"Did it cry out?"
"No. It was silent."
"Did it wave its arm?"
"No. It leaned against the shaft of the light, with both hands before
the face. Like this."
Once more, I followed his action with my eyes. It was an action of
mourning. I have seen such an attitude in stone figures on tombs.
"Did you go up to it?"
"I came in and sat down, partly to collect my thoughts, partly because
it had turned me faint. When I went to the door again, daylight was
above me, and the ghost was gone."
"But nothing followed? Nothing came of this?"
He touched me on the arm with his forefinger twice or thrice, giving
a ghastly nod each time.
"That very day, as a train came out of the tunnel, I noticed, at a
carriage window on my side, what looked like a confusion of hands and
heads, and something waved. I saw it just in time to signal the driver,
Stop! He shut off, and put his brake on, but the train drifted past
here a hundred and fifty yards or more. I ran after it, and as I went
along heard terrible screams and cries.
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