Johnson said seriously. "It was so overpowering
that it made me think of Saint Theresa's description of her torment
in that oven in the wall of hell which had by kindly forethought on
the part of the devil been arranged for her permanent tenancy. Of
course, it was just a nightmare," he added, doubtfully; "or perhaps
a fit of indigestion."
"Indigestion takes many forms," I remarked, as lightly as I could.
"And you must remember you've been warned that Hynds House is
haunted. Why, the servants insist they've seen ol' Mis' Scarlett's
h'ant!"
"Ah!" nodded The Author. "And I smell a mysterious perfume, I walk
in my sleep for the first and only time in my life, and I hide where
it can't be found a paper with an uncouth jingle and some dots on
it, Johnson and I have the same nightmare. And I have heard
footsteps. All hallucinations, of course! I will say this much for
Hynds House: I never had a hallucination until I came here. By the
way, did I merely imagine I heard a violin last night?"
"Oh, no: I heard it, too." Mr. Johnson looked at The Author with a
concerned face. "You're getting a bit off your nerves, Chief.
Anybody might play a violin.
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