The
Haunted Man rubbed his eyes,--no! there could be no mistake about
it,--it was the Knocker's face, mounted on a misty, almost
imperceptible body. The brazen rod was transferred from its mouth
to its right hand, where it was held like a ghostly truncheon.
"It's a cold evening," said the Haunted Man.
"It is," said the Goblin, in a hard, metallic voice.
"It must be pretty cold out there," said the Haunted Man, with
vague politeness. "Do you ever--will you--take some hot water and
brandy?"
"No," said the Goblin.
"Perhaps you'd like it cold, by way of change?" continued the
Haunted Man, correcting himself, as he remembered the peculiar
temperature with which the Goblin was probably familiar.
"Time flies," said the Goblin coldly. "We have no leisure for idle
talk. Come!" He moved his ghostly truncheon toward the window,
and laid his hand upon the other's arm. At his touch the body of
the Haunted Man seemed to become as thin and incorporeal as that of
the Goblin himself, and together they glided out of the window into
the black and blowy night.
In the rapidity of their flight the senses of the Haunted Man
seemed to leave him. At length they stopped suddenly.
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