“Well, Moïse,” I said, “did the Spook fulfil his promise?”
Moïse gave me all the gruesome details in an awed tone. “And it was no use sending for the doctor,” he added, “because I knew it was all supernatural. I am most thankful it is all over.”
I congratulated him on being alive.
“I shall press no more for the treasure,” said he; “this lesson is for me sufficient.”
“Good,” said I.
It was more than good. It was excellent. His subordinate having failed, surely the Commandant would now come forward. I waited hopefully, a week, a fortnight, a month. But Kiazim Bey never put in an appearance. I thought I was beaten and all but gave up hope. So far as was possible, I backed out of spooking. There seemed no alternative to the direct bolt. I made my plans to go on skis at the end of February, or beginning of March. I warned my room-mates, in confidence, that I might disappear, sent a cryptogram to my father, and began to train. But early in January I met with an accident while practising. A bone in my knee was injured in such a way as to put escape out of the question for me till well on in the spring. I sold my skis to Colbeck and turned back to my first love.
Perhaps the pain in my knee acted as a counter-irritant to my sluggish wits. A few days after the accident the necessary brain-wave arrived. The Pimple was in the lane at the time. I hobbled out to him through the snow. We chatted, and our chat came round to the old subject—the Spook—quite naturally.
“This rage of the Spirit’s—it cannot be explained,” the Pimple said.
“No,” I replied, “I have only seen one previous instance where the Spook behaved so badly for so long. And there the circumstances were different.”
“What were the circumstances?”