"But, my dear Morrison"
"I tell you I'm just the same as ever. It's just.—just—well, you know. Tell me, didn't you really notice any difference in the attitude of the figures?"
"No, I didn't."
"I'm still dubious."
"Oh, I say, Morrison! Don't let's discuss it."
"As you will, Clavering, but you have no idea how the thing affects me. It's so strangely suggestive."
"Suggestive? Of what?"
"Of—nothing. Won't you have a whisky and soda before you go?"
"No, I must go, Morrison."
Clavering stood up. He yawned, then reached for his hat and stick. The two men walked slowly through the shadowy antique shop to the street door. On the threshold they paused. Morrison sighed. Clavering struck a match and lit his cigarette.
"I wouldn't let that carving bother me any more, if I were you, Morrison. It's not exactly good for you, you know."
"It's not bothering me; I'm just wondering, that's all."
"You're trying fairly hard to conceal your nervousness, Morrison, but you can't deceive me. You'd better stop, old fellow, stop worrying."
"It's easy for you to say. By God! I know that carving is not the same as when I got it."
Morrison shuffled back through the aisles in his shop to his rooms beyond. His bedroom slippers made a curious flapping noise.
The next night Clavering found Morrison waiting for him, the image grasped tightly in his hand.
"No doubt about it, Clavering. The pirate's cutlas is plainly sticking in the sailor's breast."
"You're seeing things, Morrison."
"Well, look at it; see for yourself."
"There's absolutely nothing the matter with it!"
"Then what's the matter with me?"
"You're overworked; under a nervous strain, that's all."
"Absolute nonsense."
"Oh, well!"
"That weapon is going to keep on entering the sailor's body; when it's passed through, something will happen."
"To the wooden figure?"
"Perhaps; who knows?"
Morrison turned the image over in his hand, then placed it on the table within easy reach.
"Did you ever notice that their faces had changed?"
"Oh, come, Morrison! You're overdoing it."
"That's your view, Clavering; I've got mine."
"By the way, Morrison, where did you get the thing, if I may ask?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"No. It was here in the shop one day; I swear I'd never seen it before."
"Odd."
"Yes, it is odd—too odd to please me."
"Why don't you burn the thing?"
"I can't bring myself to do it. In some cursed way it reminds me of something."
Clavering shot a quick glance at the clock. "Is that 9 o'clock, Morrison?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I've got to go; I've an engagement at 9:30."
"Oh."
"If I were you I'd put that carving in storage."
Mr. Soames Clavering made a belated appearance at his club three nights later. He had no sooner made his entrance than a young antiquary, James Herrick, rose and made his way over to him.
"I say, Clavering, I hear Morrison's dead."
"Yes, he's dead."
"What happened to him? Why,
