seems to me," said his uncle, closing the book, "that you had muchbetter make the most of the afternoon sunshine and take your walk now."

"I think perhaps I will," Eustace answered as he picked up the volume."I won't go far, and when I come back I can read to you those articlesin _Nature_ about which we were speaking."

He went along the promenade, but stopped at the first shelter and,seating himself in the corner best protected from the wind, he examinedthe book at leisure. Nearly every page was scored with a meaninglessjumble of pencil-marks; rows of capital letters, short words, longwords, complete sentences, copy-book tags. The whole thing, in fact, hadthe appearance of a copy-book, and, on a more careful scrutiny, Eustacethought that there was ample evidence to show that the handwriting atthe beginning of the book, good though it was, was not nearly so good asthe handwriting at the end.

He left his uncle at the end of October with a promise to return earlyin December. It seemed to him quite clear that the old man's power ofautomatic writing was developing rapidly, and for the first time helooked forward to a visit that would combine duty with interest.

But on his return he was at first disappointed. His uncle, he thought,looked older. He was listless, too, preferring others to read to him anddictating nearly all his letters. Not until the day before he left hadEustace an opportunity of observing Adrian Borlsover's new-foundfaculty.

The old man, propped up in bed with pillows, had sunk into a lightsleep. His two hands lay on the coverlet, his left hand tightly claspinghis right. Eustace took an empty manuscript-book and placed a pencilwithin reach of the fingers of the right hand. They snatched at iteagerly, then dropped the pencil to loose the left hand from itsrestraining grasp.

"Perhaps to prevent interference I had better hold that hand," saidEustace to himself, as he watched the pencil. Almost immediately itbegan to write.

"Blundering Borlsovers, unnecessarily unnatural, extraordinarilyeccentric, culpably curious."

"Who are you?" asked Eustace in a low voice.

"Never you mind," wrote the hand of Adrian.

"Is it my uncle who is writing?"

"O my prophetic soul, mine uncle!"

"Is it anyone I know?"

"Silly Eustace, you'll see me very soon."

"When shall I see you?"

"When poor old Adrian's dead."

"Where shall I see you?"

"Where shall you not?"

Instead of speaking his next question, Eustace wrote it: "What is thetime?"

The fingers dropped the pencil and moved three or four times across thepaper. Then, picking up the pencil, they wrote: "Ten minutes beforefour. Put your book away, Eustace. Adrian mustn't find us working atthis sort of thing. He doesn't know what to make of it, and I won't havepoor old Adrian disturbed. Au revoir!"

Adrian Borlsover awoke with a start.

"I've been dreaming again," he said; "such queer dreams of leagueredcities and forgotten towns. You were mixed up in this one, Eustace,though I can't remember how. Eustace, I want to warn you. Don't walk indoubtful paths. Choose your friends well. Your poor grandfather..."

A fit of coughing put an end to what he was saying, but Eustace saw thatthe hand was still writing. He managed unnoticed to draw the bookaway. "I'll light the gas," he said, "and ring for tea." On the otherside of the bed-curtain he saw the last sentences that had been written.

"It's too late, Adrian," he read. "We're friends already, aren't we,Eustace Borlsover?"

On the following day Eustace left. He thought his uncle looked ill whenhe said goodbye, and the old man spoke despondently of the failure hislife had been.

"Nonsense, uncle," said his nephew. "You have got over your difficultiesin a way not one in a hundred thousand would have done. Everyone marvelsat your splendid perseverance in teaching your hands to take the placeof your lost sight. To me it's been a revelation of the possibilities ofeducation."

"Education," said his uncle dreamily, as if the word had started a newtrain of thought. "Education is good so long as you know to whom and forwhat purpose you give it. But with the lower orders of men, the baserand more sordid spirits, I have grave doubts as to its results. Well,good-bye, Eustace; I may not see you again. You are a true Borlsover,with all the Borlsover faults. Marry, Eustace. Marry some good, sensiblegirl. And if by any chance I don't see you again, my will is at mysolicitor's. I've not left you any legacy, because I know you're wellprovided for; but I thought you might like to have my books. Oh, andthere's just one other thing. You know, before the end people often losecontrol over themselves and make absurd requests. Don't pay anyattention to them, Eustace. Good-bye!" and he held out his hand. Eustacetook it. It remained in his a fraction of a second longer than he hadexpected and gripped him with a virility that was surprising. There was,too, in its touch a subtle sense of intimacy.

"Why, uncle," he said, "I shall see you alive and well for many longyears to come."

*****

Two months later Adrian Borlsover died.

Eustace Borlsover was in Naples at the time. He read the obituary noticein the _Morning Post_ on the day announced for the funeral.

"Poor old fellow!" he said. "I wonder whether I shall find room for allhis books."

The question occurred to him again with greater force when, three dayslater, he found himself standing in the library at Borlsover Conyers, ahuge room built for use and not for beauty in the year of Waterloo by aBorlsover who was an ardent admirer of the great Napoleon. It wasarranged on the plan of many college libraries, with tall projectingbookcases forming deep recesses of dusty silence, fit graves for the oldhates of forgotten controversy, the dead passions of forgotten lives. Atthe end of the room, behind the bust of some unknown eighteenth-centurydivine, an ugly iron corkscrew stair led to a shelf-lined gallery.Nearly every shelf was full.

"I must talk to Saunders about it," said Eustace. "I suppose that weshall have to have the billiard-room fitted up with bookcases."

The two men met for the first time after many weeks in the dining-roomthat evening.

