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"My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a veryself-possessed young lady of fifteen; "in the meantime you must tryand put up with me."

Framton Nuttel endeavored to say the correct something whichshould duly Hatter the niece of the moment without undulydiscounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted morethan ever whether these formal visits on a succession of totalstrangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he wassupposed to be undergoing.
"I know how it will be," his sister had said when he waspreparing to migrate to this rural retreat; "you will bury yourselfdown there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will beworse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters ofintroduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as faras I can remember, were quite nice."

Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom hewas presenting one of the letters of introduction came into thenice division.

"Do you know many of the people round here?" asked the niece,when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.

"Hardly a soul," said Framton. "My sister was staying here, atthe rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me lettersof introduction to some of the people here."

He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.

"Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?" pursued theself-possessed young lady.

"Only her name and address," admitted the caller. He waswondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowedstate. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggestmasculine habitation.

"Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said thechild; "that would be since your sister's time."

"Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this restful countryspot tragedies seemed out of place.

"You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on anOctober afternoon," said the niece, indicating a large Frenchwindow that opened on to a lawn.

"It is quite warm for the time of the year," said Framton;"but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"

"Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband andher two young brothers went off for their day's shooting. Theynever came back. In crossing the moor to their favoritesnipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherouspiece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, andplaces that were safe in other years gave way suddenly withoutwarning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadfulpart of it." Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed noteand became falteringly human. "Poor aunt always thinks that theywill come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that waslost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do.That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quitedusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, herhusband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie,her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as healways did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Doyou know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almostget a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through thatwindow--"

She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief toFramton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl ofapologies for being late in making her appearance.

"I hope Vera has been amusing you?" she said.

"She has been very interesting," said Framton.

"I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Sappletonbriskly; "my husband and brothers will be home directly fromshooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out forsnipe in the marshes today, so they'll make a fine mess over mypoor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn't it?"

She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcityof birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton itwas all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partiallysuccessful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic, hewas conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment ofher attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him tothe open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly anunfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on thistragic anniversary.

"The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence ofmental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature ofviolent physical exercise," announced Framton, who labored underthe tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chanceacquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments andinfirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they arenot so much in agreement," he continued.

"No?" said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced ayawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alertattention--but not to what Framton was saying.

"Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, anddon't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"

Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with alook intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child wasstaring out through the open window with a dazed horror in hereyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in hisseat and looked in the same direction.

In the deepening twilight three figures were walking acrossthe lawn towards the window, they all carried guns under theirarms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coathung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at theirheels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse youngvoice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"

Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall door,the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in hisheadlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run intothe hedge to avoid imminent collision.

"Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the whitemackintosh, coming in through the window, "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we cameup?"

"A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel," said Mrs. Sappleton;"could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a wordof goodby or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seena ghost."

"I expect it was the spaniel," said the niece calmly; "he toldme he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemeterysomewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, andhad to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creaturessnarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to makeanyone lose their nerve."

Romance at short notice was her speciality.