Number 13

Among the towns ofJutland, Viborg justly holds a high place. It is the
seat of a bishopric; it has a handsome but almost entirely newcathedral, a
charming garden, a lake of great beauty, and many storks. Near itis Hald,
accounted one of the prettiest things in Denmark; and hard by isFinderup,
where Marsk Stig murdered King Erik Glipping on St Cecilia's Day,in the
year 1286. Fifty-six blows of square-headed iron maces weretraced on Erik's
skull when his tomb was opened in the seventeenth century. But Iam not
writing a guide-book.

There are good hotels in Viborg - Preisler's and the Phoenix areall that
can be desired. But my cousin, whose experiences I have to tellyou now,
went to the Golden Lion the first time that he visited Viborg. Hehas not
been there since, and the following pages will perhaps explainthe reason of
his abstention.

The Golden Lion is one of the very few houses in the town thatwere not
destroyed in the great fire of 1726, which practically demolishedthe
cathedral, the Sognekirke, the Raadhuus, and so much else thatwas old and
interesting. It is a great red-brick house - that is, the frontis of brick,
with corbie steps on the gables and a text over the door; but thecourtyard
into which the omnibus drives is of black and white 'cage-work'in wood and
plaster.

The sun was declining in the heavens when my cousin walked up tothe
door, and the light smote full upon the imposing faade ofthe house. He was
delighted with the old-fashioned aspect of the place, andpromised himself a
thoroughly satisfactory and amusing stay in an inn so typical ofold
Jutland.

It was not business in the ordinary sense of the word that hadbrought Mr
Anderson to Viborg. He was engaged upon some researches into theChurch
history of Denmark, and it had come to his knowledge that in theRigsarkiv
of Viborg there were papers, saved from the fire, relating to thelast days
of Roman Catholicism in the country. He proposed, therefore, tospend a
considerable time - perhaps as much as a fortnight or three weeks- in
examining and copying these, and he hoped that the Golden Lionwould be able
to give him a room of sufficient size to serve alike as a bedroomand a
study. His wishes were explained to the landlord, and, after acertain
amount of thought, the latter suggested that perhaps it might bethe best
way for the gentleman to look at one or two of the larger roomsand pick one
for himself. It seemed a good idea.

The top floor was soon rejected as entailing too much gettingupstairs
after the day's work; the second floor contained no room ofexactly the
dimensions required; but on the first floor there was a choice oftwo or
three rooms which would, so far as size went, suit admirably.

The landlord was strongly in favour of Number 17, but Mr Andersonpointed
out that its windows commanded only the blank wall of the nexthouse, and
that it would be very dark in the afternoon. Either Number 12 orNumber 14
would be better, for both of them looked on the street, and thebright
evening light and the pretty view would more than compensate himfor the
additional amount of noise.

Eventually Number 12 was selected. Like its neighbours, it hadthree
windows, all on one side of the room; it was fairly high andunusually long.
There was, of course, no fireplace, but the stove was handsomeand rather
old - a cast-iron erection, on the side of which was arepresentation of
Abraham sacrificing Isaac, and the inscription, '1 Bog Mose, Cap.22',
above. Nothing else in the room was remarkable; the onlyinteresting picture
was an old coloured print of the town, date about 1820.

Supper-time was approaching, but when Anderson, refreshed by theordinary
ablutions, descended the staircase, there were still a fewminutes before
the bell rang. He devoted them to examining the list of hisfellow-lodgers.
As is usual in Denmark, their names were displayed on a largeblackboard,
divided into columns and lines, the numbers of the rooms beingpainted in at
the beginning of each line. The list was not exciting. There wasan
advocate, or Sagfšrer, a German, and some bagmen fromCopenhagen. The one
and only point which suggested any food for thought was theabsence of any
Number 13 from the tale of the rooms, and even this was a thingwhich
Anderson had already noticed half a dozen times in his experienceof Danish
hotels. He could not help wondering whether the objection to thatparticular
number, common as it is, was so widespread and so strong as tomake it
difficult to let a room so ticketed, and he resolved to ask thelandlord if
he and his colleagues in the profession had actually met withmany clients
who refused to be accommodated in the thirteenth room,

He had nothing to tell me (I am giving the story as I heard itfrom him)
about what passed at supper, and the evening, which was spent inunpacking
and arranging his clothes, books, and papers, was not moreeventful. Towards
eleven o'clock he resolved to go to bed, but with him, as with agood many
other people nowadays, an almost necessary preliminary to bed, ifhe meant
to sleep, was the reading of a few pages of print, and he nowremembered
that the particular book which he had been reading in the train,and which
alone would satisfy him at that present moment, was in the pocketof his
greatcoat, then hanging on a peg outside the dining-room.

