Ghost Stories of an Antiquary

  NUMBER 13

  Among the towns of Jutland, Viborg justly holds a high place. It is theseat of a bishopric; it has a handsome but almost entirely new cathedral,a charming garden, a lake of great beauty, and many storks. Near it isHald, accounted one of the prettiest things in Denmark; and hard by isFinderup, where Marsk Stig murdered King Erik Glipping on St Cecilia'sDay, in the year 1286. Fifty-six blows of square-headed iron maces weretraced on Erik's skull when his tomb was opened in the seventeenthcentury. But I am not writing a guide-book.

  There are good hotels in Viborg--Preisler's and the Phoenix are all thatcan be desired. But my cousin, whose experiences I have to tell you now,went to the Golden Lion the first time that he visited Viborg. He has notbeen there since, and the following pages will, perhaps, explain thereason of his abstention.

  The Golden Lion is one of the very few houses in the town that were notdestroyed in the great fire of 1726, which practically demolished thecathedral, the Sognekirke, the Raadhuus, and so much else that was oldand interesting. It is a great red-brick house--that is, the front is ofbrick, with corbie steps on the gables and a text over the door; but thecourtyard into which the omnibus drives is of black and white wood andplaster.

  The sun was declining in the heavens when my cousin walked up to thedoor, and the light smote full upon the imposing facade of the house. Hewas delighted with the old-fashioned aspect of the place, and promisedhimself a thoroughly satisfactory and amusing stay in an inn so typicalof old Jutland.

  It was not business in the ordinary sense of the word that had brought MrAnderson to Viborg. He was engaged upon some researches into the Churchhistory of Denmark, and it had come to his knowledge that in theRigsarkiv of Viborg there were papers, saved from the fire, relating tothe last days of Roman Catholicism in the country. He proposed,therefore, to spend a considerable time--perhaps as much as a fortnightor three weeks--in examining and copying these, and he hoped that theGolden Lion would be able to give him a room of sufficient size to servealike as a bedroom and a study. His wishes were explained to thelandlord, and, after a certain amount of thought, the latter suggestedthat perhaps it might be the best way for the gentleman to look at one ortwo of the larger rooms and pick one for himself. It seemed a good idea.

  The top floor was soon rejected as entailing too much getting upstairsafter the day's work; the second floor contained no room of exactly thedimensions required; but on the first floor there was a choice of two orthree rooms which would, so far as size went, suit admirably.

  The landlord was strongly in favour of Number 17, but Mr Anderson pointedout that its windows commanded only the blank wall of the next house, andthat it would be very dark in the afternoon. Either Number 12 or Number14 would be better, for both of them looked on the street, and the brightevening light and the pretty view would more than compensate him for theadditional amount of noise.

  Eventually Number 12 was selected. Like its neighbours, it had threewindows, all on one side of the room; it was fairly high and unusuallylong. There was, of course, no fireplace, but the stove was handsome andrather old--a cast-iron erection, on the side of which was arepresentation of Abraham sacrificing Isaac, and the inscription, 'I BogMose, Cap. 22,' above. Nothing else in the room was remarkable; the onlyinteresting picture was an old coloured print of the town, date about1820.

  Supper-time was approaching, but when Anderson, refreshed by the ordinaryablutions, descended the staircase, there were still a few minutes beforethe bell rang. He devoted them to examining the list of hisfellow-lodgers. As is usual in Denmark, their names were displayed on alarge blackboard, divided into columns and lines, the numbers of therooms being painted in at the beginning of each line. The list was notexciting. There was an advocate, or Sagfoerer, a German, and some bagmenfrom Copenhagen. The one and only point which suggested any food forthought was the absence of any Number 13 from the tale of the rooms, andeven this was a thing which Anderson had already noticed half a dozentimes in his experience of Danish hotels. He could not help wonderingwhether the objection to that particular number, common as it is, was sowidespread and so strong as to make it difficult to let a room soticketed, and he resolved to ask the landlord if he and his colleagues inthe profession had actually met with many clients who refused to beaccommodated in the thirteenth room.

