Read Online Classic Ghost Stories by Wilkie Collins, M. R. James, Charles Dickens and Others - Free Book Online Page A

brother-in-law again?” he said.
    â€œI don’t know,” she answered. “I should like to see him—he is so kind to me.”
    She turned aside to take leave of Lucy.
    â€œGood-bye, my little friend. If you live to grow up, I hope you will never be such a miserable woman as I am.” She suddenly looked round at Mr. Rayburn. “Have you got a wife at home?” she asked.
    â€œMy wife is dead.”
    â€œAnd you have a child to comfort you! Please leave me; you harden my heart. Oh, sir, don’t you understand? You make me envy you!”
    Mr. Rayburn was silent when he and his daughter were out in the street again. Lucy, as became a dutiful child, was silent, too. But there are limits to human endurance—and Lucy’s capacity for self-control gave way at last.
    â€œAre you thinking of the lady, papa?” she said.
    He only answered by nodding his head. His daughter had interrupted him at that critical moment in a man’s reflections, when he is on the point of making up his mind. Before they were at home again Mr. Rayburn had arrived at a decision. Mrs. Zant’s brother-in-law was evidently ignorant of any serious necessity for his interference—or he would have made arrangements for immediately repeating his visit. In this state of things, if any evil happened to Mrs. Zant, silence on Mr. Rayburn’s part might be indirectly to blame for a serious misfortune. Arriving at that conclusion, he decided upon running the risk of being rudely received, for the second time, by another stranger.
    Leaving Lucy under the care of her governess, he went at once to the address that had been written on the visiting-card left at the lodging-house, and sent in his name. A courteous message was returned. Mr. John Zant was at home, and would be happy to see him.
    4
    Mr. Rayburn was shown into one of the private sitting-rooms of the hotel.
    He observed that the customary position of the furniture in a room had been, in some respects altered. An armchair, a side-table, and a footstool had all been removed to one of the windows, and had been placed as close as possible to the light. On the table lay a large open roll of morocco leather, containing rows of elegant little instruments in steel and ivory. Waiting by the table, stood Mr. John Zant. He said “Good-morning” in a bass voice, so profound and so melodious that those two commonplace words assumed a new importance, coming from his lips. His personal appearance was in harmony with his magnificent voice—he was a tall finely-made man of dark complexion; with big brilliant black eyes, and a noble curling beard, which hid the lower part of his face. Having bowed with a happy mingling of dignity and politeness, the conventional side of this gentleman’s character suddenly vanished; and a crazy side, to all appearance, took its place. He dropped on his knees in front of the footstool. Had he forgotten to say his prayers that morning, and was he in such a hurry to remedy the fault that he had no time to spare for consulting appearances? The doubt had hardly suggested itself, before it was set at rest in a most unexpected manner. Mr. Zant looked at his visitor with a bland smile, and said:
    â€œPlease let me see your feet.”
    For the moment, Mr. Rayburn lost his presence of mind. He looked at the instruments on the side-table.
    â€œAre you a corn-cutter?” was all he could say.
    â€œExcuse me, sir,” returned the polite operator, “the term you use is quite obsolete in our profession.” He rose from his knees, and added modestly: “I am a Chiropodist.”
    â€œI beg your pardon.”
    â€œDon’t mention it! You are not, I imagine, in want of my professional services. To what motive may I attribute the honour of your visit?”
    By this time Mr. Rayburn had recovered himself.
    â€œI have come here,” he answered, “under circumstances which require apology as well as