"Hallo!" said Eustace, standing before the fire with his hands in hispockets. "How goes the world, Saunders? Why these dress togs?" Hehimself was wearing an old shooting-jacket. He did not believe inmourning, as he had told his uncle on his last visit; and, though heusually went in for quiet-coloured ties, he wore this evening one of anugly red, in order to shock Morton, the butler, and to make them thrashout the whole question of mourning for themselves in the servants' hall.Eustace was a true Borlsover. "The world," said Saunders, "goes the sameas usual, confoundedly slow. The dress togs are accounted for by aninvitation from Captain Lockwood to bridge."

"How are you getting there?"

"There's something the matter with the car, so I've told Jackson todrive me round in the dogcart. Any objection?"

"Oh, dear me, no! We've had all things in common for far too many yearsfor me to raise objections at this hour of the day."

"You'll find your correspondence in the library," went on Saunders."Most of it I've seen to. There are a few private letters I haven'topened. There's also a box with a rat or something inside it that cameby the evening post. Very likely it's the six-toed beast Terry wassending us to cross with the four-toed albino. I didn't look because Ididn't want to mess up my things; but I should gather from the way it'sjumping about that it's pretty hungry."

"Oh, I'll see to it," said Eustace, "while you and the captain earn anhonest penny."

Dinner over and Saunders gone, Eustace went into the library. Though thefire had been lit, the room was by no means cheerful.

"We'll have all the lights on, at any rate," he said, as he turned theswitches. "And, Morton," he added, when the butler brought the coffee,"get me a screwdriver or something to undo this box. Whatever the animalis, he's kicking up the deuce of a row. What is it? Why are youdawdling?"

"If you please, sir, when the postman brought it, he told me that they'dbored the holes in the lid at the post office. There were no breathingholes in the lid, sir, and they didn't want the animal to die. That isall, sir."

"It's culpably careless of the man, whoever he was," said Eustace, as heremoved the screws, "packing an animal like this in a wooden box with nomeans of getting air. Confound it all! I meant to ask Morton to bring mea cage to put it in. Now I suppose I shall have to get one myself."

He placed a heavy book on the lid from which the screws had beenremoved, and went into the billiard-room. As he came back into thelibrary with an empty cage in his hand, he heard the sound of somethingfalling, and then of something scuttling along the floor.

"Bother it! The beast's got out. How in the world am I to find it againin this library?"

To search for it did indeed seem hopeless. He tried to follow the soundof the scuttling in one of the recesses, where the animal seemed to berunning behind the books in the shelves; but it was impossible to locateit. Eustace resolved to go on quietly reading. Very likely the animalmight gain confidence and show itself. Saunders seemed to have dealt inhis usual methodical manner with most of the correspondence. There werestill the private letters.

What was that? Two sharp clicks and the lights in the hideouscandelabras that hung from the ceiling suddenly went out.

"I wonder if something has gone wrong with the fuse," said Eustace, ashe went to the switches by the door. Then he stopped. There was a noiseat the other end of the room, as if something was crawling up the ironcorkscrew stair. "If it's gone into the gallery," he said, "well andgood." He hastily turned on the lights, crossed the room, and climbed upthe stair. But he could see nothing. His grandfather had placed a littlegate at the top of the stair, so that children could run and romp in thegallery without fear of accident. This Eustace closed, and, havingconsiderably narrowed the circle of his search, returned to his desk bythe fire.

How gloomy the library was! There was no sense of intimacy about theroom. The few busts that an eighteenth-century Borlsover had broughtback from the grand tour might have been in keeping in the old library.Here they seemed out of place. They made the room feel cold in spite ofthe heavy red damask curtain and great gilt cornices.

With a crash two heavy books fell from the gallery to the floor; then,as Borlsover looked, another, and yet another.

"Very well. You'll starve for this, my beauty!" he said. "We'll do somelittle experiments on the metabolism of rats deprived of water. Go on!Chuck them down! I think I've got the upper hand." He turned once moreto his correspondence. The letter was from the family solicitor. Itspoke of his uncle's death, and of the valuable collection of books thathad been left to him in the will.

There was one request [he read] which certainly came as asurprise to me. As you know, Mr. Adrian Borlsover had left instructionsthat his body was to be buried in as simple a manner as possible atEastbourne. He expressed a desire that there should be neither wreathsnor flowers of any kind, and hoped that his friends and relatives wouldnot consider it necessary to wear mourning. The day before his death wereceived a letter cancelling these instructions. He wished the body tobe embalmed (he gave us the address of the man we were toemploy--Pennifer, Ludgate Hill), with orders that his right hand shouldbe sent to you stating that it was at your special request. The otherarrangements about the funeral remained unaltered.

"Good Lord," said Eustace, "what in the world was the old boy drivingat? And what in the name of all that's holy is that?"

Someone was in the gallery. Someone had pulled the cord attached to oneof the blinds, and it had rolled up with a snap. Someone must be in thegallery, for a second blind did the same. Someone must be walking roundthe gallery, for one after the other the blinds sprang up, letting inthe moonlight.

"I haven't got to the bottom of this yet," said Eustace, "but I will do,before the night is very much older"; and he hurried up the corkscrewstair. He had just got to the top, when the lights went out a secondtime, and he heard again the scuttling along the floor. Quickly he stoleon tiptoe in the dim moonshine in the direction of the noise, feeling,as he went, for one of the switches. His fingers touched the metal knobat last. He turned on the electric light.