  He had nothing to tell me (I am giving the story as I heard it from him)about what passed at supper, and the evening, which was spent inunpacking and arranging his clothes, books, and papers, was not moreeventful. Towards eleven o'clock he resolved to go to bed, but with him,as with a good many other people nowadays, an almost necessarypreliminary to bed, if he meant to sleep, was the reading of a few pagesof print, and he now remembered that the particular book which he hadbeen reading in the train, and which alone would satisfy him at thatpresent moment, was in the pocket of his great-coat, then hanging on apeg outside the dining-room.

  To run down and secure it was the work of a moment, and, as the passageswere by no means dark, it was not difficult for him to find his way backto his own door. So, at least, he thought; but when he arrived there, andturned the handle, the door entirely refused to open, and he caught thesound of a hasty movement towards it from within. He had tried the wrongdoor, of course. Was his own room to the right or to the left? He glancedat the number: it was 13. His room would be on the left; and so it was.And not before he had been in bed for some minutes, had read his wontedthree or four pages of his book, blown out his light, and turned over togo to sleep, did it occur to him that, whereas on the blackboard of thehotel there had been no Number 13, there was undoubtedly a room numbered13 in the hotel. He felt rather sorry he had not chosen it for his own.Perhaps he might have done the landlord a little service by occupying it,and given him the chance of saying that a well-born English gentleman hadlived in it for three weeks and liked it very much. But probably it wasused as a servant's room or something of the kind. After all, it was mostlikely not so large or good a room as his own. And he looked drowsilyabout the room, which was fairly perceptible in the half-light from thestreet-lamp. It was a curious effect, he thought. Rooms usually looklarger in a dim light than a full one, but this seemed to have contractedin length and grown proportionately higher. Well, well! sleep was moreimportant than these vague ruminations--and to sleep he went.

  On the day after his arrival Anderson attacked the Rigsarkiv of Viborg.He was, as one might expect in Denmark, kindly received, and access toall that he wished to see was made as easy for him as possible. Thedocuments laid before him were far more numerous and interesting than hehad at all anticipated. Besides official papers, there was a large bundleof correspondence relating to Bishop Joergen Friis, the last RomanCatholic who held the see, and in these there cropped up many amusing andwhat are called 'intimate' details of private life and individualcharacter. There was much talk of a house owned by the Bishop, but notinhabited by him, in the town. Its tenant was apparently somewhat of ascandal and a stumbling-block to the reforming party. He was a disgrace,they wrote, to the city; he practised secret and wicked arts, and hadsold his soul to the enemy. It was of a piece with the gross corruptionand superstition of the Babylonish Church that such a viper andblood-sucking _Troldmand_ should be patronized and harboured by theBishop. The Bishop met these reproaches boldly; he protested his ownabhorrence of all such things as secret arts, and required hisantagonists to bring the matter before the proper court--of course, thespiritual court--and sift it to the bottom. No one could be more readyand willing than himself to condemn Mag Nicolas Francken if the evidenceshowed him to have been guilty of any of the crimes informally allegedagainst him.

  Anderson had not time to do more than glance at the next letter of theProtestant leader, Rasmus Nielsen, before the record office was closedfor the day, but he gathered its general tenor, which was to the effectthat Christian men were now no longer bound by the decisions of Bishopsof Rome, and that the Bishop's Court was not, and could not be, a fit orcompetent tribunal to judge so grave and weighty a c
ause.

  On leaving the office, Mr Anderson was accompanied by the old gentlemanwho presided over it, and, as they walked, the conversation verynaturally turned to the papers of which I have just been speaking.

  Herr Scavenius, the Archivist of Viborg, though very well informed as tothe general run of the documents under his charge, was not a specialistin those of the Reformation period. He was much interested in whatAnderson had to tell him about them. He looked forward with greatpleasure, he said, to seeing the publication in which Mr Anderson spokeof embodying their contents. 'This house of the Bishop Friis,' he added,'it is a great puzzle to me where it can have stood. I have studiedcarefully the topography of old Viborg, but it is most unlucky--of theold terrier of the Bishop's property which was made in 1560, and of whichwe have the greater part in the Arkiv--just the piece which had the listof the town property is missing. Never mind. Perhaps I shall some daysucceed to find him.'

