Terwilliger felt a
cold chill mounting his spine three sections at a time. Whether it was the
chill or his concern for the prostrate cook that was responsible or not I
cannot say, but for some cause or other Mr. Terwilliger immediately got
down on his knees, in which position he gazed fearfully about him for a
few minutes, and then timidly remarked, "Cook!"
There was no answer.
"Mary, I say. Cook," he whispered, "what the deuce is the meaning of all
this?"
[Illustration]
A low moan was all that came from the cook, nor would Hankinson have
listened to more had there been more to hear, for simultaneously with the
moan he became uncomfortably conscious of a presence. In trying to
describe it afterwards, Hankinson said that at first he thought a cold
draught from a dank cavern filled with a million eels, and a rattlesnake
or two thrown in for luck, was blowing over him, and he avowed that it was
anything but pleasant; and then it seemed to change into a mist drawn
largely from a stagnant pool in a malarial country, floating through which
were great quantities of finely chopped sea-weed, wet hair, and an
indescribable atmosphere of something the chief quality of which was a
sort of stale clamminess that was awful in its intensity.
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