About ten yards in front of him, crawling along the floor, was a man'shand. Eustace stared at it in utter amazement. It was moving quickly inthe manner of a geometer caterpillar, the fingers humped up one moment,flattened out the next; the thumb appeared to give a crablike motion tothe whole. While he was looking, too surprised to stir, the handdisappeared round the corner. Eustace ran forward. He no longer saw it,but he could hear it, as it squeezed its way behind the books on one ofthe shelves. A heavy volume had been displaced. There was a gap in therow of books, where it had got in. In his fear lest it should escape himagain, he seized the first book that came to his hand and plugged itinto the hole. Then, emptying two shelves of their contents, he took thewooden boards and propped them up in front to make his barrier doublysure.

"I wish Saunders was back," he said; "one can't tackle this sort ofthing alone." It was after eleven, and there seemed little likelihood ofSaunders returning before twelve. He did not dare to leave the shelfunwatched, even to run downstairs to ring the bell. Morton, the butler,often used to come round about eleven to see that the windows werefastened, but he might not come. Eustace was thoroughly unstrung. Atlast he heard steps down below.

"Morton!" he shouted. "Morton!"

"Sir?"

"Has Mr. Saunders got back yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Well, bring me some brandy, and hurry up about it. I'm up in thegallery, you duffer."

"Thanks," said Eustace, as he emptied the glass. "Don't go to bed yet,Morton. There are a lot of books that have fallen down by accident.Bring them up and put them back in their shelves."

Morton had never seen Borlsover in so talkative a mood as on that night."Here," said Eustace, when the books had been put back and dusted, "youmight hold up these boards for me, Morton. That beast in the box gotout, and I've been chasing it all over the place."

"I think I can hear it clawing at the books, sir. They're not valuable,I hope? I think that's the carriage, sir; I'll go and call Mr.Saunders."

It seemed to Eustace that he was away for five minutes, but it couldhardly have been more than one, when he returned with Saunders. "Allright, Morton, you can go now. I'm up here, Saunders."

"What's all the row?" asked Saunders, as he lounged forward with hishands in his pockets. The luck had been with him all the evening. He wascompletely satisfied, both with himself and with Captain Lockwood'staste in wines. "What's the matter? You look to me to be in anabsolutely blue funk."

"That old devil of an uncle of mine," began Eustace--"Oh, I can'texplain it all. It's his hand that's been playing Old Harry all theevening. But I've got it cornered behind these books. You've got to helpme to catch it."

"What's up with you, Eustace? What's the game?"

"It's no game, you silly idiot! If you don't believe me, take out one ofthose books and put your hand in and feel."

"All right," said Saunders; "but wait till I've rolled up my sleeve. Theaccumulated dust of centuries, eh?" He took off his coat, knelt down,and thrust his arm along the shelf.

"There's something there right enough," he said. "It's got a funny,stumpy end to it, whatever it is, and nips like a crab. Ah! No, youdon't!" He pulled his hand out in a flash. "Shove in a book quickly. Nowit can't get out."

"What was it?" asked Eustace.

"Something that wanted very much to get hold of me. I felt what seemedlike a thumb and forefinger. Give me some brandy."

"How are we to get it out of there?"

"What about a landing-net?"

"No good. It would be too smart for us. I tell you, Saunders, it cancover the ground far faster than I can walk. But I think I see how wecan manage it. The two books at the ends of the shelf are big ones, thatgo right back against the wall. The others are very thin. I'll take outone at a time, and you slide the rest along, until we have it squashedbetween the end two."

It certainly seemed to be the best plan. One by one as they took out thebooks, the space behind grew smaller and smaller. There was something init that was certainly very much alive. Once they caught sight of fingersfeeling for a way of escape. At last they had it pressed between the twobig books.

"There's muscle there, if there isn't warm flesh and blood," saidSaunders, as he held them together. "It seems to be a hand right enough,too. I suppose this is a sort of infectious hallucination. I've readabout such cases before."

"Infectious fiddlesticks!" said Eustace, his face white with anger;"bring the thing downstairs. We'll get it back into the box."

It was not altogether easy, but they were successful at last. "Drive inthe screws," said Eustace; "we won't run any risks. Put the box in thisold desk of mine. There's nothing in it that I want. Here's the key.Thank goodness there's nothing wrong with the lock."

"Quite a lively evening," said Saunders. "Now let's hear more about youruncle."

They sat up together until early morning. Saunders had no desire forsleep. Eustace was trying to explain and to forget; to conceal fromhimself a fear that he had never felt before--the fear of walking alonedown the long corridor to his bedroom.

* * * * *

"Whatever it was," said Eustace to Saunders on the following morning, "Ipropose that we drop the subject. There's nothing to keep us here forthe next ten days. We'll motor up to the Lakes and get some climbing."

"And see nobody all day, and sit bored to death with each other everynight. Not for me, thanks. Why not run up to town? Run's the exact wordin this case, isn't it? We're both in such a blessed funk. Pull yourselftogether, Eustace, and let's have another look at the hand."

"As you like," said Eustace; "there's the key."

They went into the library and opened the desk. The box was as they hadleft it on the previous night.

"What are you waiting for?" asked Eustace.

"I am waiting for you to volunteer to open the lid. However, since youseem to funk it, allow me. There doesn't seem to be the likelihood ofany rumpus this morning at all events." He opened the lid and picked outthe hand.

"Cold?" asked Eustace.

