"I am the spirit of the boy you murdered!" As he uttered the words, he waved one hand aloft, and made a step forward toward the bed.
Excited to the wildest pitch, Cromwell trembled convulsively, then opened his lips to utter a piercing shriek, and flinging the bed-clothes over his head, cowered beneath them in craven terror.
Robert thought this a good chance to make his exit. He noiselessly retreated, closing the door behind him, and entered his own room before the servants, aroused by Cromwell's shriek, could reach the door of his apartment.
"What's the matter here?" demanded a waiter, opening the door of No. 41.
The only answer was a groan from beneath the bed-clothes.
"What's the matter, I say?" he repeated, rather sharply.
The voice was so decidedly earthly that James Cromwell, somewhat relieved of his fear, removed the clothes from his head, and looked up.
"I—I don't know," he said, "I think I had the night-mare."
"Well," uttered the servant, "I hope you won't have it again. You'll wake up all that are asleep, and make them think that somebody is being murdered."