“There’s muscle there, if there isn’t flesh and blood,” said Saunders, as he held them together.  “It seems to be a hand right enough, too.  I suppose this is a sort of infectious hallucination.  I’ve read about such cases before.”

“Infectious fiddlesticks!” said Eustace, his face white with anger; “bring the thing downstairs.  We’ll get it back into the box.”

It was not altogether easy, but they were successful at last.  “Drive in the screws,” said Eustace, “we won’t run any risks.  Put the box in this old desk of mine.  There’s nothing in it that I want.  Here’s the key.  Thank goodness, there’s nothing wrong with the lock.”

“Quite a lively evening,” said Saunders.  “Now let’s hear more about your uncle.”

They sat up together until early morning.  Saunders had no desire for sleep.  Eustace was trying to explain and to forget:  to conceal from himself a fear that he had never felt before—­the fear of walking alone down the long corridor to his bedroom.

III

“Whatever it was,” said Eustace to Saunders on the following morning, “I propose that we drop the subject.  There’s nothing to keep us here for the next ten days.  We’ll motor up to the Lakes and get some climbing.”

“And see nobody all day, and sit bored to death with each other every night.  Not for me thanks.  Why not run up to town?  Run’s the exact word in this case, isn’t it?  We’re both in such a blessed funk.  Pull yourself together Eustace, and let’s have another look at the hand.”

“As you like,” said Eustace; “there’s the key.”  They went into the library and opened the desk.  The box was as they had left it on the previous night.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Eustace.

“I am waiting for you to volunteer to open the lid.  However, since you seem to funk it, allow me.  There doesn’t seem to be the likelihood of any rumpus this morning, at all events.”  He opened the lid and picked out the hand.

“Cold?” asked Eustace.

“Tepid.  A bit below blood-heat by the feel.  Soft and supple too.  If it’s the embalming, it’s a sort of embalming I’ve never seen before.  Is it your uncle’s hand?”

“Oh, yes, it’s his all right,” said Eustace.  “I should know those long thin fingers anywhere.  Put it back in the box, Saunders.  Never mind about the screws.  I’ll lock the desk, so that there’ll be no chance of its getting out.  We’ll compromise by motoring up to town for a week.  If we get off soon after lunch we ought to be at Grantham or Stamford by night.”

“Right,” said Saunders; “and to-morrow—­Oh, well, by to-morrow we shall have forgotten all about this beastly thing.”

If when the morrow came they had not forgotten, it was certainly true that at the end of the week they were able to tell a very vivid ghost story at the little supper Eustace gave on Hallow E’en.

“You don’t want us to believe that it’s true, Mr. Borlsover?  How perfectly awful!”