To run down and secure it was the work of a moment, and, as thepassages
were by no means dark, it was not difficult for him to find hisway back to
his own door. So, at least, he thought; but when he arrivedthere, and
turned the handle, the door entirely refused to open, and hecaught the
sound of a hasty movement towards it from within. He had triedthe wrong
door, of course. Was his own room to the right or to the left? Heglanced at
the number: it was 13. His room would be on the left; and so itwas. And not
before he had been in bed for some minutes, had read his wontedthree or
four pages of his book, blown out his light, and turned over togo to sleep,
did it occur to him that, whereas on the blackboard of the hotelthere had
been no Number 13, there was undoubtedly a room numbered 13 inthe hotel. He
felt rather sorry he had not chosen it for his own. Perhaps hemight have
done the landlord a little service by occupying it, and given himthe chance
of saying that a well-born English gentleman had lived in it forthree weeks
and liked it very much. But probably it was used as a servant'sroom or
something of the kind. After all, it was most likely not so largeor good a
room as his own. And he looked drowsily about the room, which wasfairly
perceptible in the half-light from the street-lamp. It was acurious effect,
he thought. Rooms usually look larger in a dim light than a fullone, but
this seemed to have contracted in length and grownproportionately higher.
Well, well! sleep was more important than these vague ruminations- and to
sleep he went.

On the day after his arrival Anderson attacked the Rigsarkiv ofViborg.
He was, as one might expect in Denmark, kindly received, andaccess to all
that he wished to see was made as easy for him as possible. Thedocuments
laid before him were far more numerous and interesting than hehad at all
anticipated. Besides official papers, there was a large bundle of
correspondence relating to Bishop Jšrgen Friis, the lastRoman Catholic who
held the see, and in these there cropped up many amusing and whatare called
'intimate' details of private life and individual character.There was much
talk of a house owned by the Bishop, but not inhabited by him, inthe town.
Its tenant was apparently somewhat of a scandal and a stumbling-blockto the
reforming party. He was a disgrace, they wrote, to the city; hepractised
secret and wicked arts, and had sold his soul to the enemy. Itwas of a
piece with the gross corruption and superstition of theBabylonish Church
that such a viper and blood-sucking Troldmand should bepatronized and
harboured by the Bishop. The Bishop met these reproaches boldly;he
protested his own abhorrence of all such things as secret arts,and required
his antagonists to bring the matter before the proper court - ofcourse, the
spiritual court - and sift it to the bottom. No one could be moreready and
willing than himself to condemn Mag. Nicolas Francken if theevidence showed
him to have been guilty of any of the crimes informally allegedagainst him.

Anderson had not time to do more than glance at the next letterof the
Protestant leader, Rasmus Nielsen, before the record office wasclosed for
the day, but he gathered its general tenor, which was to theeffect that
Christian men were now no longer bound by the decisions ofBishops of Rome,
and that the Bishop's Court was not, and could not be, a fit orcompetent
tribunal to judge so grave and weighty a cause.

On leaving the office, Mr Anderson was accompanied by the oldgentleman
who presided over it, and, as they walked, the conversation verynaturally
turned to the papers of which I have just been speaking.

Herr Scavenius, the Archivist of Viborg, though very wellinformed as to
the general run of the documents under his charge, was not aspecialist in
those of the Reformation period. He was much interested in whatAnderson had
to tell him about them. He looked forward with great pleasure, hesaid, to
seeing the publication in which Mr Anderson spoke of embodyingtheir
contents. 'this house of the Bishop Friis," he added, "itis a great puzzle
to me where it can have stood. I have studied carefully thetopography of
old Viborg, but it is most unlucky - of the old terrier of theBishop's
property which was made in 1560, and of which we have the greaterpart in
the Arkiv, just the piece which had the list of the town propertyis
missing. Never mind. Perhaps I shall some day succeed to find him."

