but the windows were still shuttered, the chimneys breathed

no stain into the bright air, there sounded abroad none of
that low stir (perhaps audible rather to the ear of the

spirit than to the ear of the flesh) by which a house
announces and betrays its human lodgers. And yet Alan must

be there - Alan locked in drunken slumbers, forgetful of the
return of day, of the holy season, and of the friend whom he

had so coldly received and was now so churlishly neglecting.
John's disgust redoubled at the thought, but hunger was

beginning to grow stronger than repulsion, and as a step to
breakfast, if nothing else, he must find and arouse this

sleeper.
He made the circuit of the bedroom quarters. All, until he

came to Alan's chamber, were locked from without, and bore
the marks of a prolonged disuse. But Alan's was a room in

commission, filled with clothes, knickknacks, letters, books,
and the conveniences of a solitary man. The fire had been

lighted; but it had long ago burned out, and the ashes were
stone cold. The bed had been made, but it had not been slept

in.
Worse and worse, then; Alan must have fallen where he sat,

and now sprawled brutishly, no doubt, upon the dining-room
floor.

The dining-room was a very long apartment, and was reached
through a passage; so that John, upon his entrance, brought

but little light with him, and must move toward the windows
with spread arms, groping and knocking on the furniture.

Suddenly he tripped and fell his length over a prostrate
body. It was what he had looked for, yet it shocked him; and

he marvelled that so rough an impact should not have kicked a
groan out of the drunkard. Men had killed themselves ere now

in such excesses, a dreary and degraded end that made John
shudder. What if Alan were dead? There would be a

Christmas-day!
By this, John had his hand upon the shutters, and flinging

them back, beheld once again the blessed face of the day.
Even by that light the room had a discomfortable air. The

chairs were scattered, and one had been overthrown; the
table-cloth, laid as if for dinner, was twitched upon one

side, and some of the dishes had fallen to the floor. Behind
the table lay the drunkard, still unaroused, only one foot

visible to John.
But now that light was in the room, the worst seemed over; it

was a disgusting business, but not more than disgusting; and
it was with no great apprehension that John proceeded to make

the circuit of the table: his last comparatively tranquil
moment for that day. No sooner had he turned the corner, no

sooner had his eyes alighted on the body, than he gave a
smothered, breathless" target="_blank" title="a.屏息的">breathless cry, and fled out of the room and out

of the house.
It was not Alan who lay there, but a man well up in years, of

stern countenance and iron-grey locks; and it was no
drunkard, for the body lay in a black pool of blood, and the

open eyes stared upon the ceiling.
To and fro walked John before the door. The extreme

sharpness of the air acted on his nerves like an astringent,
and braced them swiftly. Presently, he not relaxing in his

disordered walk, the images began to come clearer and stay
longer in his fancy; and next the power of thought came back

to him, and the horror and danger of his situation rooted him
to the ground.

He grasped his forehead, and staring on one spot of gravel,
pieced together what he knew and what he suspected. Alan had

murdered some one: possibly 'that man' against whom the
butler chained the door in Regent Terrace; possibly another;

some one at least: a human soul, whom it was death to slay
and whose blood lay spilled upon the floor. This was the

reason of the whisky drinking in the passage, of his
unwillingness to welcome John, of his strange behaviour and

bewildered words; this was why he had started at and harped
upon the name of murder; this was why he had stood and

hearkened, or sat and covered his eyes, in the black night.
And now he was gone, now he had basely fled; and to all his

perplexities and dangers John stood heir.
'Let me think - let me think,' he said, aloud, impatiently,

even pleadingly, as if to some merciless interrupter. In the
turmoil of his wits, a thousand hints and hopes and threats

and terrors dinning continuously in his ears, he was like one
plunged in the hubbub of a crowd. How was he to remember -

he, who had not a thought to spare - that he was himself the
author, as well as the theatre, of so much confusion? But in

hours of trial the junto of man's nature is dissolved, and
anarchy succeeds.

It was plain he must stay no longer where he was, for here
was a new Judicial Error in the very making. It was not so

plain where he must go, for the old Judicial Error, vague as
a cloud, appeared to fill the habitable world; whatever it

might be, it watched for him, full-grown, in Edinburgh; it
must have had its birth in San Francisco; it stood guard, no

doubt, like a dragon, at the bank where he should cash his
credit; and though there were doubtless many other places,

who should say in which of them it was not ambushed? No, he
could not tell where he was to go; he must not lose time on

these insolubilities. Let him go back to the beginning. It
was plain he must stay no longer where he was. It was plain,

too, that he must not flee as he was, for he could not carry
his portmanteau, and to flee and leave it was to plunge

deeper in the mire. He must go, leave the house unguarded,
find a cab, and return - return after an absence? Had he

courage for that?
And just then he spied a stain about a hand's-breadth on his

trouser-leg, and reached his finger down to touch it. The
finger was stained red: it was blood; he stared upon it with

disgust, and awe, and terror, and in the sharpness of the new
sensation, fell instantly to act.

He cleansed his finger in the snow, returned into the house,
drew near with hushed footsteps to the dining-room door, and

shut and locked it. Then he breathed a little freer, for
here at least was an oaken barrier between himself and what

he feared. Next, he hastened to his room, tore off the
spotted trousers which seemed in his eyes a link to bind him

to the gallows, flung them in a corner, donned another pair,
breathless" target="_blank" title="a.屏息的">breathlessly crammed his night things into his portmanteau,

locked it, swung it with an effort from the ground, and with
a rush of relief, came forth again under the open heavens.

The portmanteau, being of occidental build, was no feather-
weight; it had distressed the powerful Alan; and as for John,

he was crushed under its bulk, and the sweat broke upon him
thickly. Twice he must set it down to rest before he reached

the gate; and when he had come so far, he must do as Alan
did, and take his seat upon one corner. Here then, he sat a

while and panted; but now his thoughts were sensibly
lightened; now, with the trunk standing just inside the door,

some part of his dissociation from the house of crime had
been effected, and the cabman need not pass the garden wall.

It was wonderful how that relieved him; for the house, in his
eyes, was a place to strike the most cursory beholder with

suspicion, as though the very windows had cried murder.