I got home I don’t quite know how; but in my mind there was no longer any indifference as to the thing, whatever it was, that haunted these ruins.  My scepticism disappeared like a mist.  I was as firmly determined that there was something as Roland was.  I did not for a moment pretend to myself that it was possible I could be deceived; there were movements and noises which I understood all about,—­cracklings of small branches in the frost, and little rolls of gravel on the path, such as have a very eerie sound sometimes, and perplex you with wonder as to who has done it, when there is no real mystery; but I assure you all these little movements of nature don’t affect you one bit when there is something.  I understood them.  I did not understand the sigh.  That was not simple nature; there was meaning in it, feeling, the soul of a creature invisible.  This is the thing that human nature trembles at,—­a creature invisible, yet with sensations, feelings, a power somehow of expressing itself.  I had not the same sense of unwillingness to turn my back upon the scene of the mystery which I had experienced in going to the stables; but I almost ran home, impelled by eagerness to get everything done that had to be done, in order to apply myself to finding it out.  Bagley was in the hall as usual when I went in.  He was always there in the afternoon, always with the appearance of perfect occupation, yet, so far as I know, never doing anything.  The door was open, so that I hurried in without any pause, breathless; but the sight of his calm regard, as he came to help me off with my overcoat, subdued me in a moment.  Anything out of the way, anything incomprehensible, faded to nothing in the presence of Bagley.  You saw and wondered how he was made:  the parting of his hair, the tie of his white neckcloth, the fit of his trousers, all perfect as works of art; but you could see how they were done, which makes all the difference.  I flung myself upon him, so to speak, without waiting to note the extreme unlikeness of the man to anything of the kind I meant.  “Bagley,” I said, “I want you to come out with me to-night to watch for—­”

“Poachers, Colonel?” he said, a gleam of pleasure running all over him.

“No, Bagley; a great deal worse,” I cried.

“Yes, Colonel; at what hour, sir?” the man said; but then I had not told him what it was.

It was ten o’clock when we set out.  All was perfectly quiet indoors.  My wife was with Roland, who had been quite calm, she said, and who (though, no doubt, the fever must run its course) had been better ever since I came.  I told Bagley to put on a thick greatcoat over his evening coat, and did the same myself, with strong boots; for the soil was like a sponge, or worse.  Talking to him, I almost forgot what we were going to do.  It was darker even than it had been before, and Bagley kept very close to me as we went along.  I had a small lantern in my hand, which gave us a partial