"Tepid. A bit below blood heat by the feel. Soft and supple too. If it'sthe embalming, it's a sort of embalming I've never seen before. Is ityour uncle's hand?"

"Oh yes, it's his all right," said Eustace. "I should know those longthin fingers anywhere. Put it back in the box, Saunders. Never mindabout the screws. I'll lock the desk, so that there'll be no chance ofits getting out. We'll compromise by motoring up to town for a week. Ifwe can get off soon after lunch, we ought to be at Grantham or Stamfordby night."

"Right," said Saunders, "and tomorrow--oh, well, by tomorrow we shallhave forgotten all about this beastly thing."

If, when the morrow came, they had not forgotten, it was certainly truethat at the end of the week they were able to tell a very vividghost-story at the little supper Eustace gave on Hallow E'en.

"You don't want us to believe that it's true, Mr. Borlsover? Howperfectly awful!"

"I'll take my oath on it, and so would Saunders here; wouldn't you, oldchap?"

"Any number of oaths," said Saunders. "It was a long thin hand, youknow, and it gripped me just like that."

"Don't, Mr. Saunders! Don't! How perfectly horrid! Now tell us anotherone, do! Only a really creepy one, please."

"Here's a pretty mess!" said Eustace on the following day, as he threw aletter across the table to Saunders. "It's your affair, though. Mrs.Merrit, if I understand it, gives a month's notice."

"Oh, that's quite absurd on Mrs. Merrit's part," replied Saunders. "Shedoesn't know what she's talking about. Let's see what she says."

Dear Sir [he read]. This is to let you know that I must give you amonth's notice as from Tuesday, the 13th. For a long time I've felt theplace too big for me; but when Jane Parfit and Emma Laidlaw go off withscarcely as much as an "If you please", after frightening the wits outof the other girls, so that they can't turn out a room by themselves orwalk alone down the stairs for fear of treading on half-frozen toads orhearing it run along the passages at night, all I can say is that it'sno place for me. So I must ask you, Mr. Borlsover, sir, to find a newhousekeeper, that has no objection to large and lonely houses, whichsome people do say, not that I believe them for a minute, my poor motheralways having been a Wesleyan, are haunted. Yours faithfully, ELIZABETH MERRIT

P.S.--I should be obliged if you would give my respects to Mr. Saunders.I hope that he won't run any risks with his cold.

"Saunders," said Eustace, "you've always had a wonderful way with you indealing with servants. You mustn't let poor old Merrit go."

"Of course she shan't go," said Saunders. "She's probably only anglingfor a rise in salary. I'll write to her this morning."

"No. There's nothing like a personal interview. We've had enough oftown. We'll go back to-morrow, and you must work your cold for all itsworth. Don't forget that it's got on to the chest, and will requireweeks of feeding up and nursing."

"All right, I think I can manage Mrs. Merrit."

But Mrs. Merrit was more obstinate than he had thought. She was verysorry to hear of Mr. Saunder's cold, and how he lay awake all night inLondon coughing; very sorry indeed. She'd change his room for him gladlyand get the south room aired, and wouldn't he have a hot basin of breadand milk last thing at night? But she was afraid that she would have toleave at the end of the month.

"Try her with an increase of salary," was the advice of Eustace.

It was no use. Mrs. Merrit was obdurate, though she knew of a Mrs.Goddard, who had been housekeeper to Lord Gargrave, who might be glad tocome at the salary mentioned.

"What's the matter with the servants, Morton?" asked Eustace thatevening, when he brought the coffee into the library. "What's all thisabout Mrs. Merrit wanting to leave?"

"If you please, sir, I was going to mention it myself. I have aconfession to make, sir. When I found your note, asking me to open thatdesk and take out the box with the rat, I broke the lock as you told me,and was glad to do it, because I could hear the animal in the box makinga great noise, and I thought it wanted food. So I took out the box, sir,and got a cage, and was going to transfer it, when the animal got away."

"What in the world are you talking about? I never wrote any such note."

"Excuse me, sir; it was the note I picked up here on the floor on theday you and Mr. Saunders left. I have it in my pocket now."

It certainly seemed to be in Eustace's handwriting. It was written inpencil, and began somewhat abruptly.

"Get a hammer, Morton," he read "or some other tool and break open thelock in the old desk in the library. Take out the box that is inside.You need not do anything else. The lid is already open. Eustace Borlsover."

"And you opened the desk?"

"Yes, sir; and, as I was getting the cage ready, the animal hopped out."

"What animal?"

"The animal inside the box, sir."

"What did it look like?"

"Well, sir, I couldn't tell you," said Morton, nervously. "My back wasturned, and it was half way down the room when I looked up."

"What was its colour?" asked Saunders. "Black?"

"Oh no, sir; a greyish white. It crept along in a very funny way, sir. Idon't think it had a tail."

"What did you do then?"

"I tried to catch it; but it was no use. So I set the rat-traps and keptthe library shut. Then that girl, Emma Laidlaw, left the door open whenshe was cleaning, and I think it must have escaped."

"And you think it is the animal that's been frightening the maids?"

"Well, no, sir, not quite. They said it was--you'll excuse me, sir--ahand that they saw. Emma trod on it once at the bottom of the stairs.She thought then it was a half-frozen toad, only white. And then Parfitwas washing up the dishes in the scullery. She wasn't thinking aboutanything in particular. It was close on dusk. She took her hands out ofthe water and was drying them absent-minded like on the roller towel,when she found she was drying someone else's hand as well, only colderthan hers."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Saunders.

