Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. He did it, he said, “to distract his mind. The weed was all right. ‘Not another caller will I receive this day. Only it was with a further and most unbelieving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat.
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