Speaker 1: Glam's Castle by Elliott O'Donnell. Of all the hauntings in Scotland,
none has gained such widespread notoriety as the hauntings of
Glam's Castle, the seat of the Earl of Strathmore and
Kinghorn in Forfordshire. Part of the castle, that part which
is the more frequently haunted, is of ancient, though uncertain date,
and if there is any truth in the tradition that
Duncan was murdered there by Macbeth must at any rate
have been in existence at the commencement of the eleventh century.
Of course, extra buildings have from time to time been
added and renovations made, but the original structure remains pretty
nearly the same as it always has been, and is
included in a square tower that occupies a central position
and commands a complete view of the entire castle. Within
this tower, the walls of which are fifteen feet thick,
there is a room hidden in some unsuspected quarter that
contains a secret the key note to one at least
of the hauntings, which is known only to the Earl
his heir on the attainment of his twenty first birthday
in the factor of the estate. In all probability. The
mystery attached to this room would challenge but little attention
were it not for the fact that unearthly noises, which
at the time were supposed to proceed from this chamber,
have been heard by various visitors sleeping in the square tower.
The following experience is said to have happened to a
lady named Bond. I appended, more or less in her
own words, it is a good many years since I
stared at GLAMs. I was, in fact but little more
than a child, and had only just gone through my
first season in town. But though young, I was neither
nervous nor imaginative, I was inclined to be what is
termed stolid, that is to say, extremely my matter of
fact and practical. Indeed, when my friends exclaimed, you don't
mean to say you're going to stay at Clams, don't
you know what's haunted? I burst out laughing. Haunted, I said,
how ridiculous. There are no such things as ghosts. One
might as well believe in fairies. Of course, I did
not go to GLAMs alone. My mother and sister were
with me. But whereas they slept in the more modern
part of the castle, I was, at my own request
apportioned a room in the Square Tower. I cannot say
that my choice had anything to do with the secret chamber.
That and the alleged mystery had been dinned into my
ears so often that I had grown thoroughly sick of
the whole thing. No, I wanted to sleep in the
Square Tower for quite a different reason, a reason of
my own I kept in aviary. The tower was old,
and I naturally hoped its walls would be covered with
ivy and teeming with birds, nests of which I might
be able to reach. And I am ashamed to say,
plunder from my window. Alas for my expectations, although the
Square Tower was so ancient that in some places it
was actually crumbling away. Not the sign of a leaf,
not the vestige of a bird's nest, could I see anywhere.
The walls were abominably brutally bare. However, it was not
long before my disappointment gave way to delight, For the
air that blew in through the open window was so sweet,
so richly scented with heather and honeysuckle, and the view
of the broad, sweeping, thickly wooded grounds so indescribably charming
that despite my inartistic and unpoetical nature, I was entranced,
entranced as I had never been before and never have
been since. Ghosts. I said to myself, Ghosts, how absurd,
how preposterously absurd, Such an adorable spot as this can
only harbor sunshine and flowers. I well remember, too, for
as I have already said, I was not poetical, how
much I enjoyed my first dinner at Clams. The long
journey and keen mountain air had made me hungry, and
I thought I had never tasted such delicious food, such
ideal salmon from the esk, and such heavenly fruit. But
I must tell you that although I ate heartily as
a healthy girl should, by the time I went to bed,
I had thoroughly digested my mail, and was in fact
quite ready to partake of a few oatmeal biscuits I
found in my dressing case and remembered having bought at Perth.
It was about eleven o'clock when my maid left me,
and I sat for some minutes, wrapped in my dressing
gown before the open window. The night was very still, and,
save for an occasional rustle of the wind, in the
distant tree tops, the hooting of an owl, the melancholy
cry of a pea wit, and the hoarse barking of
a dog. The silence was undisturbed. The interior of my
room was in nearly every particular modern. The furniture was
not old. There were no grim carvings, no grotesquely fashioned
tapestries on the walls, no dark cupboards, no gloomy corners.
