I put on my hat and took a long walk along the Riverside Drive, the crisp
air of the winter night proving a tonic to my disturbed system. It was
after midnight when I returned to my apartment in a tolerably comfortable
frame of mind, and yet as I opened the door to my study I was filled with
a vague apprehension--of what I could not determine, but which events soon
justified, for as I closed the door behind me, and turned up the light
over my table, I became conscious of a pair of eyes fixed upon me.
Nervously whirling about in my chair and glancing over towards my
fireplace, I was for a moment transfixed with terror, for there, leaning
against the mantel and gazing sadly into the fire, was Tom Bragdon
himself--the man whom but a short time before I had seen lowered into his
grave.
[Illustration]
"Tom," I cried, springing to my feet and rushing towards him--"Tom, what
does this mean? Why have you come back from the spirit world to--to haunt
me?"
As I spoke he raised his head slowly until his eyes rested full upon my
own, whereupon he vanished, all save those eyes, which remained fixed upon
mine, and filled with the soft, affectionate glow I had so often seen in
them in life.
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