The visitor stared curiously about the hallway after Carson had opened
the door, nodding to himself as though with satisfaction. He was a lean,
tall figure of a man, with thick steel-gray eyebrows overhanging keen
gray eyes. His face, although strongly marked and gaunt, was unwrinkled.
"About the Witch Room, I suppose?" Carson said ungraciously. His
landlord had talked, and for the last week he had been unwillingly
entertaining antiquaries and occultists anxious to glimpse the secret
chamber in which Abbie Prinn had mumbled her spells. Carson's annoyance
had grown, and he had considered moving to a quieter place; but his
inherent stubbornness had made him stay on, determined to finish his
novel in spite of interruptions. Now, eyeing his guest coldly, he said,
"I'm sorry, but it's not on exhibition any more."
The other looked startled, but almost immediately a gleam of
comprehension came into his eyes. He extracted a card and offered it to
Carson.
"Michael Leigh ... occultist, eh?" Carson repeated. He drew a deep
breath. The occultists, he had found, were the worst, with their dark
hints of nameless things and their profound interest in the mosaic
pattern on the floor of the Witch Room. "I'm sorry, Mr. Leigh, but—I'm
really quite busy. You'll excuse me."
Ungraciously he turned back to the door.
"Just a moment," Leigh said swiftly.
Before Carson could protest he had caught the writer by the shoulders
and was peering closely into his eyes. Startled, Carson drew back, but
not before he had seen an extraordinary expression of mingled
apprehension and satisfaction appear on Leigh's gaunt face. It was as
though the occultist had seen something unpleasant—but not unexpected.
"What's the idea?" Carson asked harshly. "I'm not accustomed——"
"I'm very sorry," Leigh said. His voice was deep, pleasant. "I must
apologize. I thought—well, again I apologize. I'm rather excited, I'm
afraid. You see, I've come from San Francisco to see this Witch Room of
yours. Would you really mind letting me see it? I should be glad to pay
any sum——"
Carson made a deprecatory gesture.
"No," he said, feeling a perverse liking for this man growing within
him—his well-modulated, pleasant voice, his powerful face, his magnetic
personality. "No, I merely want a little peace—you have no idea how
I've been bothered," he went on, vaguely surprized to find himself
speaking apologetically. "It's a frightful nuisance. I almost wish I'd
never found the room."
Leigh leaned forward anxiously. "May I see it? It means a great deal to
me—I'm vitally interested in these things. I promise not to take up
more than ten minutes of your time."
Carson hesitated, then assented. As he led his guest into the cellar he
found himself telling the circumstances of his discovery of the Witch
Room. Leigh listened intently, occasionally interrupting with questions.
"The rat—did you see what became of it?" he asked.
Carson looked surprized. "Why, no. I suppose it hid in its burrow. Why?"
"One never knows," Leigh said cryptically as they came into the Witch
Room.