All was cozy and cheerful, And when I got into bed,
no thought of bogul or mystery entered my mind. In
a few minutes I was asleep, and for some time
there was nothing but a blank, a blank in which
all identity was annihilated. Then suddenly I found myself in
an oddly shaped room, with a lofty ceiling and a
window situated at so great a distance from the black
oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble
gleams of phosphorent light made their way through the narrow
panes and served to render distinct the more prominent objects around,
But my eyes struggled in vain to reach the remoter
angles of the wall, one of which inspired me with
terror such as I had never felt before. The walls
were covered with heavy draperies that were sufficient in themselves
to preclude the possibility of any save the loudest of sounds,
penetrating without the furniture, if such one could call it,
puzzled me. It seemed more fitted for the cell of
a prison or lunatic asylum, or even for a kennel,
than for an ordinary dwelling room. I could see no chair,
only a coarse deal table, a straw mattress, and a
kind of trough. An air of irredeemable gloom and horror
hung over and pervaded everything. As I stood there, I
felt I was waiting for something, something that was concealed
in the corner of the room I dreaded. I tried
to reason with myself, to assure myself that there was
nothing there that could hurt me, nothing that could even
terrify me. But my efforts were in vain. My fears grew.
Had I had some definite knowledge as to the cause
of my alarm, I should not have suffered so much.
But it was my ignorance of what was there, of
what I feared, that made my terror so poignant. Each
second saw the agony of my suspense increase I dared
not move, I hardly dare breathe, and I dreaded lest
the violent pulsation of my heart should attract the attention
of the unknown presence and precipitate its coming out. Yet,
despite the perturbation of my mind, I caught myself analyzing
my feelings. It was not danger I abhorred so much
as its absolute effect fright. I shuddered at the bare
thought of what result the most trivial incident, the creaking
of a board, ticking of a beetle, or hooting of
an owl, might have on the intolerable agitation of my soul.
In this unnerved and pitiable condition, I felt that the
period was bound to come sooner or later when I
should have to abandon life and reason together in the
most desperate of struggles with fear. At length, something moved.
An icy chill ran through my frame, and the horror
of my anticipations immediately reached its culminating point. The presence
was about to reveal itself, the gentle rubbing of a
soft body on the floor, the crack of a bony joint,
breathing another crack. And then was it my own excited
imagination or the disturbing influence of the atmosphere, or the
uncertain twilight of the chamber that produced before me, in
the stygian darkness of the recess, the facilitating and indistinct
outline of something luminous and horrid. I would gladly have
risked futurity to have looked elsewhere. I could not. My
eyes were fixed. I was compelled to gaze steadily in
front of me, slowly, very slowly, The thing, whatever it was,
took shape, legs crooked, misshapen human legs, a body tawny, hunched,
arms long and spidery, with crooked, knotted fingers. A head
large and bestial, and covered with a tangled mass of
gray hair that hung around its protruding forehead, and pointed
ears in ghastly mockery of curls. A face and hearing
was the realization of all my direst expectations. A face
white and staring, piglike in formation, malevolent in expression, a
hellish combination of all things foul in animal, and yet
withal not without a touch of pathos. As I stared
at it aghast, it reared itself on its haunches after
the manner of an ape and laered piteously at me,
then shuffling forward, it rolled over and lay sprawled out
like some ungainedly turtle, and wallowed as for warmth in
the cold gray beams of early dawn. At this juncture
the handle of the chamber door turned, some one entered.
There was a loud cry, and I awoke, awoke to
find the whole tower, walls and rafters, ringing with the
most appalling screams I have ever heard, screams of something
or of some one, for there was in them a
strong element of what was human as well as animal,
in the great distress. Wondering what it meant, and more
than ever terrified, I sat up in bed and listened, listened,
whilst a conviction, the result of intuition, suggestion, or what
you will, were a conviction all the same forced me
to associate the sounds with the thing in my dream,
and I associate them still. It was, I think, in
the same year, in the year that the foregoing account
was narrated to me, that I heard another story of
the hauntings at Clams, a story in connection with a
lady whom I will call miss mc guiney. I appened
her experience as nearly as possible, as she has stated
to have told it. I seldom talk about my adventure,
Miss mc guiney announced, because so many people ricule the
superphysical and laugh at the mere mention of ghosts. I
own I did the same myself till I stayed at GLAMs.