"Exactly, sir; that's what I told her; but we couldn't get her to stop."

"You don't believe all this?" said Eustace, turning suddenly towards thebutler.

"Me, sir? Oh no, sir! I've not seen anything."

"Nor heard anything?"

"Well, sir, if you must know, the bells do ring at odd times, andthere's nobody there when we go; and when we go round to draw the blindsof a night, as often as not somebody's been there before us. But, as Isays to Mrs. Merrit, a young monkey might do wonderful things, and weall know that Mr. Borlsover has had some strange animals about theplace."

"Very well, Morton, that will do."

"What do you make of it?" asked Saunders, when they were alone. "I meanof the letter he said you wrote."

"Oh, that's simple enough," said Eustace. "See the paper it's writtenon? I stopped using that paper years ago, but there were a few oddsheets and envelopes left in the old desk. We never fastened up the lidof the box before locking it in. The hand got out, found a pencil, wrotethis note, and shoved it through the crack on to the floor, where Mortonfound it. That's plain as daylight."

"But the hand couldn't write!"

"Couldn't it? You've not seen it do the things I've seen." And he toldSaunders more of what had happened at Eastbourne.

"Well," said Saunders, "in that case we have at least an explanation ofthe legacy. It was the hand which wrote, unknown to your uncle, thatletter to your solicitor bequeathing itself to you. Your uncle had nomore to do with that request than I. In fact, it would seem that he hadsome idea of his automatic writing and feared it."

"Then if it's not my uncle, what is it?"

"I suppose some people might say that a disembodied spirit had got youruncle to educate and prepare a little body for it. Now it's got intothat little body and is off on its own."

"Well, what are we to do?"

"We'll keep our eyes open," said Saunders, "and try to catch it. If wecan't do that, we shall have to wait till the bally clockwork runs down.After all, if it's flesh and blood, it can't live for ever."

For two days nothing happened. Then Saunders saw it sliding down thebanister in the hall. He was taken unawares and lost a full secondbefore he started in pursuit, only to find that the thing had escapedhim. Three days later Eustace, writing alone in the library at night,saw it sitting on an open book at the other end of the room. The fingerscrept over the page, as if it were reading; but before he had time toget up from his seat, it had taken the alarm, and was pulling itself upthe curtains. Eustace watched it grimly, as it hung on to the cornicewith three fingers and flicked thumb and forefinger at him in anexpression of scornful derision.

"I know what I'll do," he said. "If I only get it into the open, I'llset the dogs on to it." He spoke to Saunders of the suggestion.

"It's a jolly good idea," he said; "only we won't wait till we find itout of doors. We'll get the dogs. There are the two terriers and theunder-keeper's Irish mongrel, that's on to rats like a flash. Yourspaniel has not got spirit enough for this sort of game."

They brought the dogs into the house, and the keeper's Irish mongrelchewed up the slippers, and the terriers tripped up Morton, as he waitedat table; but all three were welcome. Even false security is better thanno security at all.

For a fortnight nothing happened. Then the hand was caught, not by thedogs, but by Mrs. Merrit's grey parrot. The bird was in the habit ofperiodically removing the pins that kept its seed- and water-tin inplace, and of escaping through the holes in the side of the cage. Whenonce at liberty, Peter would show no inclination to return, and wouldoften be about the house for days. Now, after six consecutive weeks ofcaptivity, Peter had again discovered a new way of unloosing his boltsand was at large, exploring the tapestried forests of the curtains andsinging songs in praise of liberty from cornice and picture-rail.

"It's no use your trying to catch him," said Eustace to Mrs. Merrit, asshe came into the study one afternoon towards dusk with a step-ladder."You'd much better leave Peter alone. Starve him into surrender, Mrs.Merrit; and don't leave bananas and seed about for him to peck at whenhe fancies he's hungry. You're far too soft-hearted."

"Well, sir, I see he's right out of reach now on that picture-rail; so,if you wouldn't mind closing the door, sir, when you leave the room,I'll bring his cage in tonight and put some meat inside it. He's thatfond of meat, though it does make him pull out his feathers to suck thequills. They _do_ say that if you cook----"

"Never mind, Mrs. Merrit," said Eustace, who was busy writing; "thatwill do; I'll keep an eye on the bird."

For a short time there was silence in the room.

"Scratch poor Peter," said the bird. "Scratch poor old Peter!"

"Be quiet, you beastly bird!"

"Poor old Peter! Scratch poor Peter; do!"

"I'm more likely to wring your neck, if I get hold of you." He looked upat the picture-rail, and there was the hand, holding on to a hook withthree fingers, and slowly scratching the head of the parrot with thefourth. Eustace ran to the bell and pressed it hard; then across to thewindow, which he closed with a bang. Frightened by the noise, the parrotshook its wings preparatory to flight, and, as it did so, the fingers ofthe hand got hold of it by the throat. There was a shrill scream, fromPeter, as he fluttered across the room, wheeling round in circles thatever descended, borne down under the weight that clung to him. The birddropped at last quite suddenly, and Eustace saw fingers and feathersrolled into an inextricable mass on the floor. The struggle abruptlyceased, as finger and thumb squeezed the neck; the bird's eyes rolled upto show the whites, and there was a faint, half-choked gurgle. But,before the fingers had time to loose their hold, Eustace had them in hisown.

"Send Mr. Saunders here at once," he said to the maid who came in answerto the bell. "Tell him I want him immediately."

