“What I have already told you, Mr. Cleek.  Nothing under God’s heaven would or could persuade Mr. Harmstead to let his nieces and their two surviving brothers remain another hour in that house of disaster.  He removed them from it instantly—­fled the very neighbourhood, hired a house down here—­at Dalehampton; a dozen miles or so on the other side of the Tor, yonder—­and carried them there to live.  The family now consisted of Miriam and Flora, the two girls, Paul, a boy of thirteen—­old Mr. Harmstead’s special pride and pet—­and Ronald, a little chap of eleven.  In this new home they hoped and prayed to be free from the horrible visitant who had made the memory of the old one a nightmare to them, but—­they couldn’t forget, Mr. Cleek, what the Tenth of each month had taken from them, and grew sick with dread at the steady approach of the Tenth of this one.”

“And as this is the Twelfth,” said Cleek, “the day before yesterday was the Tenth.  Did anything happen?”

“Yes,” replied the Captain, his voice dropping until it was little more than a whisper.  “I tried to cheer them; Miss Lorne tried to cheer them.  We sat with them, tried to make them think that our presence there would act as a shield and a guard—­and tried to think so ourselves.  But old Mr. Harmstead took even stronger measures.  ’Nothing shall touch Paul—­nothing that lives and breathes,’ he said, desperately.  ’I’ll take him into my room; I’ll sit up with him in my arms all night!’”

“And did so?”

“Yes.  At twelve o’clock, Miss Lorne, Miss Comstock, and I went in to say good-night to him.  He was sitting in a deep chair with the boy fast asleep in his arms—­sitting and looking all about him with the dumb agony of a trapped mouse.  I’ll never forget how he clutched the boy to him nor the cry he gave when the door opened to admit us, the sob of relief when he saw it was only us.  His cry and his movement awoke the boy, but he dropped off to sleep again before I left, and was breathing healthily and peacefully.  The last look I had at the picture as I went out, Mr. Cleek, the dear old chap was holding his pet in his arms and smiling down into his boyish face.  So he was still sitting, Miss Comstock tells me, when she came down this morning.  ‘Look,’ he said to her, ’I watched him—­I held him—­the tenth day is past and the death didn’t get him, my bonnie!’ Then called her to his side and shook the little fellow to awaken him.  It was then only that he discovered the truth.  The boy was stone-dead!”

CHAPTER XXXIII

’"There, Mr. Cleek,” resumed the Captain, after he could master his emotion.  “That is the case—­that is the riddle I am praying to Heaven that you may be able to solve.  What the mysterious power is, when, where, or how it got into the room and got at the boy, God alone knows.  Mr. Harmstead will swear that he never let the little fellow out of his arms for one solitary instant between