The rough stone
surface was unbroken, and I encountered no obstacles under foot, my
groping search being finally rewarded by touch of the iron brace. I
could clearly trace the form of the bracket, and determine how it was
fastened into place, yet to my astonishment there was no remnant of
candle remaining in the empty socket. Grease, still warm to the touch,
proved conclusively that I had attained the right spot in my search,
yet the candle itself had disappeared. Beyond doubt the draught of air
had been sufficiently strong to dislodge it from the shallow socket,
and it had fallen to the floor. I felt about on hands and knees, but
without result, and finally, in sheer desperation, struck my last
match. The tiny flare was sufficient to reveal the entire floor space
as well as the wall, but there was no remnant of candle visible. I
held the sliver of wood, until the flame scorched my fingers, staring
about in bewilderment. Then the intense darkness shut me in.
I crouched back to the wall, revolver in hand, and it seemed as though
the blood in my veins had turned to ice. What legerdemain was this!
The candle was there, and not half burned, when I entered. I saw it
with my own eyes. How then--in the name of God--could it have vanished
so completely? There was no germ of superstition in my nature, and,
had there originally been, it could never have out lived the practical
experiences of the past few years.
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