After taking some exercise - I forget exactly how or where -Anderson
went back to the Golden Lion, his supper, his game of patience,and his bed.
On the way to his room it occurred to him that he had forgottento talk to
the landlord about the omission of Number 13 from the hotel, andalso that
he might as well make sure that Number 13 did actually existbefore he made
any reference to the matter.

The decision was not difficult to arrive at. There was the doorwith its
number as plain as could be, and work of some kind was evidentlygoing on
inside it, for as he neared the door he could hear footsteps andvoices, or
a voice, within. During the few seconds in which he halted tomake sure of
the number, the footsteps ceased, seemingly very near the door,and he was a
little startled at hearing a quick hissing breathing as of aperson in
strong excitement. He went on to his own room, and again he wassurprised to
find how much smaller it seemed now than it had when he selectedit. It was
a slight disappointment, but only slight. If he found it reallynot large
enough, he could very easily shift to another. In the meantime hewanted
something - as far as I remember it was a pocket-handkerchief -out of his
portmanteau, which had been placed by the porter on a veryinadequate
trestle or stool against the wall at the farthest end of the roomfrom his
bed. Here was a very curious thing: the portmanteau was not to beseen. It
had been moved by officious servants; doubtless the contents hadbeen put in
the wardrobe. No, none of them were there. This was vexatious.The idea of a
theft he dismissed at once. Such things rarely happen in Denmark,but some
piece of stupidity had certainly been performed (which is not souncommon),
and the stuepige must be severely spoken to. Whatever it was thathe wanted,
it was not so necessary to his comfort that he could not waittill the
morning for it, and he therefore settled not to ring the bell anddisturb
the servants. He went to the window - the right-hand window itwas - and
looked out on the quiet street. There was a tall buildingopposite, with
large spaces of dead wall; no passers-by; a dark night; and verylittle to
be seen of any kind.

The light was behind him, and he could see his own shadow clearlycast on
the wall opposite. Also the shadow of the bearded man in Number11 on the
left, who passed to and fro in shirtsleeves once or twice, andwas seen
first brushing his hair, and later on in a nightgown. Also theshadow of the
occupant of Number 13 on the right. This might be moreinteresting. Number
13 was, like himself, leaning on his elbows on the window-silllooking out
into the street. He seemed to be a tall thin man - or was it byany chance a
woman? - at least, it was someone who covered his or her headwith some kind
of drapery before going to bed, and, he thought, must bepossessed of a red
lamp-shade - and the lamp must be flickering very much. There wasa distinct
playing up and down of a dull red light on the opposite wall. Hecraned out
a little to see if he could make any more of the figure, butbeyond a fold
of some light, perhaps white, material on the window-sill hecould see
nothing.

Now came a distant step in the street, and its approach seemed torecall
Number 13 to a sense of his exposed position, for very swiftlyand suddenly
he swept aside from the window, and his red light went out.Anderson, who
had been smoking a cigarette, laid the end of it on the window-silland went
to bed.

Next morning he was woke by the stuepige with hot water, etc. Heroused
himself, and after thinking out the correct Danish words, said asdistinctly
as he could:

"You must not move my portmanteau. Where is it?"

As is not uncommon, the maid laughed, and went away withoutmaking any
distinct answer.

Anderson, rather irritated, sat up in bed, intending to call herback,
but he remained sitting up, staring straight in front of him.There was his
portmanteau on its trestle, exactly where he had seen the porterput it when
he first arrived. This was a rude shock for a man who pridedhimself on his
accuracy of observation. How it could possibly have escaped himthe night
before he did not pretend to understand; at any rate, there itwas now.

