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none knowed him as well as I did. See that thar book?” He pointed to a well thumbed paper-covered book I could just make out in the ill-lit room. “That thar’s the
Seventh Book a Moses
—it’s got a sight more larnin’ in it than any other book I ever seen. That thar was Nahum’s book.”
    He chuckled at some memory. “Oh, that Nahum was a queer one, all right. But mean—an’ stingy, too. Don’t see as haow ye could miss knowin’ him.”
    I assured him I had never heard of Nahum Wentworth before, though I admitted privately to some curiosity about the object of my host’s preoccupation, insofar as he had been given to reading the
Seventh Book of Moses,
which was a kind of Bible for the supposed hexes, since it purported to offer all manner of spells, incantations, and charms to those readers who were gullible enough to believe in them. I saw, too, within the circle of lamplight, certain other books I recognized—a Bible, worn as much as the textbook of magic, a compendious edition of Cotton Mather’s works, and a bound volume of the
Arkham Advertiser.
Perhaps these, too, had once belonged to Nahum Wentworth.
    “I see ye lookin’ at his books,” said my host, as if he had indeed divined my thoughts. “He said as haow I could have ’em; so I took ’em. Good books, too. Only that I need glasses, I’d a read ’em. Yew’re welcome ta look at ’em, though.”
    I thanked him gravely and reminded him that he had been talking of Nahum Wentworth.
    “Oh, that Nahum!” he replied at once, renewing his chuckle. “I don’t reckon he’d a lent me all that money if he a knowed what was ta happen ta him. No, sir, I don’t reckon he would. An’ never ta take a note fer it, neither. Five thousand it was. An’ him tellin’ me he didn’t have no need fer a note or any kind of paper, so thar warn’t no proof I ever had the money off’n him, not a-tall, jest the two of us knowin’ it, and he settin’ a day five years after fer him ta come fer his money an’ his due. Five years, an’ this is the day, this is Wentworth’s day.”
    He paused and favored me with a sly glance out of eyes that were one and the same time dancing with suppressed mirth and dark with withheld fear. “Only he can’t come, because it warn’t no less’n two months after that day that he got shot out huntin’. Shotgun in the back o’ the head. Pure accident. O’ course, thar was them that said as haow I done it a-purpose, but I showed ’em haow ta shet up, ’cause I druv in ta Dunwich an’ went straight ta the bank an’ I made out my will so’s his daughter—that’s Miss Genie—was ta git all I die ownin’. Didn’ make no secret of it, either. Let ’em all know, so’s they could talk their fool heads off.”
    “And the loan?” I could not forebear asking.
    “The time ain’t up till midnight tonight.” He chuckled and cackled with laughter. “An’ it don’t seem like Nahum can keep his ’pointment, naow, does it? I figure, if he don’t come, it’s mine. An’ he can’t come. An’ a good thing he can’t, ’cause I ain’t got it.”
    I did not ask about Wentworth’s daughter, and how she fared. To tell the truth, I was beginning to feel the strain of the day and evening’s drive through the downpour. And this must have been evident to my host, for he ceased talking and sat watching me, speaking again only after what seemed a long time.
    “Yew’re peaked lookin’. Yew tired?”
    “I guess I am. But I’ll be going as soon as the storm abates a little.”
    “Tell yew what. Thar’s no need a yew a-settin’ here listenin’ ta me jaw yew. I’ll get ye another lamp, an’ yew kin lie down on the couch inside the next room. If it stops rainin’, I’ll call ye.”
    “I’m not taking your bed, Mr. Stark?”
    “I set up late nights,” he said.
    But any protest I might have made would have been futile. He was already up and about, lighting another kerosene lamp, and in a few moments he was