Warburton turned aside, covering his eyes with his hand, which trembled slightly. His face had turned pale under his normally ruddy complexion under the influence of his deep emotion. I spent a few moments refilling his glass and my own in order that he might recover somewhat.

'Surely there must be something more that you haven't yet told me, Warburton. Nothing you have said indicates madness to me.'

'There is more, Watson. There are his nighttime walks. I've told you he said he was tired. He does look tired, as a man will look tired who does not sleep, and he often retires to his room during the day, saying he wishes to rest.

'The more his interest in the affairs of the estate declined, the more necessary it was for me to make frequent visits to my old home, staying there for a few nights at a time. I often found my own rest disturbed by noises in the night, as if someone were walking about the house, and yet the doors and windows were always locked in the morning when I came down, the first to do so. The house is an old one, Watson, and so I thought it was just the creakings of age, and dismissed all thoughts of anything else.

'It has always been my habit to read a few pages by dim light when I awaken, as doing so is soporific for me. One night about six months ago I was more restless than usual and so finished the book I had been reading. I rose and went down to the library for a fresh volume, holding only a single candle. As chance would have it, the candle dripped, and in my haste to prevent damage to the rug in the room, I somehow extinguished it. I stood quite still for some time waiting for my eyes to become accustomed to the dark so that I could find my way back to my room.

'As I stood there, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and disappearing toward the back of the hall. I recognized them as my father's, and fearing he was sleepwalking, did not wish to shout and startle him. Instead, I made my way slowly out of the library, only to hear nothing. I had no idea where my father had gone. There had been no candle glow.

'I waited, seated in a chair in a corner of the hall. It seemed hours that I waited. That first pearly light of dawn was glimmering through the window when finally the footsteps returned, through the hall and back up the stairs. I heard the door to his room close and returned to mine. Before my father awoke, I came down and searched the ground floor of the house, but could find nothing unusual.

'Each time I returned to attend to the affairs of the estate the incident was repeated, sometimes once, sometimes twice during my stay. It was only this past week that I learned something of what my father had been doing. Last Wednesday morning, as I checked the doors and windows, I discovered that the door to the cellar was unlocked. My father has a fine collection of wines, and the cellar door was always kept locked, except when the butler was given the key with orders to bring up the wine for dinner.

'When I went down the stairs, it was to discover that a large area of the cellar had been marked off in a grid, as if some archeologist had been preparing the ground to hunt for shards. Stakes had been driven into the earth, connected by string, forming a checkerboard pattern. Here and there an entire square had been dug up to a depth of a foot or two, the soil neatly placed in the square next to it. Spades of various sizes stood against the wall. Watson, I was -- am -- mystified!'

'Did you speak of this to your father?'

'That very afternoon. I mentioned to him that I had noticed the cellar door was unlocked. I got no further than that.

' "Nonsense! You were an imaginative boy and you are still imagining things. That door is always locked. It is locked now." ' He seemed angry all out of proportion to my words and stalked out of the library, where we had been enjoying an after-lunch cigar, motioning for me to follow him. I did so. The door was indeed locked. At any further mention of the cellar he brusquely cut me off.'

'A mystery, indeed, Warburton, but madness? Surely there is some reasonable explanation.'

'If there is, he will give me none. And then there's the tasting of his food. He has a small terrier, of which he was very fond at one time. As with the estate and the village, he now takes no notice of it, except at mealtimes, when it lies at his feet in the dining room. Each time a new dish is brought to the table, the dog is given a taste of it, so that even soups, sauces, and the wine from a freshly opened bottle are first presented to the animal in a little bowl kept ready for that purpose. After the animal has finished, he takes his own portion.'

'Does he have reason to fear poisoning?'

'He refuses to say. He will only repeat that he chooses to do this and that it is not a son's place to question a father.'

By now it had grown late. I persuaded Warburton to stay the remainder of the night, promising him that we should visit my friend Sherlock Holmes first thing in the morning. He accepted gratefully.

Go to Part Three