Then he went with the hand to the fire. There was a ragged gash acrossthe back, where the bird's beak had torn it, but no blood oozed from thewound. He noted with disgust that the nails had grown long anddiscoloured.

"I'll burn the beastly thing," he said. But he could not burn it. Hetried to throw it into the flames, but his own hands, as if impelled bysome old primitive feeling, would not let him. And so Saunders foundhim, pale and irresolute, with the hand still clasped tightly in hisfingers.

"I've got it at last," he said, in a tone of triumph.

"Good, let's have a look at it."

"Not when it's loose. Get me some nails and a hammer and a board of somesort."

"Can you hold it all right?"

"Yes, the thing's quite limp; tired out with throttling poor old Peter,I should say."

"And now," said Saunders, when he returned with the things, "what are wegoing to do?"

"Drive a nail through it first, so that it can't get away. Then we cantake our time over examining it."

"Do it yourself," said Saunders. "I don't mind helping you withguinea-pigs occasionally, when there's something to be learned, partlybecause I don't fear a guinea-pig's revenge. This thing's different."

"Oh, my aunt!" he giggled hysterically, "look at it now." For the handwas writhing in agonized contortions, squirming and wriggling upon thenail like a worm upon the hook.

"Well," said Saunders, "you've done it now. I'll leave you to examineit."

"Don't go, in heaven's name! Cover it up, man; cover it up! Shove acloth over it! Here!" and he pulled off the antimacassar from the backof a chair and wrapped the board in it. "Now get the keys from my pocketand open the safe. Chuck the other things out. Oh, Lord, it's gettingitself into frightful knots! Open it quick!" He threw the thing in andbanged the door.

"We'll keep it there till it dies," he said. "May I burn in hell, if Iever open the door of that safe again."

* * * * *

Mrs. Merrit departed at the end of the month. Her successor, Mrs.Handyside, certainly was more successful in the management of theservants. Early in her rule she declared that she would stand nononsense, and gossip soon withered and died.

"I shouldn't be surprised if Eustace married one of these days," saidSaunders. "Well, I'm in no hurry for such an event. I know him far toowell for the future Mrs. Borlsover to like me. It will be the same oldstory again; a long friendship slowly made--marriage--and a longfriendship quickly forgotten."

But Eustace did not follow the advice of his uncle and marry. Old habitscrept over and covered his new experience. He was, if anything, lessmorose, and showed a greater inclination to take his natural part incountry society.

Then came the burglary. The men, it was said, broke into the house byway of the conservatory. It was really little more than an attempt, forthey only succeeded in carrying away a few pieces of plate from thepantry. The safe in the study was certainly found open and empty, but,as Mr. Borlsover informed the police inspector, he had kept nothing ofvalue in it during the last six months.

"Then you're lucky in getting off so easily, sir," the man replied. "Bythe way they have gone about their business I should say they wereexperienced cracksmen. They must have caught the alarm when they werejust beginning their evening's work."

"Yes," said Eustace, "I suppose I am lucky."

"I've no doubt," said the inspector, "that we shall be able to trace themen. I've said that they must have been old hands at the game. The waythey got in and opened the safe shows that. But there's one little thingthat puzzles me. One of them was careless enough not to wear gloves, andI'm bothered if I know what he was trying to do. I've traced hisfinger-marks on the new varnish on the window-sashes in every one of thedownstairs rooms. They are very distinctive ones too."

"Right hand or left or both?" asked Eustace.

"Oh, right every time. That's the funny thing. He must have been afoolhardy fellow, and I rather think it was him that wrote that." Hetook out a slip of paper from his pocket. "That's what he wrote, sir:'I've got out, Eustace Borlsover, but I'll be back before long.' Somejailbird just escaped, I suppose. It will make it all the easier for usto trace him. Do you know the writing, sir?"

"No," said Eustace. "It's not the writing of any one I know."

"I'm not going to stay here any longer," said Eustace to Saunders atluncheon. "I've got on far better during the last six months than Iexpected, but I'm not going to run the risk of seeing that thing again.I shall go up to town this afternoon. Get Morton to put my thingstogether, and join me with the car at Brighton on the day aftertomorrow. And bring the proofs of those two papers with you. We'll runover them together."

"How long are you going to be away?"

"I can't say for certain, but be prepared to stay for some time. We'vestuck to work pretty closely through summer, and I for one need aholiday. I'll engage the rooms at Brighton. You'll find it best to breakthe journey at Hitchin. I'll wire to you there at the 'Crown' to tellyou the Brighton address."

The house he chose at Brighton was in a terrace. He had been therebefore. It was kept by his old college gyp, a man of discreet silence,who was admirably partnered by an excellent cook. The rooms were on thefirst floor. The two bedrooms were at the back, and opened out of eachother. "Mr. Saunders can have the smaller one, though it is the only onewith a fire-place," he said. "I'll stick to the larger of the two, sinceit's got a bath-room adjoining. I wonder what time he'll arrive with thecar."

Saunders came about seven, cold and cross and dirty.

"We'll light the fire in the dining-room," said Eustace, "and get Princeto unpack some of the things while we are at dinner. What were the roadslike?"

"Rotten. Swimming with mud, and a beastly cold wind against us all day.And this is July. Dear Old England!"

"Yes," said Eustace, "I think we might do worse than leave Old Englandfor a few months."

They turned in soon after twelve.

"You oughtn't to feel cold, Saunders," said Eustace, "when you canafford to sport a great fur-lined coat like this. You do yourself verywell, all things considered. Look at those gloves, for instance. Whocould possibly feel cold when wearing them?"

