Dinner was over, and Dennistoun was in his bedroom, shut up alone with his acquisition.  The landlady had manifested a particular interest in him since he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristan and bought an old book from him.  He thought, too, that he had heard a hurried dialogue between her and the said sacristan in the passage outside the salle a manger; some words to the effect that “Pierre and Bertrand would be sleeping in the house” had closed the conversation.

At this time a growing feeling of discomfort had been creeping over him—­nervous reaction, perhaps, after the delight of his discovery.  Whatever it was, it resulted in a conviction that there was some one behind him, and that he was far more comfortable with his back to the wall.  All this, of course, weighed light in the balance as against the obvious value of the collection he had acquired.  And now, as I said, he was alone in his bedroom, taking stock of Canon Alberic’s treasures, in which every moment revealed something more charming.

“Bless Canon Alberic!” said Dennistoun, who had an inveterate habit of talking to himself.  “I wonder where he is now?  Dear me!  I wish that landlady would learn to laugh in a more cheering manner; it makes one feel as if there was some one dead in the house.  Half a pipe more, did you say?  I think perhaps you are right.  I wonder what that crucifix is that the young woman insisted on giving me?  Last century, I suppose.  Yes, probably.  It is rather a nuisance of a thing to have round one’s neck—­just too heavy.  Most likely her father had been wearing it for years.  I think I might give it a clean up before I put it away.”

He had taken the crucifix off, and laid it on the table, when his attention was caught by an object lying on the red cloth just by his left elbow.  Two or three ideas of what it might be flitted through his brain with their own incalculable quickness.

“A penwiper?  No, no such thing in the house.  A rat?  No, too black.  A large spider?  I trust to goodness not—­no.  Good God! a hand like the hand in that picture!”

In another infinitesimal flash he had taken it in.  Pale, dusky skin, covering nothing but bones and tendons of appalling strength; coarse black hairs, longer than ever grew on a human hand; nails rising from the ends of the fingers and curving sharply down and forward, gray, horny and wrinkled.

He flew out of his chair with deadly, inconceivable terror clutching at his heart.  The shape, whose left hand rested on the table, was rising to a standing posture behind his seat, its right hand crooked above his scalp.  There was black and tattered drapery about it; the coarse hair covered it as in the drawing.  The lower jaw was thin—­what can I call it?—­shallow, like a beast’s; teeth showed behind the black lips; there was no nose; the eyes, of a fiery yellow, against which the pupils showed black and intense, and the exulting hate and thirst to destroy life which shone there, were the most horrifying feature in the whole vision.  There was intelligence of a kind in them—­intelligence beyond that of a beast, below that of a man.