"A quiet hour with you."
I saw him glance quickly around the entrance hall of the house in which we stood, as though he feared we were not alone. Then he took a step nearer to me.
"A quiet hour, young man?"
"Ay, a quiet hour."
"I tell you this," and his voice became bitter: "If you do not leave this house—nay, nay." He stopped as if to correct himself. "A quiet hour—ay, a quiet hour, that you shall have, young master. So quiet that you shall not even know when it hath come to an end, so quiet that the spirits of the dead which haunt this house shall scarcely know when you have entered their worshipful company."
By this time I saw that he had recovered from the surprise he had experienced at my entrance. His deep-set eyes rested steadily upon me, and he spoke like one in deep thought. I therefore watched him closely, for although he was an old man, he shewed no sign of feebleness. His eyes were keen and alert, and he moved with the activity of youth.
"But why wish you this quiet hour, young master?"
"To know many things which you can tell me," I answered boldly enough, although I was anything but light hearted.
"Ay, I will tell you of many things," he said quickly, "things that you will never repeat, my son, never, never, never."
He repeated the word as I have written it down with great solemnity, and for the last time between his set teeth and with terrible intensity.