He passed his hand across his forehead and
a sickly look of relief crept over his face. He had been
frightened by his own coat, that hung on a peg outside, long and
thin and limp, a white handkerchief depending from the wide
pocket. There was not much light in the corridor. He crept
cautiously out and took the garment from its place with a nervous,
frightened gesture. Dragging it after him, he hastily re-entered
the library and rolled up the coat into a shape that could not
possibly resemble anything which might frighten him. He laid it
upon the table in the brightest place, where the afternoon sun
fell upon it. There was a sort of relief in making sure that the
thing could not again look like the dead man. He looked up and saw
with renewed terror that he had left the door open. There was
nothing but air between him and the place where that awful shadow
had been conjured up by his imagination. The door must be shut. If
it remained open he should go mad. He tried to think calmly, but
it was beyond his power. He attempted to say that there was
nothing there and that the door might as well remain open as be
shut. But even while making the effort to reason with himself, he
was creeping cautiously along the wall, in the direction of the
entrance.
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