As he was going by he looked in at the blank window space and saw a strange and terrifying sight,—­the figure of a man seated in the centre of the room, at a table upon which lay some loose sheets of paper.  The elbows rested on the table, the hands supporting the head, which was uncovered.  On each side the fingers were pushed into the hair.  The face showed dead-yellow in the light of a single candle a little to one side.  The flame illuminated that side of the face, the other was in deep shadow.  The man’s eyes were fixed upon the blank window space with a stare in which an older and cooler observer might have discerned something of apprehension, but which seemed to the lad altogether soulless.  He believed the man to be dead.

The situation was horrible, but not with out its fascination.  The boy stopped to note it all.  He was weak, faint and trembling; he could feel the blood forsaking his face.  Nevertheless, he set his teeth and resolutely advanced to the house.  He had no conscious intention—­it was the mere courage of terror.  He thrust his white face forward into the illuminated opening.  At that instant a strange, harsh cry, a shriek, broke upon the silence of the night—­the note of a screech-owl.  The man sprang to his feet, overturning the table and extinguishing the candle.  The boy took to his heels.

THE DAY BEFORE

“Good-morning, Colston.  I am in luck, it seems.  You have often said that my commendation of your literary work was mere civility, and here you find me absorbed—­actually merged—­in your latest story in the Messenger.  Nothing less shocking than your touch upon my shoulder would have roused me to consciousness.”

“The proof is stronger than you seem to know,” replied the man addressed:  “so keen is your eagerness to read my story that you are willing to renounce selfish considerations and forego all the pleasure that you could get from it.”

“I don’t understand you,” said the other, folding the newspaper that he held and putting it into his pocket.  “You writers are a queer lot, anyhow.  Come, tell me what I have done or omitted in this matter.  In what way does the pleasure that I get, or might get, from your work depend on me?”

“In many ways.  Let me ask you how you would enjoy your breakfast if you took it in this street car.  Suppose the phonograph so perfected as to be able to give you an entire opera,—­singing, orchestration, and all; do you think you would get much pleasure out of it if you turned it on at your office during business hours?  Do you really care for a serenade by Schubert when you hear it fiddled by an untimely Italian on a morning ferryboat?  Are you always cocked and primed for enjoyment?  Do you keep every mood on tap, ready to any demand?  Let me remind you, sir, that the story which you have done me the honor to begin as a means of becoming oblivious to the discomfort of this car is a ghost story!”