Page 387 of 657

"The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That

fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we

knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled

by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom

to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where

she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At

eleven o'clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door

and looked back.

"'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle

in the dead of the night?'

"'Never,' said I.

"'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in

your sleep?'

"'Certainly not. But why?'

"'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three

in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper,

and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from-perhaps

from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would

just ask you whether you had heard it.'