At the last station on the railway the horses were waiting for us.  It was a lovely moonlight night, and we shortened the distance considerably by taking the bridle path over the moor.  Between nine and ten o’clock we reached the Abbey.

Years had passed since I had last been Romayne’s guest.  Nothing, out of the house or in the house, seemed to have undergone any change in the interval.  Neither the good North-country butler, nor his buxom Scotch wife, skilled in cookery, looked any older:  they received me as if I had left them a day or two since, and had come back again to live in Yorkshire.  My well-remembered bedroom was waiting for me; and the matchless old Madeira welcomed us when my host and I met in the inner-hall, which was the ordinary dining-room of the Abbey.

As we faced each other at the well-spread table, I began to hope that the familiar influences of his country home were beginning already to breathe their blessed quiet over the disturbed mind of Romayne.  In the presence of his faithful old servants, he seemed to be capable of controlling the morbid remorse that oppressed him.  He spoke to them composedly and kindly; he was affectionately glad to see his old friend once more in the old house.

When we were near the end of our meal, something happened that startled me.  I had just handed the wine to Romayne, and he had filled his glass—­when he suddenly turned pale, and lifted his head like a man whose attention is unexpectedly roused.  No person but ourselves was in the room; I was not speaking to him at the time.  He looked round suspiciously at the door behind him, leading into the library, and rang the old-fashioned handbell which stood by him on the table.  The servant was directed to close the door.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

“No.”  He reconsidered that brief answer, and contradicted himself.  “Yes—­the library fire has burned low, I suppose.”

In my position at the table, I had seen the fire:  the grate was heaped with blazing coals and wood.  I said nothing.  The pale change in his face, and his contradictory reply, roused doubts in me which I had hoped never to feel again.

He pushed away his glass of wine, and still kept his eyes fixed on the closed door.  His attitude and expression were plainly suggestive of the act of listening.  Listening to what?

After an interval, he abruptly addressed me.  “Do you call it a quiet night?” he said.

“As quiet as quiet can be,” I replied.  “The wind has dropped—­and even the fire doesn’t crackle.  Perfect stillness indoors and out.”

“Out?” he repeated.  For a moment he looked at me intently, as if I had started some new idea in his mind.  I asked as lightly as I could if I had said anything to surprise him.  Instead of answering me, he sprang to his feet with a cry of terror, and left the room.

I hardly knew what to do.  It was impossible, unless he returned immediately to let this extraordinary proceeding pass without notice.  After waiting for a few minutes I rang the bell.