The daylight showed more than the portmanteau; it let the true
proportions of the room with its three windows appear, andsatisfied its
tenant that his choice after all had not been a bad one. When hewas almost
dressed he walked to the middle one of the three windows to lookout at the
weather. Another shock awaited him. Strangely unobservant he musthave been
last night. He could have sworn ten times over that he had beensmoking at
the right-hand window the last thing before he went to bed, andhere was his
cigarette-end on the sill of the middle window.

He started to go down to breakfast. Rather late, but Number 13was later:
here were his boots still outside his door - a gentleman's boots.So then
Number 13 was a man, not a woman. Just then he caught sight ofthe number on
the door. It was 14. He thought he must have passed Number 13without
noticing it. Three stupid mistakes in twelve hours were too muchfor a
methodical, accurate-minded man, so he turned back to make sure.The next
number to 14 was number 12, his own room. There was no Number 13at all.

After some minutes devoted to a careful consideration ofeverything he
had had to eat and drink during the last twenty-four hours,Anderson decided
to give the question up. If his sight or his brain were givingway he would
have plenty of opportunities for ascertaining that fact; if not,then he was
evidently being treated to a very interesting experience. Ineither case the
development of events would certainly be worth watching.

During the day he continued his examination of the episcopal
correspondence which I have already summarized. To hisdisappointment, it
was incomplete. Only one other letter could be found whichreferred to the
affair of Mag. Nicolas Francken. It was from the Bishop JšrgenFriis to
Rasmus Nielsen. He said:

"Although we are not in the least degree inclined to assentto your
judgement concerning our court, and shall be prepared if need beto
withstand you to the uttermost in that behalf, yet forasmuch asour trusty
and well-beloved Mag. Nicolas Francken, against whom you havedared to
allege certain false and malicious charges, hath been suddenlyremoved from
among us, it is apparent that the question for this time falls.But
forasmuch as you further allege that the Apostle and EvangelistSt John in
his heavenly Apocalypse describes the Holy Roman Church under theguise and
symbol of the Scarlet Woman, be it known to you," etc.

Search as he might, Anderson could find no sequel to this letternor any
clue to the cause or manner of the "removal" of thecasus belli. He could
only suppose that Francken had died suddenly; and as there wereonly two
days between the date of Nielsen's last letter - when Franckenwas evidently
still in being - and that of the Bishop's letter, the death musthave been
completely unexpected.

In the afternoon he paid a short visit to Hald, and took his teaat
Baekkelund; nor could he notice, though he was in a somewhatnervous frame
of mind, that there was any indication of such a failure of eyeor brain as
his experiences of the morning had led him to fear.

At supper he found himself next to the landlord.

"What," he asked him, after some indifferentconversation, "is the reason
why in most of the hotels one visits in this country the numberthirteen is
left out of the list of rooms? I see you have none here."

The landlord seemed amused.

'to think that you should have noticed a thing like that! I'vethought
about it once or twice myself, to tell the truth. An educatedman, I've
said, has no business with these superstitious notions. I wasbrought up
myself here in the High School of Viborg, and our old master wasalways a
man to set his face against anything of that kind. He's been deadnow this
many years - a fine upstanding man he was, and ready with hishands as well
as his head. I recollect us boys, one snowy day - "

Here he plunged into reminiscence.

'then you don't think there is any particular objection to havinga
Number 13?" said Anderson.

"Ah! to be sure. Well, you understand, I was brought up tothe business
by my poor old father. He kept an hotel in Aarhuus first, andthen, when we
were born, he moved to Viborg here, which was his native place,and had the
Phoenix here until he died. That was in 1876. Then I startedbusiness in
Silkeborg, and only the year before last I moved into this house."

Then followed more details as to the state of the house andbusiness when
first taken over.

"And when you came here, was there a Number 13?"

"No, no. I was going to tell you about that. You see, in aplace like
this, the commercial class - the travellers - are what we have toprovide
for in general. And put them in Number 13? Why, they"d assoon sleep in the
street, or sooner. As far as I'm concerned myself, it wouldn'tmake a penny
difference to me what the number of my room was, and so I'veoften said to
them; but they stick to it that it brings them bad luck.Quantities of
stories they have among them of men that have slept in a Number13 and never
been the same again, or lost their best customers, or - one thingand
another," said the landlord, after searching for a moregraphic phrase.

