these things had voices of their own, and once you
had heard that, there was no more rest to be had.
Those damned stories they had told him as a child
about the ghosts of sinners and their remorse had
given him that stupid belief. But he could hear it,
and he could do nothing about it, although his
reason knew better. It was curious, too, that in
the daytime these noises were not so noticeable,
although then, too, it was wood and stone just the
same that shrank and flaked. And he knew almost
to the minute when they would begin, and what
intervals there would be before they returned ;
when half-past one had struck from the Tower, he
had only to count up to a hundred before something
began to creak on the floor between the cupboard
and the door, and about thirty counts after that
there was a creak under the left-hand window-sill,
as though someone had been walking slowly and
had halted there. Then he would listen carefully.
Then fear came so that he had to force himself to
remain in bed. And in the morning, awaking
with a start, he felt tired and heavy.
At the office, where the stove burned too fiercely,
seated at the little table against the dark wall, he
could scarcely see to read Mr. Opman's draft, and
if he asked about it the junior partner was impatient.
In the afternoon the darkness made him sleepy.
Once he got a fright because he thought he was
snoring, but it was Mr. Oprnan himself, sitting at