The Thing in the Upper Room | Page 4

as it had lain when he
sat gazing at it yesterday, and yet he would have sworn that he had
flung that same dagger into a drawer. Perhaps he had dreamed it; at any
rate, he put the thing carefully into the drawer now, and, still with his
ringing headache, dressed himself and went out.
As he reached the next landing the old engraver greeted him from his
door with an inquiring good-day. "Monsieur has not slept well, I fear?"
In some doubt, Attwater protested that he had slept quite soundly. "And
as yet I have neither seen nor heard anything of the ghost," he added.
"Nothing?" replied the old man, with a lift of the eyebrows, "nothing at
all? It is fortunate. It seemed to me, here below, that monsieur was
moving about very restlessly in the night; but no doubt I was mistaken.
No doubt, also, I may felicitate monsieur on breaking the evil tradition.
We shall hear no more of it; monsieur has the good fortune of a brave
heart."
He smiled and bowed pleasantly, but it was with something of a
puzzled look that his eyes followed Attwater descending the staircase.
Attwater took his coffee and roll after an hour's walk, and fell asleep in
his seat. Not for long, however, and presently he rose and left the caf‚.
He felt better, though still unaccountably fatigued. He caught sight of
his face in a mirror beside a shop window, and saw an improvement
since he had looked in his own glass. That indeed had brought him a
shock. Worn and drawn beyond what might have been expected of so
bad a night, there was even something more. What was it? How should
it remind him of that old legend--was it Japanese?--which he had tried
to recollect when he had wondered confusedly at the haggard
apparition that confronted him? Some tale of a demon-possessed
person who in any mirror, saw never his own face, but the face of the
demon.
Work he felt to be impossible, and he spent the day on garden seats, at

café tables, and for a while in the Luxembourg. And in the evening he
met an English friend, who took him by the shoulders and looked into
his eyes, shook him, and declared that he had been overworking, and
needed, above all things, a good dinner, which he should have instantly.
"You'll dine with me," he said, "at La Perouse, and we'll get a cab to
take us there. I'm hungry."
As they stood and looked for a passing cab a man ran shouting with
newspapers. "We'll have a cab," Attwater's friend repeated, "and we'll
take the new murder with us for conversation's sake. Hi! Journal!"
He bought a paper, and followed Attwater into the cab. "I've a strong
idea I knew the poor old boy by sight," he said. "I believe he'd seen
better days."
"Who?"
"The old man who was murdered in the Rue Broca last night. The
description fits exactly. He used to hang about the cafés and run
messages. It isn't easy to read in this cab; but there's probably nothing
fresh in this edition. They haven't caught the murderer, anyhow."
Attwater took the paper, and struggled to read it in the changing light.
A poor old man had been found dead on the footpath of the Rue Broca,
torn with a score of stabs. He had been identified--an old man not
known to have a friend in the world; also, because he was so old and so
poor, probably not an enemy. There was no robbery; the few sous the
old man possessed remained in his pocket. He must have been attacked
on his way home in the early hours of the morning, possibly by a
homicidal maniac, and stabbed again and again with inconceivable fury.
No arrest had been made.
Attwater pushed the paper way: "Pah!" he said; "I don't like it. I'm a bit
off colour, and I was dreaming horribly all last night; though why this
should remind me of it I can't guess. But it's no cure for the blues, this!"
"No," replied his friend heartily; "we'll get that upstairs, for here we are,
on the quay. A bottle of the best Burgundy on the list and the best

dinner they can do--that's your physic. Come!"
It was a good prescription, indeed. Attwater's friend was cheerful and
assiduous, and nothing could have bettered the dinner. Attwater found
himself reflecting that indulgence in the blues was a poor pastime, with
no better excuse than a bad night's rest. And last night's dinner in
comparison with this! Well, it was enough to have spoiled his sleep,
that one-franc-fifty dinner.
Attwater left La Perouse as gay as his friend. They had sat late, and
now there was nothing