'then, what do you use your Number 13 for?" said Anderson,conscious as
he said the words of a curious anxiety quite disproportionate tothe
importance of the question.

"My Number 13? Why, don't I tell you that there isn't such athing in the
house? I thought you might have noticed that. If there was itwould be next
door to your own room."

"Well, yes; only I happened to think - that is, I fanciedlast night that
I had seen a door numbered thirteen in that passage; and, really,I am
almost certain I must have been right, for I saw it the nightbefore as
well."

Of course, Herr Kristensen laughed this notion to scorn, asAnderson had
expected, and emphasized with much iteration the fact that noNumber 13
existed or had existed before him in that hotel.

Anderson was in some ways relieved by his certainty but stillpuzzled,
and he began to think that the best way to make sure whether hehad indeed
been subject to an illusion or not was to invite the landlord tohis room to
smoke a cigar later on in the evening. Some photographs ofEnglish towns
which he had with him formed a sufficiently good excuse.

Herr Kristensen was flattered by the invitation, and mostwillingly
accepted it. At about ten o'clock he was to make his appearance,but before
that Anderson had some letters to write, and retired for thepurpose of
writing them. He almost blushed to himself at confessing it, buthe could
not deny that it was the fact that he was becoming quite nervousabout the
question of the existence of Number 13; so much so that heapproached his
room by way of Number 11, in order that he might not be obligedto pass the
door, or the place where the door ought to be. He looked quicklyand
suspiciously about the room when he entered it, but there wasnothing,
beyond that indefinable air of being smaller than usual, towarrant any
misgivings. There was no question of the presence or absence ofhis
portmanteau tonight. He had himself emptied it of its contentsand lodged it
under his bed. With a certain effort he dismissed the thought ofNumber 13
from his mind, and sat down to his writing.

His neighbours were quiet enough. Occasionally a door opened inthe
passage and a pair of boots was thrown out, or a bagman walkedpast humming
to himself, and outside, from time to time a cart thundered overthe
atrocious cobble-stones, or a quick step hurried along the flags.

Anderson finished his letters, ordered in whisky and soda, andthen went
to the window and studied the dead wall opposite and the shadowsupon it.

As far as he could remember, Number 14 had been occupied by thelawyer, a
staid man, who said little at meals, being generally engaged instudying a
small bundle of papers beside his plate. Apparently, however, hewas in the
habit of giving vent to his animal spirits when alone. Why elseshould he be
dancing? The shadow from the next room evidently showed that hewas. Again
and again his thin form crossed the window, his arms waved, and agaunt leg
was kicked up with surprising agility. He seemed to bebarefooted, and the
floor must be well laid, for no sound betrayed his movements.Sagfšrer Herr
Anders Jensen, dancing at ten o'clock at night in a hotelbedroom, seemed a
fitting subject for a historical painting in the grand style; andAnderson's
thoughts, like those of Emily in the Mysteries of Udolpho, beganto "arrange
themselves in the following lines":

When I return to my hotel,
At ten o'clock p.m.,
The waiters think I am unwell;
I do not care for them.
But when I've locked my chamber door,
And put my boots outside,
I dance all night upon the floor.
And even if my neighbours swore,
I'd go on dancing all the more,
For I'm acquainted with the law,
And in despite of all their jaw,
Their protests I deride.

Had not the landlord at this moment knocked at the door, it isprobable
that quite a long poem might have been laid before the reader. Tojudge from
his look of surprise when he found himself in the room, HerrKristensen was
struck, as Anderson had been, by something unusual in its aspect.But he
made no remark. Anderson's photographs interested him mightily,and formed
the text of many autobiographical discourses. Nor is it quiteclear how the
conversation could have been diverted into the desired channel ofNumber 13,
had not the lawyer at this moment begun to sing, and to sing in amanner
which could leave no doubt in anyone's mind that he was eitherexceedingly
drunk or raving mad. It was a high, thin voice that they heard,and it
seemed dry, as if from long disuse. Of words or tune there was noquestion.
It went sailing up to a surprising height, and was carried downwith a
despairing moan as of a winter wind in a hollow chimney, or anorgan whose
wind fails suddenly. It was a really horrible sound, and Andersonfelt that
if he had been alone he must have fled for refuge and society tosome
neighbour bagman's room.