But a week there quite cured me of skepticism, and
I came away a confirmed believer. The incident occurred nearly
twenty years ago, shortly after my return from India, where
my father was then stationed. It was years since I
had been to Scotland. Indeed, I had only once crossed
the border, and that when I was a babe. Consequently,
I was delight to receive an invitation to spend a
few weeks in the land of my Berth. I went
to Edinburgh first, I was born in Drumshay Gardens, and
thence to GLAMs. It was late in the autumn, The
weather was intensely cold, and I arrived at the castle
in a blizzard. Indeed, I do not recollect ever having
been out in such a frightful storm. It was as
much as the horses could do to make headway, and
when we reached the castle we found a crowd of
anxious faces eagerly awaiting us in the hall. Chilled. I
was chilled to the bone, and I thought I never
should saw with the huge fires and bright and cozy
atmosphere of the rooms, for the interior of Glands was
modernized throughout soon set me right, and by tea time
I felt nicely warm and comfortable. My bedroom was in
the oldest part of the castle, this square tower. But
although I had been warned by some of the guests
that it might be haunted, I can assure you that
when I went to bed, no subject was farther from
my thoughts than the subject of ghosts. I returned to
my room at about half past eleven. The storm was
then at its height. All was babel and confusion, impenetrable
darkness mingled with the wildest roaring and shrieking, And when
I peeped through my casement window, I could see nothing.
Panes were shrouded in snow, snow which was incessantly dashed
against them with cyclonic fury. I fixed a comb in
the window frame so as not to be kept awake
by the constant jarring, and with the caution characteristic of
my sex, looked into the wardrobe and under the bed
for burglars, though Heaven knows what I should have done
had I found one. There placed a candlestick and match
box on the table by my bedside, lest the roof
or window should be blown in during the night, or
any other catastrophe happened. And after all these preparations got
into bed. At this period of my life, I was
a sounds and, being somewhat unusually tired after my journey,
I was soon in a dreamless slumber. What awoke me
I cannot say, but I came to myself with a
violent start, such as might have been occasioned by a
loud noise. Indeed, that was at first my impression, and
I strained my ears to try and ascertain the cause
of it. All was, however, silent. The storm had abated,
and the castle and grounds were wrapped in an almost
preternatural hush. The sky had cleared, and the room was
partially illuminated by a broad stream of silvery light that
filtered softly in through the white and tightly drawn blinds.
A feeling that there was something unnatural in the air,
that the stillness was but the prelude to some strange
and startling event gradually came over me. I strove to
reason with myself, to argue that the feeling was wholly
due to the novelty of my surroundings, But my efforts
were fruitless, and soon there stole upon me a sensation
to which I had been hitherto an utter stranger. I
became afraid. An irrepressible tremor pervaded my frame. My teeth chattered,
my blood froze. Obeying an impulse, an impulse I could
not resist, I lifted myself up from the pillows, and,
peering fearfully into the shadowy glows, and lay directly in
front of me listened. Why I listened, I do not know,
saving that an instinctive spirit prompted me. At first I
could hear nothing, and then from a direction I could
not define, there came a noise, lo distinct, uninterpretive. It
was repeated in rapid succession, and speedily construed itself into
the sound of mailed footsteps racing up the long flight
of stairs at the end of the corridor leading to
my room. Dreading to think what it might be, and
seized with a wild sentiment of self preservation, I made
frantic endeavors to get out of bed and barricade my door.
My limbs, however, refused to move. I was paralyzed. Nearer
and nearer drew the sounds, and I could at length
distinguish with a clearness that petrified my very soul, the
banging and clanging of sword scabbards, and the panting and
gasping of men sore pressed in a wild and desperate race.
And then the meaning of it all came to me
with hideous abruptness. It was a case of pursued and pursuing.
The race was for life outside my door. The fugitive halted,
and from the noise he made, and trying to draw
his breath, I knew he was dead beat. His antagonist, however,
gave him but scant time for recovery. Bounding at him
with prodigious leaps, he struck him a blow that sent
him rooling with such tremendous force against the door that
the panels, although composed of the stoutest oak, quivered and
strained like flimsy matchboard. The blow was repeated, the cry
that rose in the victim's throat was converted into an abortive,
gurgling groan, and I heard the ponderous battle axe carve
its way through helmet, bone and brain. A moment later
came the sound of slithering armor, and the corpse, slipping
sideways toppled to the ground with a sonorous clang. A
silence too awful for words. Now ensued. Having finished his
hideous handiwork, the murderer was quietly deliberating what to do next.
Whatcht My dread of attracting his attention was so great
that I scarcely dere breath. This intolerable state of things
had already lasted for what seemed to me a lifetime.