  After taking some exercise--I forget exactly how or where--Anderson wentback to the Golden Lion, his supper, his game of patience, and his bed.On the way to his room it occurred to him that he had forgotten to talkto the landlord about the omission of Number 13 from the hotel board, andalso that he might as well make sure that Number 13 did actually existbefore he made any reference to the matter.

  The decision was not difficult to arrive at. There was the door with itsnumber as plain as could be, and work of some kind was evidently going oninside it, for as he neared the door he could hear footsteps and voices,or a voice, within. During the few seconds in which he halted to makesure of the number, the footsteps ceased, seemingly very near the door,and he was a little startled at hearing a quick hissing breathing as of aperson in strong excitement. He went on to his own room, and again he wassurprised to find how much smaller it seemed now than it had when heselected it. It was a slight disappointment, but only slight. If he foundit really not large enough, he could very easily shift to another. In themeantime he wanted something--as far as I remember it was apocket-handkerchief--out of his portmanteau, which had been placed by theporter on a very inadequate trestle or stool against the wall at thefarthest end of the room from his bed. Here was a very curious thing: theportmanteau was not to be seen. It had been moved by officious servants;doubtless the contents had been put in the wardrobe. No, none of themwere there. This was vexatious. The idea of a theft he dismissed at once.Such things rarely happen in Denmark, but some piece of stupidity hadcertainly been performed (which is not so uncommon), and the _stuepige_must be severely spoken to. Whatever it was that he wanted, it was not sonecessary to his comfort that he could not wait till the morning for it,and he therefore settled not to ring the bell and disturb the servants.He went to the window--the right-hand window it was--and looked out onthe quiet street. There was a tall building opposite, with large spacesof dead wall; no passers-by; a dark night; and very little to be seen ofany kind.

  The light was behind him, and he could see his own shadow clearly cast onthe wall opposite. Also the shadow of the bearded man in Number 11 on theleft, who passed to and fro in shirtsleeves once or twice, and was seenfirst brushing his hair, and later on in a nightgown. Also the shadow ofthe occupant of Number 13 on the right. This might be more interesting.Number 13 was, like himself, leaning on his elbows on the window-silllooking out into the street. He seemed to be a tall thin man--or was itby any chance a woman?--at least, it was someone who covered his or herhead with some kind of drapery before going to bed, and, he thought, mustbe possessed of a red lamp-shade--and the lamp must be flickering verymuch. There was a distinct playing up and down of a dull red light on theopposite wall. He craned out a little to see if he could make any more ofthe figure, but beyond a fold of some light, perhaps white, material onthe window-sill he could see nothing.

  Now came a distant step in the street, and its approach seemed to recallNumber 13 to a sense of his exposed position, for very swiftly andsuddenly he swept aside from the window, and his red light went out.Anderson, who had been smoking a cigarette, laid the end of it on thewindow-sill and went to bed.

  Next morning he was woken by the _stuepige_ with hot water, etc. Heroused himself, and after thinking out the correct Danish words, said asdistinctly as he could:

  'You must not move my portmanteau. Where is it?'

  As is not uncommon, the maid laughed, and went away without making anydistinct answer.

  Anderson, rather irritated, sat up in bed, intending to call her back,but he remained sitting up, staring straight in front of him. There washis portmanteau on its trestle, exactly where he had seen the porter putit when he first arrived. This was a rude shock for a man who pridedhimself on his accuracy of observation. How it could possibly haveescaped him the night before he did not pretend to understand; at anyrate, there it was now.

  The daylight showed more than the portmanteau; it let the trueproportions of the room with its three windows appear, and satisfied itstenant that his choice after all had not been a bad one. When he wasalmost dressed he walked to the middle one of the three windows to lookout at the weather. Another shock awaited him. Strangely unobservant hemust have been last night. He could have sworn ten times over that he hadbeen smoking at the right-hand window the last thing before he went tobed, and here was his cigarette-end on the sill of the middle window.

