I expressed my gratification.

He then began to talk, something in the strain in which he had spoken of his own peculiarities of habit and thinking upon the previous evening.  He disposed of all classes and denominations of superstition with an easy sarcastic slang, which for me was so captivating, that I soon lost all reserve, and found myself listening and suggesting by turns—­acquiescent and pleased—­sometimes hazarding dissent; but whenever I did, foiled and floored by a few pointed satirical sentences, whose sophistry, for such I must now believe it, confounded me with a rapidity which, were it not for the admiration with which he had insensibly inspired me, would have piqued and irritated my vanity not a little.

While this was going on, from time to time the mewing and growling of a cat within the closet became more and more audible.  At last these sounds became so loud, accompanied by scratching at the door, that I paused in the midst of a sentence, and observed—­

“There certainly is a cat shut up in the closet?”

“Is there?” he ejaculated, in a surprised tone; “nay, I do not hear it.”

He rose abruptly and approached the door; his back was towards me, but I observed he raised the goggles which usually covered his eyes, and looked steadfastly at the closet door.  The angry sounds all died away into a low, protracted growl, which again subsided into silence.  He continued in the same attitude for some moments, and then returned.

“I do not hear it,” he said, as he resumed his place, and taking a book from his capacious pocket, asked me if I had seen it before?  I never had, and this surprised me, for I had flattered myself that I knew, at least by name, every work published in England during the last fifty years in favour of that philosophy in which we both delighted.  The book, moreover, was an odd one, as both its title and table of contents demonstrated.

While we were discoursing upon these subjects, I became more and more distinctly conscious of a new class of sounds proceeding from the same closet.  I plainly heard a measured and heavy tread, accompanied by the tapping of some hard and heavy substance like the end of a staff, pass up and down the floor—­first, as it seemed, stealthily, and then more and more unconcealedly.  I began to feel very uncomfortable and suspicious.  As the noise proceeded, and became more and more unequivocal, Mr. Smith abruptly rose, opened the closet door, just enough to admit his own lath-like person, and steal within the threshold for some seconds.  What he did I could not see—­I felt conscious he had an associate concealed there; and though my eyes remained fixed on the book, I could not avoid listening for some audible words, or signal of caution.  I heard, however, nothing of the kind.  Mr. Smith turned back—­walked a step or two towards me, and said—­

“I fancied I heard a sound from that closet, but there is nothing—­nothing—­nothing whatever; bring the candle, let us both look.”