His lips framed the words, "Who is it?
Is any one there ?" but he did not utter them.
A kind of awe possessed him.

He was Celtic; he had been fed on the supernatural when he was a child; he had had strange, indefinable experiences or hallucinations in the days when he lived at Castlegarry, and all his life he had been a friend of the mystical.

It is hard to tell what he thought as he stood there and peered into the darkness of the other room-the living-room of the house.

He was in a state of trance, almost, a victim of the night.

But as he closed the door softly the words of the song that Kitty Tynan had sung to him the day when he found her brushing his coat came to him and flooded his brain.