It did not seem to proceed from anywhere within the library, but from some distant room, far away overhead.  A musical sound it was, but breaking in upon the silence of that ill-omened house, its music was the music of terror.  In a faint and very sweet cascade it rippled; a ringing as of tiny silver bells.

I set down my glass upon the table, and rising slowly from the chair in which I had been seated, stared fixedly at my companion, who was staring with equal fixity at me.  I could see that I had not been deluded; Nayland Smith had heard the ringing, too.

“The ghosts waste no time!” he said softly.  “This is not new to me; I spent an hour here last night and heard the same sound . . .”

I glanced hastily around the room.  It was furnished as a library, and contained a considerable collection of works, principally novels.  I was unable to judge of the outlook, for the two lofty windows were draped with heavy purple curtains which were drawn close.  A silk shaded lamp swung from the center of the ceiling, and immediately over the table by which I stood.  There was much shadow about the room; and now I glanced apprehensively about me, but especially toward the open door.

In that breathless suspense of listening we stood awhile; then: 

“There it is again!” whispered Smith, tensely.

The ringing of bells was repeated, and seemingly much nearer to us; in fact it appeared to come from somewhere above, up near the ceiling of the room in which we stood.  Simultaneously, we looked up, then Smith laughed, shortly.

“Instinctive, I suppose,” he snapped; “but what do we expect to see in the air?”

The musical sound now grew in volume; the first tiny peal seemed to be reinforced by others and by others again, until the air around about us was filled with the pealings of these invisible bell-ringers.

Although, as I have said, the sound was rather musical than horrible, it was, on the other hand, so utterly unaccountable as to touch the supreme heights of the uncanny.  I could not doubt that our presence had attracted these unseen ringers to the room in which we stood, and I knew quite well that I was growing pale.  This was the room in which at least one unhappy occupant of the Gables had died of fear.  I recognized the fact that if this mere overture were going to affect my nerves to such an extent, I could not hope to survive the ordeal of the night; a great effort was called for.  I emptied my glass at a gulp, and stared across the table at Nayland Smith with a sort of defiance.  He was standing very upright and motionless, but his eyes were turning right and left, searching every visible corner of the big room.

“Good!” he said in a very low voice.  “The terrorizing power of the Unknown is boundless, but we must not get in the grip of panic, or we could not hope to remain in this house ten minutes.”

I nodded without speaking.  Then Smith, to my amazement, suddenly began to speak in a loud voice, a marked contrast to that, almost a whisper, in which he had spoken formerly.