It usually only smoulders, with a deep red glow, as he visits his beat.

The library is one of the rooms he sees to.

Unlike 'Lady Rachel,' as the maids called her, he is seen only, never heard.

His steps fall noiseless as shadows on floor and carpet.
The lurid glow of his smouldering torch imperfectly lights his figure and face, and, except when much perturbed, his link never blazes.

On those occasions, however, as he goes his rounds, he ever and anon whirls it around his head, and it bursts into a dismal flame.