"They are far too clumsy, though, for driving. Try them on and see"; andhe tossed them through the door on to Eustace's bed and went on with hisunpacking. A minute later he heard a shrill cry of terror.

"Oh, Lord," he heard, "it's in the glove! Quick, Saunders, quick!" Thencame a smacking thud. Eustace had thrown it from him.

"I've chucked it into the bath-room," he gasped; "it's hit the wall andfallen into the bath. Come now, if you want to help."

Saunders, with a lighted candle in his hand, looked over the edge of thebath. There it was, old and maimed, dumb and blind, with a ragged holein the middle, crawling, staggering, trying to creep up the slipperysides, only to fall back helpless.

"Stay there," said Saunders, "I'll empty a collar-box or something, andwe'll jam it in. It can't get out while I'm away."

"Yes, it can," shouted Eustace. "It's getting out now; it's climbing upthe plug-chain.--No, you brute, you filthy brute, you don't!--Come back,Saunders; it's getting away from me. I can't hold it; it's all slippery.Curse its claws! Shut the window, you idiot! It's got out!" There wasthe sound of something dropping on to the hard flagstones below, andEustace fell back fainting.

* * * * *

For a fortnight he was ill.

"I don't know what to make of it," the doctor said to Saunders. "I canonly suppose that Mr. Borlsover has suffered some great emotional shock.You had better let me send someone to help you nurse him. And by allmeans indulge that whim of his never to be left alone in the dark. Iwould keep a light burning all night, if I were you. But he _must_ havemore fresh air. It's perfectly absurd, this hatred of open windows."

Eustace would have no one with him but Saunders. "I don't want the otherman," he said. "They'd smuggle it in somehow. I know they would."

"Don't worry about it, old chap. This sort of thing can't go onindefinitely. You know I saw it this time as well as you. It wasn't halfso active. It won't go on living much longer, especially after thatfall. I heard it hit the flags myself. As soon as you're a bit stronger,we'll leave this place, not bag and baggage, but with only the clotheson our back, so that it won't be able to hide anywhere. We'll escape itthat way. We won't give any address, and we won't have any parcels sentafter us. Cheer up, Eustace! You'll be well enough to leave in a day ortwo. The doctor says I can take you out in a chair tomorrow."

"What have I done?" asked Eustace. "Why does it come after me? I'm noworse than other men. I'm no worse than you, Saunders; you know I'm not.It was you who was at the bottom of that dirty business in San Diego,and that was fifteen years ago."

"It's not that, of course," said Saunders. "We are in the twentiethcentury, and even the parsons have dropped the idea of your old sinsfinding you out. Before you caught the hand in the library, it wasfilled with pure malevolence--to you and all mankind. After you spikedit through with that nail, it naturally forgot about other people andconcentrated its attention on you. It was shut up in that safe, youknow, for nearly six months. That gives plenty of time for thinking ofrevenge."

Eustace Borlsover would not leave his room, but he thought there mightbe something in Saunders's suggestion of a sudden departure fromBrighton. He began rapidly to regain his strength.

"We'll go on the first of September," he said.

The evening of the thirty-first of August was oppressively warm. Thoughat midday the windows had been wide open, they had been shut an hour orso before dusk. Mrs. Prince had long since ceased to wonder at thestrange habits of the gentlemen on the first floor. Soon after theirarrival she had been told to take down the heavy window curtains in thetwo bedrooms, and day by day the rooms had seemed to grow more bare.Nothing was left lying about.

"Mr. Borlsover doesn't like to have any place where dirt can collect,"Saunders had said as an excuse. "He likes to see into all the corners ofthe room."

"Couldn't I open the window just a little?" he said to Eustace thatevening. "We're simply roasting in here, you know."

"No, leave well alone. We're not a couple of boarding-school missesfresh from a course of hygiene lectures. Get the chess-board out."

They sat down and played. At ten o'clock Mrs. Prince came to the doorwith a note. "I am sorry I didn't bring it before," she said, "but itwas left in the letter-box."

"Open it, Saunders, and see if it wants answering."

It was very brief. There was neither address nor signature.

"Will eleven o'clock tonight be suitable for our last appointment?"

"Who is it from?" asked Borlsover.

"It was meant for me," said Saunders. "There's no answer, Mrs. Prince,"and he put the paper into his pocket.

"A dunning letter from a tailor; I suppose he must have got wind of ourleaving."

It was a clever lie, and Eustace asked no more questions. They went onwith their game.

On the landing outside Saunders could hear the grandfather's clockwhispering the seconds, blurting out the quarter-hours.

"Check," said Eustace. The clock struck eleven. At the same time therewas a gentle knocking on the door; it seemed to come from the bottompanel.

"Who's there?" asked Eustace. There was no answer. "Mrs. Prince, is thatyou?"

"She is up above," said Saunders; "I can hear her walking about theroom."

"Then lock the door; bolt it too. Your move, Saunders." While Saunderssat with his eyes on the chess-board, Eustace walked over to the windowand examined the fastenings. He did the same in Saunders's room, and thebathroom. There were no doors between the three rooms, or he would haveshut and locked them too.

"Now, Saunders," he said, "don't stay all night over your move. I've hadtime to smoke one cigarette already. It's bad to keep an invalidwaiting. There's only one possible thing for you to do. What was that?"

"The ivy blowing against the window. There, it's your move now,Eustace."

"It wasn't the ivy, you idiot! It was someone tapping at the window";and he pulled up the blind. On the outer side of the window, clinging tothe sash, was the hand.

