Here, again, was some mystery. And Laurence recalled all he knew about the neighbouring house since his father had settled down at Northden. Its original owners were the descendants of the blue-blooded Elizabethan dignitary who had built it. Owing to financial embarrassments the house was sold, and fell into the hands of a crusty, miserly old scoundrel of the name of Northcott, who had died shortly after.
After Northcott's decease the Dene was again put up for auction, but without being knocked down for the sum asked by the late owner's nephew, who had claimed the property. For years it had stood empty—to some extent a ruin—but within the last few months intelligence had reached the villagers that the Dene had been purchased by an invalid army man—one Major Jones-Farnell—who, in due course of time, arrived late one night, accompanied, it was reported, by his secretary. To the surprise and disgust of the neighbourhood, it became apparent that the owner of Durley Dene would employ no local servants, a man and his wife (so it was said) doing the outdoor work and cooking respectively.
Now Laurence could not help wondering, was there not something peculiarly suspicious about the inhabitants of the residence adjoining his father's house? Was it possible that the advent of this Major Jones-Farnell had caused Mr. Carrington to take the remarkable precautions that he had? Undoubtedly his "fear of burglars" dated from about the time of the supposed invalid's arrival in Northden. Was it possible that——?
But suddenly the brown study into which Laurence had fallen was interrupted by the faint sound of someone moving among the trees that formed an avenue leading to the old house outside which he was standing. The disturbing noise was a faint one,—merely that of the snapping of a twig,—but it was sufficient to cause the young man to turn and peep over the fence in the direction whence the sound came.
For a long time he peered into the shadows without detecting any sign of a living creature; then he caught sight, all of a moment, of a dark figure moving swiftly and silently between the trees nearest the apparently uninhabited house. Laurence strove to shout and inquire what the person was doing at such an hour; yet, for some reason, he seemed unable to cry out or move.
He stood there, his heart beating so loud that it seemed to outdin the patter of the rain upon the leaves, until the mysterious figure disappeared from view. So stealthily did it glide away that more than once Laurence rubbed his eyes, doubting whether he had really seen anything or only imagined that he had not been alone in the darkness of the night.
When the unknown figure was gone he regained his voice, and in loud tones cried out, "Who is there?" But no reply came save the echoing repetition of his own words, which died away gently in the swaying tree-tops.
He waited, glaring at the darkness. Then by chance his eye lighted upon one of the windows of the desolate Dene. It was a bow window, thickly curtained and draped with black. But what the midnight watcher saw—what filled him with a sudden coldness and an incomprehensible sense of horror—was that at one corner the curtain had been carefully drawn aside, and that a face with the nose pressed white against the pane was framed in the window and lighted by the moon's pale rays—a face as brutal and awe-inspiring as it was sinister and uncanny. Only for one moment did it remain before being withdrawn as suddenly as it had come.
With his nerves disturbed by the events of the night, Laurence vainly endeavoured to persuade himself that all he had seen had merely figured in his imagination. But the memory of the silent being among the trees and the strange face at the window was not to be effaced. And, still pondering on these irregular nocturnal events, the young man turned on his heel, and, reaching the Manse, was glad to place the stout oak door of his home between himself and the weird noises and shadows of the outside world.