The few foot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them.  Some windows and doors are opened, and people come out to look.  It was a loud report and echoed and rattled heavily.  It shook one house, or so a man says who was passing.  It has aroused all the dogs in the neighbourhood, who bark vehemently.  Terrified cats scamper across the road.  While the dogs are yet barking and howling—­there is one dog howling like a demon—­the church-clocks, as if they were startled too, begin to strike.  The hum from the streets, likewise, seems to swell into a shout.  But it is soon over.  Before the last clock begins to strike ten, there is a lull.  When it has ceased, the fine night, the bright large moon, and multitudes of stars, are left at peace again.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed?  His windows are dark and quiet, and his door is shut.  It must be something unusual indeed to bring him out of his shell.  Nothing is heard of him, nothing is seen of him.  What power of cannon might it take to shake that rusty old man out of his immovable composure?

For many years the persistent Roman has been pointing, with no particular meaning, from that ceiling.  It is not likely that he has any new meaning in him to-night.  Once pointing, always pointing—­like any Roman, or even Briton, with a single idea.  There he is, no doubt, in his impossible attitude, pointing, unavailingly, all night long.  Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day.  There he is still, eagerly pointing, and no one minds him.

But a little after the coming of the day come people to clean the rooms.  And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, not expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild, for looking up at his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below it, that person shrieks and flies.  The others, looking in as the first one looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street.

What does it mean?  No light is admitted into the darkened chamber, and people unaccustomed to it enter, and treading softly but heavily, carry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down.  There is whispering and wondering all day, strict search of every corner, careful tracing of steps, and careful noting of the disposition of every article of furniture.  All eyes look up at the Roman, and all voices murmur, “If he could only tell what he saw!”

He is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and a glass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soon after being lighted.  He is pointing at an empty chair and at a stain upon the ground before it that might be almost covered with a hand.  These objects lie directly within his range.  An excited imagination might suppose that there was something in them so terrific as to drive the rest of the composition, not only the attendant big-legged boys, but the clouds and flowers and pillars too—­in short, the very body and soul of Allegory, and all the brains it has—­stark mad.  It happens surely that every one who comes into the darkened room and looks at these things looks up at the Roman and that he is invested in all eyes with mystery and awe, as if he were a paralysed dumb witness.