  He started to go down to breakfast. Rather late, but Number 13 was later:here were his boots still outside his door--a gentleman's boots. So thenNumber 13 was a man, not a woman. Just then he caught sight of the numberon the door. It was 14. He thought he must have passed Number 13 withoutnoticing it. Three stupid mistakes in twelve hours were too much for amethodical, accurate-minded man, so he turned back to make sure. The nextnumber to 14 was number 12, his own room. There was no Number 13 at all.

  After some minutes devoted to a careful consideration of everything hehad had to eat and drink during the last twenty-four hours, Andersondecided to give the question up. If his eyes or his brain were giving wayhe would have plenty of opportunities for ascertaining that fact; if not,then he was evidently being treated to a very interesting experience. Ineither case the development of events would certainly be worth watching.

  During the day he continued his examination of the episcopalcorrespondence which I have already summarized. To his disappointment, itwas incomplete. Only one other letter could be found which referred tothe affair of Mag Nicolas Francken. It was from the Bishop Joergen Friisto Rasmus Nielsen. He said:

  'Although we are not in the least degree inclined to assent to yourjudgement concerning our court, and shall be prepared if need be towithstand you to the uttermost in that behalf, yet forasmuch as ourtrusty and well-beloved Mag Nicolas Francken, against whom you have daredto allege certain false and malicious charges, hath been suddenly removedfrom among us, it is apparent that the question for this time falls. Butforasmuch as you further allege that the Apostle and Evangelist St Johnin his heavenly Apocalypse describes the Holy Roman Church under theguise and symbol of the Scarlet Woman, be it known to you,' etc.

  Search as he might, Anderson could find no sequel to this letter nor anyclue to the cause or manner of the 'removal' of the _casus belli_. Hecould only suppose that Francken had died suddenly; and as there wereonly two days between the date of Nielsen's last letter--when Franckenwas evidently still in being--and that of the Bishop's letter, the deathmust have been completely unexpected.

  In the afternoon he paid a short visit to Hald, and took his tea atBaekkelund; nor could he notice, though he was in a somewhat nervousframe of mind, that there was any indication of such a failure of eye orbrain as his experiences of the morning had led him to fear.

  At supper he found himself next to the landlord.

  'What,' he asked him, after some indifferent conversation, 'is the reasonwhy in most of the hotels one visits in this country the number thirteenis left out of the list of rooms? I see you have none here.'

  The landlord seemed amused.

  'To think that you should have noticed a thing l
ike that! I've thoughtabout it once or twice myself, to tell the truth. An educated man, I'vesaid, has no business with these superstitious notions. I was brought upmyself here in the high school of Viborg, and our old master was always aman to set his face against anything of that kind. He's been dead nowthis many years--a fine upstanding man he was, and ready with his handsas well as his head. I recollect us boys, one snowy day--'

  Here he plunged into reminiscence.

  'Then you don't think there is any particular objection to having aNumber 13?' said Anderson.

  'Ah! to be sure. Well, you understand, I was brought up to the businessby my poor old father. He kept an hotel in Aarhuus first, and then, whenwe were born, he moved to Viborg here, which was his native place, andhad the Phoenix here until he died. That was in 1876. Then I startedbusiness in Silkeborg, and only the year before last I moved into thishouse.'

  Then followed more details as to the state of the house and business whenfirst taken over.

  'And when you came here, was there a Number 13?'

  'No, no. I was going to tell you about that. You see, in a place likethis, the commercial class--the travellers--are what we have to providefor in general. And put them in Number 13? Why, they'd as soon sleep inthe street, or sooner. As far as I'm concerned myself, it wouldn't make apenny difference to me what the number of my room was, and so I've oftensaid to them; but they stick to it that it brings them bad luck.Quantities of stories they have among them of men that have slept in aNumber 13 and never been the same again, or lost their best customers,or--one thing and another,' said the landlord, after searching for a moregraphic phrase.

  'Then what do you use your Number 13 for?' said Anderson, conscious as hesaid the words of a curious anxiety quite disproportionate to theimportance of the question.

