The letters were short,—­they were dated; the dates exactly thirty-five years ago.  They were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a husband to some young wife.  Not only the terms of expression, but a distinct reference to a former voyage, indicated the writer to have been a seafarer.  The spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly educated, but still the language itself was forcible.  In the expressions of endearment there was a kind of rough, wild love; but here and there were dark unintelligible hints at some secret not of love,—­some secret that seemed of crime.  “We ought to love each other,” was one of the sentences I remember, “for how every one else would execrate us if all was known.”  Again:  “Don’t let any one be in the same room with you at night,—­you talk in your sleep.”  And again:  “What’s done can’t be undone; and I tell you there’s nothing against us unless the dead could come to life.”  Here there was underlined in a better handwriting (a female’s), “They do!” At the end of the letter latest in date the same female hand had written these words:  “Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day as—­”

I put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.

Fearing, however, that the train of thought into which I fell might unsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keep my mind in a fit state to cope with whatever of marvellous the advancing night might bring forth.  I roused myself; laid the letters on the table; stirred up the fire, which was still bright and cheering; and opened my volume of Macaulay.  I read quietly enough till about half-past eleven.  I then threw myself dressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retire to his own room, but must keep himself awake.  I bade him leave open the door between the two rooms.  Thus alone, I kept two candles burning on the table by my bed-head.  I placed my watch beside the weapons, and calmly resumed my Macaulay.  Opposite to me the fire burned clear; and on the hearthrug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog.  In about twenty minutes I felt an exceedingly cold air pass by my cheek, like a sudden draught.  I fancied the door to my right, communicating with the landing-place, must have got open; but no,—­it was closed.  I then turned my glance to my left, and saw the flame of the candles violently swayed as by a wind.  At the same moment the watch beside the revolver softly slid from the table,—­softly, softly; no visible hand,—­it was gone.  I sprang up, seizing the revolver with the one hand, the dagger with the other; I was not willing that my weapons should share the fate of the watch.  Thus armed, I looked round the floor,—­no sign of the watch.  Three slow, loud, distinct knocks were now heard at the bed-head; my servant called out, “Is that you, sir?”

“No; be on your guard.”