How the Third Floor Knew the Potteries | Page 7

from them, if I could; and began by examining
the ovens. The temperature of all was much higher than on the previous
night, the heat having been gradually increased during the last twelve

hours. It was now my business to keep the heat on the increase for
twelve more; after which it would be allowed, as gradually, to subside,
until the pottery was cool enough for removal. To turn the seggars, and
add fuel to the two first furnaces, was my first work. As before, I found
number Three in advance of the others, and so left it for half an hour, or
an hour. I then went round the yard; tried the doors; let the dog loose;
and brought him back with me to the baking-houses, for company.
After that, I set my lantern on a shelf beside the door, took a book from
my pocket, and began to read.
I remember the title of the book as well as possible. It was called
Bowlker's Art of Angling, and contained little rude cuts of all kinds of
artificial flies, hooks, and other tackle. But I could not keep my mind to
it for two minutes together; and at last I gave it up in despair, covered
my face with my hands, and fell into a long absorbing painful train of
thought. A considerable time had gone by thus -- maybe an hour --
when I was roused by a low whimpering howl from Captain, who was
lying at my feet. I looked up with a start, just as I had started from sleep
the night before, and with the same vague terror; and saw, exactly in
the same place and in the same attitude, with the firelight full upon him
-- George Barnard!
At this sight, a fear heavier than the fear of death fell upon me, and my
tongue seemed paralysed in my mouth. Then, just as last night, he rose,
or seemed to rise, and went slowly out into the next room. A power
stronger than myself appeared to compel me, reluctantly, to follow him.
I saw him pass through the second room -- cross the threshold of the
third room -- walk straight up to the oven -- and there pause. He then
turned, for the first time, with the glare of the red firelight pouring out
upon him from the open door of the furnace, and looked at me, face to
face. In the same instant, his whole frame and countenance seemed to
glow and become transparent, as if the fire were all within him and
around him -- and in that glow he became, as it were, absorbed into the
furnace, and disappeared!
I uttered a wild cry, tried to stagger from the room, and fell insensible
before I reached the door.

When I next opened my eyes, the grey dawn was in the sky; the
furnace-doors were all closed as I had left them when I last went round;
the dog was quietly sleeping not far from my side; and the men were
ringing at the gate, to be let in.
I told my tale from beginning to end, and was laughed at, as a matter of
course, by all who heard it. When it was found, however, that my
statements never varied, and, above all, that George Barnard continued
absent, some few began to talk it over seriously, and among those few,
the master of the works. He forbade the furnace to be cleared out,
called in the aid of a celebrated naturalist, and had the ashes submitted
to a scientific examination. The result was as follows:
The ashes were found to have been largely saturated with some kind of
fatty animal matter. A considerable portion of those ashes consisted of
charred bone. A semi-circular piece of iron, which evidently had once
been the heel of a workman's heavy boot, was found, half fused, at one
corner of the furnace. Near it, a tibia bone, which still retained
sufficient of its original form and texture to render identification
possible. This bone, however, was so much charred, that it fell into
powder on being handled.
After this, not many doubted that George Barnard had been foully
murdered, and that his body had been thrust into the furnace. Suspicion
fell upon Louis Laroche. He was arrested, a coroner's inquest was held,
and every circumstance connected with the night of the murder was as
thoroughly sifted and investigated as possible. All the sifting in the
world, however, failed either to clear or to condemn Louis Laroche. On
the very night of his release, he left the place by the mail-train, and was
never seen or heard of there, again. As for Leah, I know not what
became of her. I went away myself before many weeks were