  'My Number 13? Why, don't I tell you that there isn't such a thing in thehouse? I thought you might have noticed that. If there was it would benext door to your own room.'

  'Well, yes; only I happened to think--that is, I fancied last night thatI had seen a door numbered thirteen in that passage; and, really, I amalmost certain I must have been right, for I saw it the night before aswell.'

  Of course, Herr Kristensen laughed this notion to scorn, as Anderson hadexpected, and emphasized with much iteration the fact that no Number 13existed or had existed before him in that hotel.

  Anderson was in some ways relieved by his certainty, but still puzzled,and he began to think that the best way to make sure whether he hadindeed been subject to an illusion or not was to invite the landlord tohis room to smoke a cigar later on in the evening. Some photographs ofEnglish towns which he had with him formed a sufficiently good excuse.

  Herr Kristensen was flattered by the invitation, and most willinglyaccepted it. At about ten o'clock he was to make his appearance, butbefore that Anderson had some letters to write, and retired for thepurpose of writing them. He almost blushed to himself at confessing it,but he could not deny that it was the fact that he was becoming quitenervous about the question of the existence of Number 13; so much so thathe approached his room by way of Number 11, in order that he might not beobliged to pass the door, or the place where the door ought to be. Helooked quickly and suspiciously about the room when he entered it, butthere was nothing, beyond that indefinable air of being smaller thanusual, to warrant any misgivings. There was no question of the presenceor absence of his portmanteau tonight. He had himself emptied it of itscontents and lodged it under his bed. With a certain effort he dismissedthe thought of Number 13 from his mind, and sat down to his writing.

  His neighbours were quiet enough. Occasionally a door opened in thepassage and a pair of boots was thrown out, or a bagman walked pasthumming to himself, and outside, from time to time, a cart thundered overthe atrocious cobble-stones, or a quick step hurried along the flags.

  Anderson finished his letters, ordered in whisky and soda, and then wentto the window and studied the dead wall opposite and the shadows upon it.

  As far as he could remember, Number 14 had been occupied by the lawyer, astaid man, who said little at meals, being generally engaged in studyinga small bundle of papers beside his plate. Apparently, however, he was inthe habit of giving vent to his animal spirits when alone. Why elseshould he be dancing? The shadow from the next room evidently showed thathe was. Again and again his thin form crossed the window, his arms waved,and a gaunt leg was kicked up with surprising agility. He seemed to bebarefooted, and the floor must be well laid, for no sound betrayed hismovements. Sagfoerer Herr Anders Jensen, dancing at ten o'clock at nightin a hotel bedroom, seemed a fitting subject for a historical painting inthe grand style; and Anderson's thoughts, like those of Emily in the'Mysteries of Udolpho', began to 'arrange themselves in the followinglines':

  When I return to my hotel, At ten o'clock p.m., The waiters think I am unwell; I do not care for them. But when I've locked my chamber door, And put my boots outside, I dance all night upon the floor.

  And even if my neighbours swore, I'd go on dancing all the more, For I'm acquainted with the law, And in despite of all their jaw, Their protests I deride.

  Had not the landlord at this moment knocked at the door, it is probablethat quite a long poem might have been laid before the reader. To judgefrom his look of surprise when he found himself in the room, HerrKristensen was struck, as Anderson had been, by something unusual in itsaspect. But he made no remark. Anderson's photographs interested himmightily, and formed the text of many autobiographical discourses. Nor isit quite clear how the conversation could have been diverted into thedesired channel of Number 13, had not the lawyer at this moment begun tosing, and to sing in a manner which could leave no doubt in anyone's mindthat he was either exceedingly drunk or raving mad. It was a high, thinvoice that they heard, and it seemed dry, as if from long disuse. Ofwords or tune there was no question. It went sailing up to a surprisingheight, and was carried down with a despairing moan as of a winter windin a hollow chimney, or an organ whose wind fails suddenly. It was areally horrible sound, and Anderson felt that if he had been alone hemust have fled for refuge and society to some neighbour bagman's room.

