The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1. George MacDonald

        Host.

                                    Thank you, sir.

        Stephen

        (to the Hostess).

        And so this man, you say, was here until

        The night the count was murdered: did he leave

        Before or after that?

        Hostess.

                                I cannot tell;

        He left, I know, before it was discovered.

        In the middle of the storm, like one possessed,

        He rushed into the street, half tumbling me

        Headlong down stairs, and never came again.

        He had paid his bill that morning, luckily;

        So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one!

        Stephen.

        What was he like, fair Hostess?

        Hostess.

                                    Tall and dark,

        And with a lowering look about his brows.

        He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil.

        One queer thing was, he always wore his hat,

        Indoors as well as out. I dare not say

        He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange

        He always sat at that same window there,

        And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if

        There were much traffic in the village now;

        These are changed times; but I have seen the day—

        Stephen.

        Excuse me; you were saying that the man

        Sat at the window—

        Hostess.

                            Yes; even after dark

        He would sit on, and never call for lights.

        The first night, I brought candles, as of course;

        He let me set them on the table, true;

        But soon's my back was turned, he put them out.

        Stephen.

        Where is the lady?

        Hostess.

                           That's the strangest thing

        Of all the story: she has disappeared,

        As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead,

        White as my apron. The whole house was empty,

        Just as I told you.

        Stephen.

                           Has no search been made?

        Host.

        The closest search; a thousand pieces offered

        For any information that should lead

        To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother,

        Who is his heir, they say, is still in town,

        Seeking in vain for some intelligence.

        Stephen.

        'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard

        For a long time. Send me a pen and ink;

        I have to write some letters.

        Hostess (rising).

                                Thank you, sir,

        For your kind entertainment.