The landlord sat open-mouthed.

"I don't understand it," he said at last, wiping hisforehead. "It is
dreadful. I have heard it once before, but I made sure it was acat."

"Is he mad?" said Anderson.

"He must be; and what a sad thing! Such a good customer,too, and so
successful in his business, by what I hear, and a young family tobring up."

Just then came an impatient knock at the door, and the knockerentered,
without waiting to be asked. It was the lawyer, in deshabille andvery
rough-haired; and very angry he looked.

"I beg pardon, sir," he said, "but I should bemuch obliged if you would
kindly desist - "

Here he stopped, for it was evident that neither of the personsbefore
him was responsible for the disturbance; and after a moment'slull it
swelled forth again more wildly than before.

"But what in the name of Heaven does it mean?" brokeout the lawyer.
"Where is it? Who is it? Am I going out of my mind?"

"Surely, Herr Jensen, it comes from your room next door?Isn't there a
cat or something stuck in the chimney?"

This was the best that occurred to Anderson to say, and herealized its
futility as he spoke; but anything was better than to stand andlisten to
that horrible voice, and look at the broad, white face of thelandlord, all
perspiring and quivering as he clutched the arms of his chair.

"Impossible," said the lawyer, "impossible. Thereis no chimney. I came
here because I was convinced the noise was going on here. It wascertainly
in the next room to mine."

"Was there no door between yours and mine?" saidAnderson eagerly,

"No, sir," said Herr Jensen, rather sharply. "Atleast, not this
morning."

"Ah!" said Anderson. "Nor tonight?"

"I am not sure," said the lawyer with some hesitation.

Suddenly the crying or singing voice in the next room died away,and the
singer was heard seemingly to laugh to himself in a crooningmanner. The
three men actually shivered at the sound. Then there was asilence.

"Come," said the lawyer, "what have you to say,Herr Kristensen? What
does this mean?"

"Good Heaven!" said Kristensen. "How should I tell!I know no more than
you, gentlemen. I pray I may never hear such a noise again."

'so do I," said Herr Jensen, and he added something underhis breath.
Anderson thought it sounded like the last words of the Psalter,"omnis
spiritus laudet Dominum", but he could not be sure.

"But we must do something," said Anderson - 'the threeof us. Shall we go
and investigate in the next room?"

"But that is Herr Jensen's room," wailed the landlord."It is no use; he
has come from there himself."

"I am not so sure," said Jensen. "I think thisgentleman is right: we
must go and see."

The only weapons of defence that could be mustered on the spotwere a
stick and umbrella. The expedition went out into the passage, notwithout
quakings. There was a deadly quiet outside, but a light shonefrom under the
next door. Anderson and Jensen approached it. The latter turnedthe handle,
and gave a sudden vigorous push. No use. The door stood fast.

"Herr Kristensen," said Jensen, "will you go andfetch the strongest
servant you have in the place? We must see this through."

The landlord nodded, and hurried off, glad to be away from thescene of
action. Jensen and Anderson remained outside looking at the door.

"It is Number 13, you see," said the latter.

"Yes; there is your door, and there is mine," saidJensen.

"My room has three windows in the daytirne," saidAnderson, with
difficulty suppressing a nervous laugh.

"By George, so has mine!" said the lawyer, turning andlooking at
Anderson. His back was now to the door. In that moment the dooropened, and
an arm came out and clawed at his shoulder. It was clad inragged, yellowish
linen, and the bare skin, where it could be seen, had long greyhair upon
it. Anderson was just in time to pull Jensen out of its reachwith a cry of
disgust and fright, when the door shut again, and a low laugh washeard.

Jensen had seen nothing, but when Anderson hurriedly told himwhat a risk
he had run, he fell into a great state of agitation, andsuggested that they
should retire from the enterprise and lock themselves up in oneor other of
their rooms.

However, while he was developing this plan, the landlord and two
able-bodied men arrived on the scene, all looking rather seriousand
alarmed. Jensen met them with a torrent of description andexplanation,
which did not at all tend to encourage them for the fray.