"What is it that it's holding?"

"It's a pocket-knife. It's going to try to open the window by pushingback the fastener with the blade."

"Well, let it try," said Eustace. "Those fasteners screw down; theycan't be opened that way. Anyhow, we'll close the shutters. It's yourmove, Saunders. I've played."

But Saunders found it impossible to fix his attention on the game. Hecould not understand Eustace, who seemed all at once to have lost hisfear.

"What do you say to some wine?" he asked. "You seem to be taking thingscoolly, but I don't mind confessing that I'm in a blessed funk."

"You've no need to be. There's nothing supernatural about that hand,Saunders. I mean, it seems to be governed by the laws of time and space.It's not the sort of thing that vanishes into thin air or slides throughoaken doors. And since that's so, I defy it to get in here. We'll leavethe place in the morning. I for one have bottomed the depths of fear.Fill your glass, man! The windows are all shuttered; the door is lockedand bolted. Pledge me my Uncle Adrian! Drink, man! What are you waitingfor?"

Saunders was standing with his glass half raised. "It can get in," hesaid hoarsely; "it can get in. We've forgotten. There's the fire-placein my bed-room. It will come down the chimney."

"Quick!" said Eustace, as he rushed into the other room; "we haven't aminute to lose. What can we do? Light the fire, Saunders. Give me amatch, quick!"

"They must be all in the other room. I'll get them."

"Hurry, man, for goodness' sake! Look in the bookcase! Look in thebath-room! Here, come and stand here; I'll look."

"Be quick!" shouted Saunders. "I can hear something!"

"Then plug a sheet from your bed up the chimney. No, here's a match!" Hehad found one at last, that had slipped into a crack in the floor.

"Is the fire laid? Good, but it may not burn. I know--the oil from thatold reading-lamp and this cotton-wool. Now the match, quick! Pull thesheet away, you fool! We don't want it now."

There was a great roar from the grate, as the flames shot up. Saundershad been a fraction of a second too late with the sheet. The oil hadfallen on to it. It, too, was burning.

"The whole place will be on fire!" cried Eustace, as he tried to beatout the flames with a blanket. "It's no good! I can't manage it. Youmust open the door, Saunders, and get help."

Saunders ran to the door and fumbled with the bolts. The key was stiffin the lock.

"Hurry," shouted Eustace, "or the heat will be too much for me." The keyturned in the lock at last. For half a second Saunders stopped to lookback. Afterwards he could never be quite sure as to what he had seen,but at the time he thought that something black and charred was creepingslowly, very slowly, from the mass of flames towards Eustace Borlsover.For a moment he thought of returning to his friend; but the noise andthe smell of the burning sent him running down the passage, crying:"Fire! Fire!" He rushed to the telephone to summon help, and then backto the bath-room--he should have thought of that before--for water. Ashe burst into the bedroom there came a scream of terror which endedsuddenly, and then the sound of a heavy fall.

* * * * *

This is the story which I heard on successive Saturday evenings from thesenior mathematical master at a second-rate suburban school. ForSaunders has had to earn a living in a way which other men might reckonless congenial than his old manner of life. I had mentioned by chancethe name of Adrian Borlsover, and wondered at the time why he changedthe conversation with such unusual abruptness. A week later Saundersbegan to tell me something of his own history; sordid enough, thoughshielded with a reserve I could well understand, for it had to cover notonly his failings, but those of a dead friend. Of the final tragedy hewas at first especially loath to speak; and it was only gradually that Iwas able to piece together the narrative of the preceding pages.Saunders was reluctant to draw any conclusions. At one time he thoughtthat the fingered beast had been animated by the spirit of SigismundBorlsover, a sinister eighteenth-century ancestor, who, according tolegend, built and worshipped in the ugly pagan temple that overlookedthe lake. At another time Saunders believed the spirit to belong to aman whom Eustace had once employed as a laboratory assistant, "ablack-haired, spiteful little brute", he said, "who died cursing hisdoctor, because the fellow couldn't help him to live to settle somepaltry score with Borlsover".

From the point of view of direct contemporary evidence, Saunders's storyis practically uncorroborated. All the letters mentioned in thenarrative were destroyed, with the exception of the last note whichEustace received, or rather which he would have received, had notSaunders intercepted it. That I have seen myself. The handwriting wasthin and shaky, the handwriting of an old man. I remember the Greek "e"was used in "appointment". A little thing that amused me at the time wasthat Saunders seemed to keep the note pressed between the pages of hisBible.

I had seen Adrian Borlsover once. Saunders I learnt to know well. It wasby chance, however, and not by design, that I met a third person of thestory, Morton, the butler. Saunders and I were walking in the ZoologicalGardens one Sunday afternoon, when he called my attention to an old manwho was standing before the door of the Reptile House.

"Why, Morton," he said, clapping him on the back, "how is the worldtreating you?"

"Poorly, Mr. Saunders," said the old fellow, though his face lighted upat the greeting. "The winters drag terribly nowadays. There don't seemno summers or springs."

"You haven't found what you were looking for, I suppose?"

"No, sir, not yet; but I shall some day. I always told them that Mr.Borlsover kept some queer animals."

"And what is he looking for?" I asked, when we had parted from him.

"A beast with five fingers," said Saunders. "This afternoon, since hehas been in the Reptile House, I suppose it will be a reptile with ahand. Next week it will be a monkey with practically no body. The poorold chap is a born materialist."

THE END