When glancing involuntarily at the floor, I saw a stream
of dark looking fluid, lazily lapping its way to me
from the direction of the door. Another moment and it
would reach my shoes. In my dismay, I shrieked aloud.
There was a sudden stir without a significant clatter of steel,
and the next moment, despite the fact that it was locked,
the door slowly opened. The limits of my endurance had
now happily been reached. The overtaxed valves of my heart
could stand no more. I fainted. On my awakening to consciousness,
it was morning, and the welcome sun rays revealed no
evidences of the distressing drama I own. I had a
hard tussle before I could make up my mind to
spend another night in that room, and my feelings as
I shut the door or my retreating maid and prepared
to get into bed were nut the most en maable.
But nothing happened, nor did I again experience anything of
the sort till the evening. Before I left. I had
lain down all the afternoon, for I was tired after
a long morning's tramp on the moors, a thing I
dearly love, and I was thinking it was about time
to get up, when a dark shadow suddenly fell across
my face. I looked up hastily, and there, standing by
my bedside and bending over me, was a gigantic figure
in bright armor. Its visor was up, and what I
saw within the cask is stamped forever on my memory.
It was the face of the dead, the long since dead,
with the expression the sutly hellish expression of the living.
As I gazed helplessly at it, it bent lower. I
threw up my hands to ward it off. There was
a loud rap at the door, and as my maid
softly entered to tell me tea was ready. It vanished.
The third account of the Glamis hauntings was told me
as long ago as the summer of eighteen ninety three.
I was traveling by rail from Perth to Glasgow, and
the only other occupant of my compartment was an elderly gentleman, who,
from his general air and appearance, might have been a
dominie or member of some other learned profession. I can
see him in my mind's eye now, a tall, thin
man with a premature stoop. He had white hair which
was brushed forward down either side of his head in
such a manner as suggested awike, bushy eyebrows, dark piercing eyes,
and a stern, though somewhat sad mouth. His features were
fine and scholarly. He was clean shaven. There was something
about him, something that marked him from the general horde,
something that attracted me, and I began chatting with him
soon after we left Perth. In the course of a
conversation that was at all events interesting to me, I
adroitly managed to introduce the subject of ghosts. Then, as
ever uppermost in my thoughts, well, he said, I can
tell you of something rather extraordinary that my mother used
to say happened to a friend of hers at GLAMs.
I have no doubt you are well acquainted with the
hackneyed stories in connection with the hauntings of the castle,
for example Earl Beardey playing cards with the Devil and
the weeping Woman without hands or tongue. You can read
about them in scores of books and magazines. But what
befell my mother's friend, whom I will call Missus Gibbons,
for I have forgotten her proper name, was apparently of
a novel nature. The affair happened shortly before Missus Gibbons died,
and I always thought that what took place might have
been in some way connected with her death. She had
driven over to the castle one day during the absence
of the owner, to see her cousin, who was in
the employ of the Earl in Countess. Never having been
at GLAMs before, but having heard so much about it,
Missus Gibbons was not a little curious to see that
part of the building called the Square Tower, that bore
the reputation of being haunted. Tactfully biding an opportunity, she
sounded her relative on the subject and was laughingly informed
that she might go anywhere about the place she pleased,
saving to one spot, namely Bluebeard's chamber, and there she
could certainly never succeed in poking her nose, as its
locality was known only to three people, all of whom
were pledged never to reveal it. At the commencement of
her tour of inspection, Missus Gibbons was disappointed. She was
disappointed in the tower. She had expected to see a gaunt,
grim place, crumbling to pieces with age, full of blood
curdling spiral staircases and deep, dark dungeons, whereas everything was
the reverse. The walls were an excellent state of preservation,
absolutely intact, the rooms bright and cheerful and equipped in
the most modern style. There were no dungeons, at least
none on view, and the passages and staircases were suggestive
of nothing more alarming than bats. She was accompanied for
some time by her relative, but on the latter being
called away, Missus Gibbons's continued her rambles alone. She had
explored the lower premises and was leisurely examining a handsomely
furnished apartment on the top floor, when in crossing from
one side of the room to the other she ran
into something. She looked down nothing was to be seen.
Amazed beyond description, she thrust out her hands and they
alighted on an object which she had little difficulty in identifying.
It was an enormous cask or barrel lying in a
horizontal position. She bent down close to where she felt it,
but she could see nothing, nothing but the well polished
boards of the floor. To make sure again that the
barrel was there, she gave a little kick and drew
back her foot with a cry of pain. She was
not afraid. The sunshine in the room forbade fear, only exasperated.
