Add to these reasons a keen pleasure in profiting by the occurrence of the unexpected, and you will guess that Denzil ended by accepting the strange invitation of Berwin.
Being now fully committed to the adventure, he went forward with cool courage and an observant eye, to spy out, if possible, the secret upon which hinged these mysteries.
As on the former occasion, Berwin inducted his guest into the sitting-room, and here, as previously, a dainty supper was spread.
Berwin turned up the lamp light and waved his hand round the luxuriously furnished room, pointing particularly to the space between table and window.
"The figures whose shadows you saw," said he, "must have struggled together in this space, so as to be between the lamp and the blind for the performance of their pantomime.

But I would have you observe, Mr.
Denzil, that there is no disturbance of the furniture to show that such a struggle as you describe took place; also that the curtains are drawn across the window, and no light could have been thrown on the blind." "The curtains were, no doubt, drawn after I rang the bell," said Lucian, glancing towards the heavy folds of crimson velvet which veiled the window.
"The curtains," retorted Berwin, stripping off his coat, "were drawn by me before I went out." Lucian said nothing, but shook his head doubtfully.

Evidently Berwin was trying, for his own ends, to talk him into a belief that his eyes had deceived him; but Denzil was too clear-headed a young man to be so gulled.

Berwin's explanations and excuses only confirmed the idea that there was something in the man's life which cut him off from humanity, and which would not bear the light of day.

Hitherto, Lucian had heard rather than seen Berwin; but now, in the clear light of the lamp, he had an excellent opportunity of observing both the man and his quarters.
Berwin was of medium height, and lean, with a clean-shaven face, hollow cheeks, and black, sunken eyes.