  The landlord sat open-mouthed.

  'I don't understand it,' he said at last, wiping his forehead. 'It isdreadful. I have heard it once before, but I made sure it was a cat.'

  'Is he mad?' said Anderson.

  'He must be; and what a sad thing! Such a good customer, too, and sosuccessful in his business, by what I hear, and a young family to bringup.'

  Just then came an impatient knock at the door, and the knocker entered,without waiting to be asked. It was the lawyer, in _deshabille_ and veryrough-haired; and very angry he looked.

  'I beg pardon, sir,' he said, 'but I should be much obliged if you wouldkindly desist--'

  Here he stopped, for it was evident that neither of the persons beforehim was responsible for the disturbance; and after a moment's lull itswelled forth again more wildly than before.

  'But what in the name of Heaven does it mean?' broke out the lawyer.'Where is it? Who is it? Am I going out of my mind?'

  'Surely, Herr Jensen, it comes from your room next door? Isn't there acat or something stuck in the chimney?'

  This was the best that occurred to Anderson to say and he realized itsfutility as he spoke; but anything was better than to stand and listen tothat horrible voice, and look at the broad, white face of the landlord,all perspiring and quivering as he clutched the arms of his chair.

  'Impossible,' said the lawyer, 'impossible. There is no chimney. I camehere because I was convinced the noise was going on here. It wascertainly in the next room to mine.'

  'Was there no door between yours and mine?' said Anderson eagerly.

  'No, sir,' said Herr Jensen, rather sharply. 'At least, not thismorning.'

  'Ah!' said Anderson. 'Nor tonight?'

  'I am not sure,' said the lawyer with some hesitation.

  Suddenly the crying or singing voice in the next room died away,
and thesinger was heard seemingly to laugh to himself in a crooning manner. Thethree men actually shivered at the sound. Then there was a silence.

  'Come,' said the lawyer, 'what have you to say, Herr Kristensen? Whatdoes this mean?'

  'Good Heaven!' said Kristensen. 'How should I tell! I know no more thanyou, gentlemen. I pray I may never hear such a noise again.'

  'So do I,' said Herr Jensen, and he added something under his breath.Anderson thought it sounded like the last words of the Psalter, '_omnisspiritus laudet Dominum_,' but he could not be sure.

  'But we must do something,' said Anderson--'the three of us. Shall we goand investigate in the next room?'

  'But that is Herr Jensen's room,' wailed the landlord. 'It is no use; hehas come from there himself.'

  'I am not so sure,' said Jensen. 'I think this gentleman is right: wemust go and see.'

  The only weapons of defence that could be mustered on the spot were astick and umbrella. The expedition went out into the passage, not withoutquakings. There was a deadly quiet outside, but a light shone from underthe next door. Anderson and Jensen approached it. The latter turned thehandle, and gave a sudden vigorous push. No use. The door stood fast.

  'Herr Kristensen,' said Jensen, 'will you go and fetch the strongestservant you have in the place? We must see this through.'

  The landlord nodded, and hurried off, glad to be away from the scene ofaction. Jensen and Anderson remained outside looking at the door.

  'It _is_ Number 13, you see,' said the latter.

  'Yes; there is your door, and there is mine,' said Jensen.

  'My room has three windows in the daytime,' said Anderson withdifficulty, suppressing a nervous laugh.

  'By George, so has mine!' said the lawyer, turning and looking atAnderson. His back was now to the door. In that moment the door opened,and an arm came out and clawed at his shoulder. It was clad in ragged,yellowish linen, and the bare skin, where it could be seen, had long greyhair upon it.

  Anderson was just in time to pull Jensen out of its reach with a cry ofdisgust and fright, when the door shut again, and a low laugh was heard.

  Jensen had seen nothing, but when Anderson hurriedly told him what a riskhe had run, he fell into a great state of agitation, and suggested thatthey should retire from the enterprise and lock themselves up in one orother of their rooms.

  However, while he was developing this plan, the landlord and twoable-bodied men arrived on the scene, all looking rather serious andalarmed. Jensen met them with a torrent of description and explanation,which did not at all tend to encourage them for the fray.

