related by Sir David Brewster, and I have
followed the minutest details of a much more
remarkable case of Spectral Illusion occurring
within my private circle of friends. It may be
necessary to state as to this last that the sufferer
(a lady) was in no degree, however distant,
related to me. A mistaken assumption on that
head, might suggest an explanation of a part of
my own case—but only a part—which would
be wholly without foundation. It cannot be
referred to my inheritance of any developed
peculiarity, nor had I ever before any at all
similar experience, nor have I ever had any at
all similar experience since.

It does not signify how many years ago, or
how few, a certain Murder was committed in
England, which attracted great attention. We
hear more than enough of Murderers as they
rise in succession to their atrocious eminence,
and I would bury the memory of this particular
brute, if I could, as his body was buried, in
Newgate Jail. I purposely abstain from giving
any direct clue to the criminal's individuality.

When the murder was first discovered, no
suspicion fell—or I ought rather to say, for I
cannot be too precise in my facts, it was nowhere
publicly hinted that any suspicion fell—on the
man who was afterwards brought to trial. As
no reference was at that time made to him in
the newspapers, it is obviously impossible that
any description of him can at that time have
been given in the newspapers. It is essential
that this fact be remembered.

Unfolding at breakfast my morning paper,
containing the account of that first discovery, I
found it to be deeply interesting, and I read it
with close attention. I read it twice, if not three
times. The discovery had been made in a bedroom,
and, when I laid down the paper, I was
aware of a flash—rush—flow—I do not know
what to call it—no word I can find is satisfactorily
descriptive—in which I seemed to see that
bedroom passing through my room, like a picture
impossibly painted on a running river. Though
almost instantaneous in its passing, it was
perfectly clear; so clear that I distinctly, and with
a sense of relief, observed the absence of the
dead body from the bed.

It was in no romantic place that I had this
curious sensation, but in chambers in Piccadilly,
very near to the corner of Saint James's-street.
It was entirely new to me. I was in my easy-chair
at the moment, and the sensation was
accompanied with a peculiar shiver which
started the chair from its position. (But it is
to be noted that the chair ran easily on castors.)
I went to one of the windows (there are two in
the room, and the room is on the second floor)
to refresh my eyes with the moving objects
down in Piccadilly. It was a bright autumn
morning, and the street was sparkling and cheerful.
The wind was high. As I looked out, it
brought down from the Park a quantity of fallen
leaves, which a gust took, and whirled into a
spiral pillar. As the pillar fell and the leaves
dispersed, I saw two men on the opposite side
of the way, going from West to East. They
were one behind the other. The foremost man
often looked back over his shoulder. The second
man followed him, at a distance of some
thirty paces, with his right hand menacingly
raised. First, the singularity and steadiness of
this threatening gesture in so public a thoroughfare,
attracted my attention; and next, the more
remarkable circumstance that nobody heeded it.
Both men threaded their way among the other
passengers, with a smoothness hardly consistent
even with the action of walking on a pavement,
and no single creature that I could see, gave
them place, touched them, or looked after them.
In passing before my windows, they both stared
up at me. I saw their two faces very distinctly,
and I knew that I could recognise them anywhere.
Not that I had consciously noticed anything
very remarkable in either face, except that the
man who went first had an unusually lowering
appearance, and that the face of the man who
followed him was of the colour of impure wax.

I am a bachelor, and my valet and his wife
constitute my whole establishment. My occupation
is in a certain Branch Bank, and I wish
that my duties as head of a Department were as
light as they are popularly supposed to be. They
kept me in town that autumn, when I stood in
need of change. I was not ill, but I was not
well. My reader is to make the most that can
be reasonably made of my feeling jaded, having
a depressing sense upon me of a monotonous life,
and being "slightly dyspeptic." I am assured by
my renowned doctor that my real state of
health at that time justifies no stronger description,
and I quote his own from his written
answer to my request for it.

As the circumstances of the Murder, gradually
unravelling, took stronger and stronger possession
of the public mind, I kept them away from
mine, by knowing as little about them as was
possible in the midst of the universal excitement.
But I knew that a verdict of Wilful Murder had
been found against the suspected Murderer, and
that he had been committed to Newgate for trial.
I also knew that his trial had been postponed
over one Sessions of the Central Criminal Court,
on the ground of general prejudice and want of
time for the preparation of the defence. I may
further have known, but I believe I did not,
when, or about when, the Sessions to which his
trial stood postponed would come on.

My sitting-room, bedroom, and dressing-room,
are all on one floor. With the last, there is no
communication but through the bedroom. True,
there is a door in it, once communicating with
the staircase; but a part of the fitting of my
bath has been—and had then been for some
years—fixed across it. At the same period, and
as a part of the same arrangement, the door had
been nailed up and canvased over.

I was standing in my bedroom late one night,
giving some directions to my servant before he
went to bed. My face was towards the only
available door of communication with the dressing-room,
and it was closed. My servant's back
was towards that door. While I was speaking
to him I saw it open, and a man look in, who