“There was one request,” he read, “which certainly came as a surprise to me.  As you know, Mr. Adrian Borlsover had left instructions that his body was to be buried in as simple a manner as possible at Eastbourne.  He expressed a desire that there should be neither wreaths nor flowers of any kind, and hoped that his friends and relatives would not consider it necessary to wear mourning.  The day before his death we received a letter canceling these instructions.  He wished his body to be embalmed (he gave us the address of the man we were to employ—­Pennifer, Ludgate Hill), with orders that his right hand was to be sent to you, stating that it was at your special request.  The other arrangements as to the funeral remained unaltered.”

“Good Lord!” said Eustace; “what in the world was the old boy driving at?  And what in the name of all that’s holy is that?”

Someone was in the gallery.  Someone had pulled the cord attached to one of the blinds, and it had rolled up with a snap.  Someone must be in the gallery, for a second blind did the same.  Someone must be walking round the gallery, for one after the other the blinds sprang up, letting in the moonlight.

“I haven’t got to the bottom of this yet,” said Eustace, “but I will do before the night is very much older,” and he hurried up the corkscrew stair.  He had just got to the top when the lights went out a second time, and he heard again the scuttling along the floor.  Quickly he stole on tiptoe in the dim moonshine in the direction of the noise, feeling as he went for one of the switches.  His fingers touched the metal knob at last.  He turned on the electric light.

About ten yards in front of him, crawling along the floor, was a man’s hand.  Eustace stared at it in utter astonishment.  It was moving quickly, in the manner of a geometer caterpillar, the fingers humped up one moment, flattened out the next; the thumb appeared to give a crab-like motion to the whole.  While he was looking, too surprised to stir, the hand disappeared round the corner Eustace ran forward.  He no longer saw it, but he could hear it as it squeezed its way behind the books on one of the shelves.  A heavy volume had been displaced.  There was a gap in the row of books where it had got in.  In his fear lest it should escape him again, he seized the first book that came to his hand and plugged it into the hole.  Then, emptying two shelves of their contents, he took the wooden boards and propped them up in front to make his barrier doubly sure.

“I wish Saunders was back,” he said; “one can’t tackle this sort of thing alone.”  It was after eleven, and there seemed little likelihood of Saunders returning before twelve.  He did not dare to leave the shelf unwatched, even to run downstairs to ring the bell.  Morton the butler often used to come round about eleven to see that the windows were fastened, but he might not come.  Eustace was thoroughly unstrung.  At last he heard steps down below.