“Watson?  A year ago he came to see me in regard to this Chatterton property.  Wanted to lease it.  Was interested in the case of Dr. Holcomb; asked for a year’s rental and the privilege of renewal.  I don’t know.  I gave it to him; but when he drops in again I am going to fight almighty hard against letting him hold it longer.”

“Why?”

“Why?  Why, because I don’t believe in murder.  A year ago he came to me the healthiest and happiest man I ever saw; today he is a shadow.  I watched that boy go down.  Understand, I don’t believe a damn word I’m saying; but I have seen it.  It’s that cursed house.  I say no, when I reason; but it keeps on my nerves; it’s on my conscience.  It is insidious.  Every month when he came here I could see disintegration.  It’s pitiful to see a young man stripped of life like that; forlorn, hopeless, gone.  He has never told me what it is; but I have wondered.  A battle; some conflict with—­there I go again.  It’s on my nerves, I tell you, on my nerves.  If this keeps up I’ll burn it.”

It was a bit foreboding.  Already I could feel the tugging at my heart that had done for Watson.  This man had watched my friend slipping into the shadow; I had come to take his place.

“Watson has gone,” I said simply; “and that’s why I am here.”

He straightened up.

“You know him then.  He was not—­”

“He went last night; he has left the country.  He was in very poor health.  That’s why I am here.  I know very well the cloud that hangs over the property; it is my sole reason for purchasing.”

“You don’t believe in this nonsense?”

I smiled.  Certainly the man was perverse in his agnosticism; he was stubborn in disbelief.  It was on his nerves; on his conscience; he was afraid.

“I believe nothing,” I answered; “neither do I disbelieve.  I know all the story that has been told or written.  I am a friend of Watson.  You need not scruple in making me out a bill of sale.  It’s my own funeral.  I abide by the consequences.”

He gave a sigh of relief.  After all, he was human.  He had honour; but it was after the brand of Pontius Pilate.  He wished nothing on his conscience.

Armed with the keys and the legal title, I took possession.  In the daylight it was much as it had been the night before.  Once across its threshold, one was in dank and furtive suppression; the air was heavy; a mould of age had streaked the walls and gloomed the shadows.  I put up all the curtains to let in the rush of sunlight, likewise I opened the windows.  If there is anything to beat down sin, it is the open measure of broad daylight.

The house was well situated; from the front windows one could look down the street and out at the blue bay beyond the city.  The fog had lifted and the sun was shining upon the water.  I could make out the ferryboats, the islands, and the long piers that lead to Oakland, and still farther beyond the hills of Berkeley.  It was a long time since those days in college.  Under the shadow of those hills I had first met the old doctor.  I was only a boy then.