face for that of a woman.  He had forgotten his newly-grown beard.  Some other cause must be found for the other’s attitude.  It savoured of shock, if not fear.  If it were fear, then had he roused an emotion which might rebound upon himself in sharp reprisal.  Death had been known to strike people standing where he stood; mysterious death of a species quite unrecognisable.  What warranty had he that it would not strike him, and now?  None.

Yet it was Brotherson who moved first.  With a shrug of the shoulder plainly visible to the man opposite, he turned away from the window and without lowering the shade began gathering up his papers for the night, and later banking up his stove with ashes.

Sweetwater, with a breath of decided relief, stepped back and threw himself on the bed.  It had really been a trial for him to stand there under the other’s eye, though his mind refused to formulate his fear, or to give him any satisfaction when he asked himself what there was in the situation suggestive of death to the woman or harm to himself.

Nor did morning light bring counsel, as is usual in similar cases.  He felt the mystery more in the hubbub and restless turmoil of the day than in the night’s silence and inactivity.  He was glad when the stroke of six gave him an excuse to leave the room, and gladder yet when in doing so, he ran upon an old woman from a neighbouring room, who no sooner saw him than she leered at him and eagerly remarked: 

“Not much sleep, eh?  We didn’t think you’d like it.  Did you see anything?”

Now this gave him the one excuse he wanted.

“See anything?” he repeated, apparently with all imaginable innocence.  “What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t you know what happened in that room?”

“Don’t tell me!” he shouted out.  “I don’t want to hear any nonsense.  I haven’t time.  I’ve got to be at the shop at seven and I don’t feel very well.  What did happen?” he mumbled in drawing off, just loud enough for the woman to hear.  “Something unpleasant I’m sure.”  Then he ran downstairs.

At half past six he found the janitor.  He was, to all appearance, in a state of great excitement and he spoke very fast.

“I won’t stay another night in that room,” he loudly declared, breaking in where the family were eating breakfast by lamplight.  “I don’t want to make any trouble and I don’t want to give my reasons; but that room don’t suit me.  I’d rather take the dark one you talked about yesterday.  There’s the money.  Have my things moved to-day, will ye?”

“But your moving out after one night’s stay will give that room a bad name,” stammered the janitor, rising awkwardly.  “There’ll be talk and I won’t be able to let that room all winter.”

“Nonsense!  Every man hasn’t the nerves I have.  You’ll let it in a week.  But let or not let, I’m going front into the little dark room.  I’ll get the boss to let me off at half past four.  So that’s settled.”