The last half dozen pages were covered with written words—blotted, scrawling, scarcely decipherable, but unmistakably written words.
“Well, certainly, this is most astonishing. Whatever it is, I have written it unawares.”
I dropped the manuscript and leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded by this latest development.
“Here,” said Merivale, “is the point where the music ends and the words begin.”
The music ended, the words began, just at that point where last night the shriek of malevolent laughter had interfered with the current of melody. From that point to the bottom of the last page not another bar of music was discernible—not a note of the incomprehensible witches’ chorus—simply words, words that I dared not read.
“This is magic, this is ghost-work,” I said. “It appalls me. Look at it, Merivale. Does it make sense? Or is it simply a mass of scribbling without rhyme or reason?”
“Ye-es,” rejoined Merivale slowly, “it seems to make sense. The penmanship is pretty blind, but the words appear to hang together. It begins, ‘I walked re—re—reluctantly’—next word very bad—’I walked reluctantly—reluctantly—away’—oh yes, that’s it—’away—from the house. By Jove, this is singular! Shall I go on?”
“Yes, go on,” I said faintly. There was panic in my heart.
Merivale continued, picking his way laboriously. The following is what he read.