“One of the secret passages, of course,” he muttered to himself, stooping for a moment to examine the locked, folding doors which separated his room from the adjoining one.  “Perhaps, when one reflects, I have run unnecessary risks.”

Dominey was standing at the window, looking out at the tumbled grey waters of the North Sea, when Parkins brought him hot water and tea in the morning.  He thrust his feet into slippers and held out his arms for a dressing-gown.

“Find out where the nearest bathroom is, Parkins,” he ordered, “and prepare it.  I have quite forgotten my way about here.”

“Very good, sir.”

The man was motionless for a moment, staring at the blood on his master’s pyjamas.  Dominey glanced down at it and turned the dressing-gown up to his throat.

“I had a slight accident this morning,” he remarked carelessly.  “Any ghost alarms last light?”

“None that I heard of, sir,” the man replied.  “I am afraid we should have difficulty in keeping the young women from London, if they heard what I heard the night of my arrival.”

“Very terrible, was it?” Dominey asked with a smile.

Parkins’ expression remained immovable.  There was in his tone, however, a mute protest against his master’s levity.

“The cries were the most terrible I have ever heard, sir,” he said.  “I am not a nervous person, but I found them most disturbing.”

“Human or animal?”

“A mixture of both, I should say, sir.”

“You should camp out for the night on the skirts of an African forest,” Dominey remarked.  “There you get a whole orchestra of wild animals, every one of them trying to freeze your blood up.”

“I was out in South Africa during the Boer War, sir,” Parkins replied, “and I went big game hunting with my master afterwards.  I do not think that any animal was ever born in Africa with so terrifying a cry as we heard the night before last.”

“We must look into the matter,” Dominey muttered.

“I have already prepared a bath, sir, at the end of the corridor,” the man announced.  “If you will allow me, I will show you the way.”

Dominey, when he descended about an hour later, found his guest awaiting him in the smaller dining-room, which looked out eastwards towards the sea, a lofty apartment with great windows and with an air of faded splendour which came from the ill-cared-for tapestries, hanging in places from the wall.  Mr. Mangan had, contrary to his expectations, slept well and was in excellent spirits.  The row of silver dishes upon the sideboard inspired him with an added cheerfulness.

“So there were no ghosts walking last night?” he remarked, as he took his place at the table.  “Wonderful thing this absolute quiet is after London.  Give you my word, I never heard a sound from the moment my head touched the pillow until I woke a short while ago.”

Dominey returned from the sideboard, carrying also a well-filled plate.