“To my astonishment no rain was falling; no rain had fallen.  I felt the slate window-sill; some dew had gathered there—­no more.  There was no wind, no cloud:  only a still moon high over the eastern slope of the coombe, the distant plash of waves, and the fragrance of many roses.  I went back to bed and listened again.  Yes, the trickling sound continued, quite distinct in the silence of the house, not to be confused for a moment with the dull murmur of the beach.  After a while it began to grate on my nerves.  I caught up my candle, flung my dressing-gown about me, and stole softly downstairs.

“Then it was simple.  I traced the sound to the pantry.  ’Mrs. Carkeek has left the tap running,’ said I:  and, sure enough, I found it so—­a thin trickle steadily running to waste in the porcelain basin.  I turned off the tap, went contentedly back to my bed, and slept.

“—­for some hours.  I opened my eyes in darkness, and at once knew what had awakened me.  The tap was running again.  Now it had shut easily in my hand, but not so easily that I could believe it had slipped open again of its own accord.  ‘This is Mrs. Carkeek’s doing,’ said I; and am afraid I added ‘Bother Mrs. Carkeek!’

“Well, there was no help for it:  so I struck a light, looked at my watch, saw that the hour was just three o’clock, and descended the stairs again.  At the pantry door I paused.  I was not afraid—­not one little bit.  In fact the notion that anything might be wrong had never crossed my mind.  But I remember thinking, with my hand on the door, that if Mrs. Carkeek were in the pantry I might happen to give her a severe fright.

“I pushed the door open briskly.  Mrs. Carkeek was not there.  But something was there, by the porcelain basin—­something which might have sent me scurrying upstairs two steps at a time, but which as a matter of fact held me to the spot.  My heart seemed to stand still—­so still!  And in the stillness I remember setting down the brass candlestick on a tall nest of drawers beside me.

“Over the porcelain basin and beneath the water trickling from the tap I saw two hands.

“That was all—­two small hands, a child’s hands.  I cannot tell you how they ended.

“No:  they were not cut off.  I saw them quite distinctly:  just a pair of small hands and the wrists, and after that—­nothing.  They were moving briskly—­washing themselves clean.  I saw the water trickle and splash over them—­not through them—­but just as it would on real hands.  They were the hands of a little girl, too.  Oh, yes, I was sure of that at once.  Boys and girls wash their hands differently.  I can’t just tell you what the difference is, but it’s unmistakable.

“I saw all this before my candle slipped and fell with a crash.  I had set it down without looking—­for my eyes were fixed on the basin—­and had balanced it on the edge of the nest of drawers.  After the crash, in the darkness there, with the water running, I suffered some bad moments.  Oddly enough, the thought uppermost with me was that I must shut off that tap before escaping.  I had to.  And after a while I picked up all my courage, so to say, between my teeth, and with a little sob thrust out my hand and did it.  Then I fled.