It was in April--early April when the days were raw and cloudy, and the nights blustery and dreary--that Barclay sat in his office one night after a hard day afield, his top-boots spattered with mud, his corduroy coat spread out on a chair to dry, and his wet gray soft hat on his desk beside him.

Jane was with her parents in Minneola, and Barclay had come to his office without eating, from the stable where he left his team.

The yellow lights in the street below were reflected on the mists outside his window, and the dripping eaves and cornices above him and about him seemed to mark the time of some eery music too fine for his senses, and the footfalls in the street below, hurrying footfalls of people shivering through the mists, seemed to be the drum beats of the weird symphony that he could not hear.
Barclay drew a watch from, the pocket of his blue flannel shirt, and looked at it and stopped writing and stood by the box-stove.

He was looking at the door when he heard a thud on the stairs.

It was followed by a rattling sound, and in a moment Adrian Brownwell and his cane were in the room.