The men dropped the crowbars they had brought, and said flatlythat they
were not going to risk their throats in that devil's den. Thelandlord was
miserably nervous and undecided, conscious that if the dangerwere not faced
his hotel was ruined, and very loth to face it himself. LuckilyAnderson hit
upon a way of rallying the demoralized force.

"Is this," he said, 'the Danish courage I have heard somuch of? It isn't
a German in there, and if it was, we are five to one."

The two servants and Jensen were stung into action by this, andmade a
dash at the door.

'stop!" said Anderson. "Don't lose your heads. You stayout here with the
light, landlord, and one of you two men break in the door, anddon't go in
when it gives way."

The men nodded, and the younger stepped forward, raised hiscrowbar, and
dealt a tremendous blow on the upper panel. The result was not inthe least
what any of them anticipated. There was no cracking or rending ofwood -
only a dull sound, as if the solid wall had been struck. The mandropped his
tool with a shout, and began rubbing his elbow. His cry drewtheir eyes upon
him for a moment; then Anderson looked at the door again. It wasgone; the
plaster wall of the passage stared him in the face, with aconsiderable gash
in it where the crowbar had struck it. Number 13 had passed outof
existence. For a brief space they stood perfectly still, gazingat the blank
wall. An early cock in the yard beneath was heard to crow; and asAnderson
glanced in the direction of the sound, he saw through the windowat the end
of the long passage that the eastern sky was paling to the dawn.

"Perhaps," said the landlord, with hesitation, "yougentlemen would like
another room for tonight - a double-bedded one?"

Neither Jensen nor Anderson was averse to the suggestion. Theyfelt
inclined to hunt in couples after their late experience. It wasfound
convenient, when each of them went to his room to collect thearticles he
wanted for the night, that the other should go with him and holdthe candle.
They noticed that both Number 12 and Number 14 had three windows.

Next morning the same party reassembled in Number 12. Thelandlord was
naturally anxious to avoid engaging outside help, and yet it wasimperative
that the mystery attaching to that part of the house should becleared up.
Accordingly the two servants had been induced to take upon themthe function
of carpenters. The furniture was cleared away, and, at the costof a good
many irretrievably damaged planks, that portion of the floor wastaken up
which lay nearest to Number 14.

You will naturally suppose that a skeleton - say that of Mag.Nicolas
Francken - was discovered. That was not so. What they did findlying between
the beams which supported the flooring was a small copper box. Init was a
neatly-folded vellum document, with about twenty lines of writing.Both
Anderson and Jensen (who proved to be something of apalaeographer) were
much excited by this discovery, which promised to afford the keyto these
extraordinary phenomena.

I possess a copy of an astrological work which I have never read.It has,
by way of frontispiece, a woodcut by Hans Sebald Beham,representing a
number of sages seated round a table. This detail may enableconnoisseurs to
identify the book. I cannot myself recollect its title, and it isnot at
this moment within reach; but the fly-leaves of it are coveredwith writing,
and, during the ten years in which I have owned the volume, Ihave not been
able to determine which way up this writing ought to be read,much less in
what language it is. Not dissimilar was the position of Andersonand Jensen
after the protracted examination to which they submitted thedocument in the
copper box.

After two days" contemplation of it, Jensen, who was thebolder spirit of
the two, hazarded the conjecture that the language was eitherLatin or Old
Danish.

Anderson ventured upon no surmises, and was very willing tosurrender the
box and the parchment to the Historical Society of Viborg to beplaced in
their museum.

I had the whole story from him a few months later, as we sat in awood
near Upsala, after a visit to the library there, where we - or,rather, I -
had laughed over the contract by which Daniel Salthenius (inlater life
Professor of Hebrew at Konigsberg) sold himself to Satan.Anderson was not
really amused.

"Young idiot!" he said, meaning Salthenius, who wasonly an undergraduate
when he committed that indiscretion, "how did he know whatcompany he was
courting?"

And when I suggested the usual considerations he only grunted.That same
afternoon he told me what you have read; but he refused to drawany
inferences from it, and to assent to any that I drew for him.