She was certain a barrel was there, that it was objective,
and she was angry with herself for not seeing it.
She wondered if she were going blind, but the fact
that other objects in the room were plainly visible to
her discountenanced such an idea. For some minutes, she poked
and jabbed at the thing, and then seized with sudden
and uncontrollable panic. She turned round and fled, and as
she tore out of the room, along the passage and
down the seemingly interminable flight of stairs, she heard the
barrel behind her in close pursuit. Bump bump bump. At
the foot of the staircase, Missus Gibbons met her cousin,
and as she clutched the latter for support, the barrel
shot past her, still continuing its descent bump bump, bump,
though the steps as far as she could see, had ended,
till the sounds gradually dwindled away in the far distance.
Whilst the manifestations lasted. Neither Missus Gibbons nor her cousin spoke,
but the latter, as soon as the sounds had ceased,
dragged Missus Gibbons away, and, in a voice shaking with terror, cried, quick, quick,
don't for heaven's sake, look rend and worse as yet
to come. And pulling Missus Gibbons along in breathless haste,
she unceremoniously hustled her out of the tower. That was
no barrel. Missus Gibbons's cousin subsequently remarked, by way of explanation,
I saw it, I have seen it before. Don't ask
me to describe it. I dare not, I dare not
even think of it. Whenever it appears, a certain thing happens.
Shortly afterwards, don't don't on any account say a word
about it to any one here. And missus Gibbons, my
mother told me, came away from GLAMs a thousand times
more curious than she was when she went. The last
story I have to relate is one I heard many
years ago when I was staying near bull Morrow, and
gentlemen named Vance, with strong antiquarian tastes, was staying at
an inn near the Strathmore estate and roaming abroad. One afternoon,
in a fit of absent mindedness, entered the castles. It
so happened, fortunately for him, that the family were away,
and he encountered no one more formidable than a man
he took to be a gardener, an uncouth looking fellow
with a huge head covered with a mass of red hair,
hawklike features, and high cheek bones, high even for a Scot.
Struck with the appearance of the individual, mister Vans spoke, and,
finding him wonderfully civil, asked whether by any chance he
ever came across any fossils when digging in the gardens.
Add Inn Aken the meaning of fossils, the man replied,
what are they? Mister Vance explained, and a look of
cunning gradually pervaded the fellow's features. No, he said, I've
never found any of those things. But if you'll give
me your word to say nothing about it, I'll show
you something I once dug up over yonder by the
square tower. Do you mean the Haunted Tower, the tower
that is supposed to contain the secret room? Mister Van's exclaimed.
An extraordinary expression, an expression such as mister Vans found
it impossible to analyze, came into the man's eyes. Yes,
that's it, he nodded, what people call and rightly call
the Haunted Tower. I got it from there, But don't
you say nought about it. Mister Vance, whose curiosity was roused, promised,
and the man, politely requesting him to follow, led the
way to a cottage that stood near by in the
heart of a gloomy wood. To mister Vance's astonishment, the
treasure proved to be the skeleton of a hand, a
hand with abnormally large knuckles and the first joint of
both fingers and thumb much shorter than the others. It
was the most extraordinarily shaped hand mister Vance had ever seen,
and he did not know in the least how to
classify it. It repelled yet interested him, and he eventually
offered the man a good sum to allow him to
keep it. To his astonishment, the money was refused. You
may have the thing and welcome, the fellow said, only
I advise you not to look at it late at
night or just before getting into bed. If you do,
you may have bad dreams. I will take my chance
of that, mister Vans laughed, you say, being a hard
headed Cockney, I am not superstitious. It is only you
highlanders and your first cousins, the Irish, who believed nowadays
in boguls omens and such like. When packing the hand
carefully in his knapsack, mister Vans bid the strange looking
creature good morning and went on his way. For the
rest of the day, the hand was uppermost in his thoughts.
Nothing had ever fascinated him so much. He sat pondering
over it the whole evening, and the bedtime found him
still examining it. Examining it upstairs in his room by candlelight,
he had a hazy recollection that some clock had struck twelve,
and he was beginning to feel that it was about
time to retire, when in the mirror opposite him he
caught sight of the door. It was over By jove,
that's odd, he said to himself. I could have sworn
a shut and bolted it. To make sure. He turned round.
