Chapter Twenty Nine
A Cry On The Moor
Of the events intervening between this moment and that when death called to us out of the night, I have the haziest recollections.
An excellent dinner was served in the bleak and gloomy dining-room by the mulatto, and the crippled author was carried to the head of the table by this same herculean attendant as lightly as though he had but the weight of a child.
Van Roon talked continuously, revealing a deep, knowledge of all sorts of obscure matters and Estephe Bernard followed his lead.
Plans for the future were discussed.
I can recall none of them.
I could not stifle my queer sentiments in regard to the mulatto, and every time I found him behind my chair I was hard put to it to repress a shudder.
In this fashion the strange evening passed, and