  The men dropped the crowbars they had brought, and said flatly that theywere not going to risk their throats in that devil's den. The landlordwas miserably nervous and undecided, conscious that if the danger werenot faced his hotel was ruined, and very loth to face it himself. LuckilyAnderson hit upon a way of rallying the demoralized force.

  'Is this,' he said, 'the Danish courage I have heard so much of? It isn'ta German in there, and if it was, we are five to one.'

  The two servants and Jensen were stung into action by this, and made adash at the door.

  'Stop!' said Anderson. 'Don't lose your heads. You stay out here with thelight, landlord, and one of you two men break in the door, and don't goin when it gives way.'

  The men nodded, and the younger stepped forward, raised his crowbar, anddealt a tremendous blow on the upper panel. The result was not in theleast what any of them anticipated. There was no cracking or rending ofwood--only a dull sound, as if the solid wall had been struck. The mandropped his tool with a shout, and began rubbing his elbow. His cry drewtheir eyes upon him for a moment; then Anderson looked at the door again.It was gone; the plaster wall of the passage stared him in the face, witha considerable gash in it where the crowbar had struck it. Number 13 hadpassed out of existence.

  For a brief space they stood perfectly still, gazing at the blank wall.An early cock in the yard beneath was heard to crow; and as Andersonglanced in the direction of the sound, he saw through the window at theend of the long passage that the eastern sky was paling to the dawn.

  'Perhaps,' said the landlord, with hesitation, 'you gentlemen would likeanother room for tonight--a double-bedded one?'

  Neither Jensen nor Anderson was averse to the suggestion. They feltinclined to hunt in couples after their late experience. It was foundconvenient, when each of them went to his room to collect the articles hewanted for the night, that the other should go with him and hold thecandle. They noticed that both Number 12 and Number 14 had _three_windows.

  * * * * *

  Next morning the same party reassembled in Number 12. The landlord wasnaturally anxious to avoid engaging outside help, and yet it wasimperative that the mystery attaching to that part of the house should becleared up. Accordingly the two servants had been induced to take uponthem the function of carpenters. The furniture was cleared away, and, atthe cost of a good many irretrievably damaged planks, that portion of thefloor was taken up which lay nearest to Number 14.

  You will naturally suppose that a skeleton--say that of Mag NicolasFrancken--was discovered. That was not so. What they did find lyingbetween the beams which supported the flooring was a small copper box. Init was a neatly-folded vellum document, with about twenty lines ofwriting. Both Anderson and Jensen (who proved to be something of apalaeographer) were much excited by this discovery, which promised toafford the key to these extraordinary phenomena.

  * * * * *

  I possess a copy of an astrological work which I have never read. It has,by way of frontispiece, a woodcut by Hans Sebald Beham, representing anumber of sages seated round a table. This detail may enable connoisseursto identify the book. I cannot myself recollect its title, and it is notat this moment within reach; but the fly-leaves of it are covered withwriting, and, during the ten years in which I have owned the volume, Ihave not been able to determine which way up this writing ought to beread, much less in what language it is. Not dissimilar was the positionof Anderson and Jensen after the protracted examination to which theysubmitted the document in the copper box.

  After two days' contemplation of it, Jensen, who was the bolder spirit ofthe two, hazarded the conjecture that the language was either Latin orOld Danish.

  Anderson ventured upon no surmises, and was very willing to surrender thebox and the parchment to the Historical Society of Viborg to be placed intheir museum.

  I had the whole story from him a few months later, as we sat in a woodnear Upsala, after a visit to the library there, where we--or, rather,I--had laughed over the contract by which Daniel Salthenius (in laterlife Professor of Hebrew at Koenigsberg) sold himself to Satan. Andersonwas not really amused.

  'Young idiot!' he said, meaning Salthenius, who was only an undergraduatewhen he committed that indiscretion, 'how did he know what company he wascourting?'

  And when I suggested the usual considerations he only grunted. That sameafternoon he told me what you have read; but he refused to draw anyinferences from it, and to assent to any that I drew for him.