I was in my first sleep about an hour afterwards, when a knock came at my door, and the valet came in.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said, “but the skull has just come back. It’s in the next room. Would you like to see it?”
“Certainly not,” I roared. “Get away and let me go to sleep.”
Then and there I firmly resolved to leave next morning. I hated skulls, and I fancied that probably it might take a fancy to me, and I had no desire to be followed about the country by a skull as if it was a fox terrier.
Next morning I went in to breakfast. “Where is that beastly skull?” I said to Allan.
“Oh, it’s off again somewhere. Heaven knows where; but I have had another vision, a waking vision.”
“What was it?”
“Well,” said Allan, “I saw the skull and a white hand which seemed to beckon to me beside it. Then they slowly receded and in their place was what looked like a big sheet of paper. On it in large letters were the words—Your friend, Jack Weston, is dead. This morning I got this wire telling me of his sudden death. Read it.”
That afternoon I left the Highlands and Allan Beauchamp.