"Sit down, Moon, and make yourself at home," pursued my room-mate. And then that mocking laughter began again.

I felt myself helpless as a dead man. I seemed to be in another world; that familiar college room was strange and unreal. A wonderful enchantment possessed me. I looked at the clock: the hands were moving irregularly backward and forward, though it had stopped ticking. There was an escritoire in one corner of the room, and the cover of this fell down with a loud bang. Inside was a man's skull. The pictures seemed to move in their frames. I could see the figure of a dog run madly back and forth; the horses in "Aurora" were galloping furiously. With fearful effort I rose to my feet and tried to escape from the room, but an invisible bar held me back at the doorway. Meanwhile the wind had risen and was blowing the curtains to and fro.

The laughter stopped; the strange movements ceased. Dead silence again. Stephen sat quietly by the fire, neither stirring nor speaking. I looked on in dumb amazement; and then, as I looked, I saw him rise to his feet, with a livid light in his eyes; I saw him draw from his pocket a revolver and point it at some invisible mark. I tried to shriek for help; I tried to move. I might as well have been a statue. Then I saw the revolver snatched from him by a hand; I saw a face, distinct and clear as his own - a face whose every line is deeply imprinted on my memory; I saw that face light up with a smile of exultation, and that hand pressed on the trigger; I saw Stephen fall heavily - dead! But the revolver made no noise!

Darkness was before my eyes and a damp like the sweat of death was gathered on my forehead, as I sank unconscious to the floor.

(To be continued.)