The house was a genuine old house of a very quaint description, teeming with old carvings, and beams, and panels, and having an excellent staircase, with a gallery or upper staircase, cut off from it by a curious fencework of old oak, or of the old Honduras mahogany wood. It was, and is, and will be, for many a long year to come, a remarkably picturesque house; and a certain grave mystery lurking in the depth of the old mahogany panels, as if they were so many deep pools of dark water-such indeed, as they had been much among when they were trees gave it a very mysterious character after nightfall.
When Mr. Goodchild and Mr. Idle had first alighted at the door, and stepped into the somber handsome old hall, they had been received by half-a-dozen noiseless old men in black, all dressed exactly alike, who glided up the stairs with the obliging landlord and writer--but without appearing to get into their way, or to mind whether they did or not and who had filed off to the right and left on the old staircase, as the guests entered their sitting room. It was thus broad, bright day. But Mr. Goodchild had said, when their door was shut, "Who on earth are those old men?" And afterwards, both on going out and coming in, he had noticed that there were no old men to be seen.
Neither had the old men, nor any one of the old men, reappeared since. The two friends had passed a night in the.
To be continued...