The door was closed. An optical delusion, he murmured. I'll
try again. He looked into the mirror. The door reflected
and it was open. Utterly at a loss to know
how to explain the phenomenon, he leaned forward in his
seat to examine the glass more carefully, and as he
did so, he gave a start. On the threshold of
the doorway was a shadow, black and bulbous. A cold
shiver ran down mister Vans's spine, and just for a
moment he felt afraid, terribly afraid, But he quickly composed himself.
It was nothing but an illusion. There was no shadow
there in reality. He had only to turn round and
the thing would be gone. It was amusing, entertaining. He
would wait and see what happened. The shadow moved, It
moved slowly through the air, like some huge spider or
odd shaped bird. He would not acknowledge that there was
anything sinister about it, only something droll, excruciatingly droll. Yet
it did not make him laugh. When it had drawn
a little nearer, he tried to diagnose it, to discover
its material counterpart in one of the objects around him,
But he was obliged to acknowledge his attempts were failures.
There was nothing in the room in the least degree
like it. A vague feeling of uneasiness gradually crept over him.
Was the thing, the shadow of something with which he
was familiar but couldn't just then recall to mind. Something
he feared, something that was sinister. He struggled against the idea.
He dismissed it as absurd, but it returned, returned, and
took deeper route. As the shadow drew nearer, he wished
the house was not quite so silent, that he could
hear some indication of life, anything, anything for companionship, and
to rid him of oppressive, the very oppressive sense of
loneliness and isolation. Again, a thrill of terror ran through him.
Look here, he exclaimed aloud, glad to hear the sound
of his own voice. Look here. If this goes on
much longer, I shall begin to think I am going mad.
I have had enough and more than enough of magic
mirrors for one night. It's high time I got into bed.
He strove to rise from his chair to move. He
was unable to do either. Some strange, tyrannical force held
him a prisoner. A change now took place in the shadow.
The blur dissipated, and the clearly defined outlines of an object,
an object that made mister Vans perfectly sick with apprehension,
slowly disclosed themselves. His suspicions were verified. It was the hand,
the hand, no longer skeleton but covered with green, moldering flesh,
feeling its way slyly and stealthily towards him, towards the
back of his chair. He noted the murderous twitching of
its short, flat finger tips, the monstrous muscles of its
hideous thumb, and the great clumsy hollows of its clammy pan.
It closed in upon him. Its cold, slimy, detestable skin
touched his coat, his shoulder, his neck, his head. It
pressed him down, squashed, suffocated him. He saw it all
in the glass, and then an extraordinary thing happened. Mister
Vance certainly became animated. He got up and peeped furtively
round chairs, bed wardrobe had all disappeared, so had the bedroom,
and he found himself in a small, bare, comfortless, queerly
constructed apartment without a door, and with only a narrow
slit of a window somewhere near the ceiling. He had
in one of his hands a knife with a long,
keen blade, and his whole mind was bent on murder.
Creeping stealthily forward, he approached a corner of the room
where he now saw for the first time a mattress,
a mattress on which lay a huddled up form. What
the thing was, whether human or animal, mister Vance did
not know, did not care. All he felt was that
it was there for him to kill. That he loathed
and hated it, hated it with a hatred such as
nothing else could have produced. Tiptoeing gently out to it,
he bent down, and, lifting his knife high above his head,
plunged it into the thing's body with all the force
he could command. He recrossed the room and found himself
once more in his apartment. At the inn, he looked
for the skeleton hand. It was not where he had
left it. It had vanished. Then he glanced at the mirror,
and on its brilliantly polished surface, saw not his own face,
but the face of the gardener, the man who had
given him the hand, features, color, hair, all all were identical,
wonderfully hideously identical, and as the eyes met his they
smiled devilishly. Early the next day mister Vans set out
for the spinning and cottage. They were not to be found.
Nobody had ever heard of them. He continued his travels,
and some months later, at a lone collection of pictures
in a gallery in Edinburgh, he came to an abrupt,
a very abrupt halt, before the portrait of a gentleman
in ancient costume. The face seemed strangely familiar. The huge
head with thick red hair, the hawk like features, the
thin and tightly compressed lips. Then in a trice, it
all came back to him. The face he looked at
was that of the uncouth gardener, the man who had
given him the hand. And to clinch the matter, the
eyes leered end of Glam's Castle,