fog lately—every night for a week. My man died in the fog."
Garth whistled.
"Could they have mistaken him for you?"
"There were no marks on the body."
Alden looked up. His voice thickened.
"We are talking too much. I—I want you to stay and judge for yourself."
Garth arose and walked to the rear window, but he could see nothing for the mist. He stood there, nevertheless, for some time, puzzled and half angry. The mental and physical condition of his host, Mrs. Alden's shattered nerves, the extreme loneliness, impressed on him a sense of uncharted adventuring.
"Why," he asked himself, "won't these people talk? What do they expect me to find in this house?"
When he turned back he saw that Alden's eyes were closed. The regular rising and falling of his chest warned Garth to quietness. He would not disturb the worn-out man. So he pressed the electric bell and walked to the hall. He met John there.
"Please show me to my room," he said. "Mr. Alden's asleep. Perhaps you'd better speak to his wife before you disturb him."
John bowed and led him upstairs.
"Good-night, sir," he said, opening the door. "May you sleep well. It's a little hard here lately."
He hesitated. He cleared his throat.
