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CHAPTER 6

Priority Queues (Heaps)

6.1 Yes. When an element is inserted, we compare it to the current minimum and change the minimum if the new

element is smaller. deleteMin operations are expensive in this scheme.

6.2

6.3 The result of three deleteMins, starting with both of the heaps in Exercise 6.2, is as follows:

6.4 (a) 4N

(b) O(N2)

(c) O(N4.1)

(d) O(2N)

6.5 public void insert( AnyType x )

{
if ( currentSize = = array.length - 1 )
enlargeArray( array.length * 2 + 1 );

©2012 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
 // Percolate up
int hole = + + currentSize;
for ( ; hole > 1 && x.compareTo( array[ hole / 2 ] ) < 0; hole
/ = 2)
array[ hole ] = array[ hole/2 ];
array[ 0 ] = array[ hole ] = x;
}

6.6 225. To see this, start with i = 1 and position at the root. Follow the path toward the last node, doubling i

when taking a left child, and doubling i and adding one when taking a right child.

6.7 (a) We show that H(N), which is the sum of the heights of nodes in a complete binary tree of N nodes, is

N − b(N), where b(N) is the number of ones in the binary representation of N. Observe that for N = 0 and

N = 1, the claim is true. Assume that it is true for values of k up to and including N − 1. Suppose the left and

right subtrees have L and R nodes, respectively. Since the root has height  log N  , we have

H (N ) = log N  + H (L) + H (R )
= log N  + L − b(L) + R − b(R)
= N − 1 + (  Log N  − b(L) − b(R) )

The second line follows from the inductive hypothesis, and the third follows because L + R = N − 1. Now the

last node in the tree is in either the left subtree or the right subtree. If it is in the left subtree, then the right

subtree is a perfect tree, and b(R) = log N  − 1 . Further, the binary representation of N and L are identical,

with the exception that the leading 10 in N becomes 1 in L. (For instance, if N = 37 = 100101, L = 10101.) It

is clear that the second digit of N must be zero if the last node is in the left subtree. Thus in this case,

b(L) = b(N), and

H(N) = N − b(N)

If the last node is in the right subtree, then b(L) =  log N  . The binary representation of R is identical to

N, except that the leading 1 is not present. (For instance, if N = 27 = 101011, L = 01011.) Thus

b(R) = b(N) − 1, and again

H(N) = N − b(N)

(b) Run a single-elimination tournament among eight elements. This requires seven comparisons and

generates ordering information indicated by the binomial tree shown here.

©2012 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
 The eighth comparison is between b and c. If c is less than b, then b is made a child of c. Otherwise, both

c and d are made children of b.

(c) A recursive strategy is used. Assume that N = 2k. A binomial tree is built for the N elements as in part (b).

The largest subtree of the root is then recursively converted into a binary heap of 2 k − 1 elements. The last

element in the heap (which is the only one on an extra level) is then inserted into the binomial queue

consisting of the remaining binomial trees, thus forming another binomial tree of 2 k − 1 elements. At that

point, the root has a subtree that is a heap of 2 k − 1 − 1 elements and another subtree that is a binomial tree of

2k−1 elements. Recursively convert that subtree into a heap; now the whole structure is a binary heap. The

running time for N = 2k satisfies T(N) = 2T(N/2) + log N. The base case is T(8) = 8.

6.9 Let D1, D2, . . . ,Dk be random variables representing the depth of the smallest, second smallest, and kth

smallest elements, respectively. We are interested in calculating E(Dk). In what follows, we assume that the

heap size N is one less than a power of two (that is, the bottom level is completely filled) but sufficiently

large so that terms bounded by O(1/N) are negligible. Without loss of generality, we may assume that the kth

smallest element is in the left subheap of the root. Let pj, k be the probability that this element is the jth

smallest element in the subheap.

Lemma.

k −1
For k > 1, E (Dk ) =  p j ,k (E (D j ) + 1) .
j =1

Proof.

An element that is at depth d in the left subheap is at depth d + 1 in the entire subheap. Since

E(Dj + 1) = E(Dj) + 1, the theorem follows.

©2012 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
 Since by assumption, the bottom level of the heap is full, each of second, third, . . . , k − 1th smallest

elements are in the left subheap with probability of 0.5. (Technically, the probability should be half − 1/(N −

1) of being in the right subheap and half + 1/(N − 1) of being in the left, since we have already placed the kth

smallest in the right. Recall that we have assumed that terms of size O(1/N) can be ignored.) Thus

1  k − 2
p j ,k = pk − j ,k = k −2  
2  j −1 

Theorem.

E(Dk)  log k.

Proof.

The proof is by induction. The theorem clearly holds for k = 1 and k = 2. We then show that it holds for

arbitrary k > 2 on the assumption that it holds for all smaller k. Now, by the inductive hypothesis, for any

1  j  k − 1,

E (D j ) + E (Dk − j )  log j + log k − j

Since f(x) = log x is convex for x > 0,

log j + log k − j  2 log ( k 2 )

Thus

E (D j ) + E (Dk − j )  log( k 2 ) + log ( k 2 )

Furthermore, since pj, k = pk − j, k,

p j ,k E (D j ) + pk − j ,k E (Dk − j )  p j ,k log ( k 2 ) + pk − j ,k log ( k 2 )

From the lemma,

k −1
E (Dk ) =  p j , k (E (D j ) + 1)
j =1
k −1
=1+  p j, k E(D j )
j =1

Thus

©2012 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
 k −1
E ( Dk )  1 +  p j , k log ( k 2)
j =1
k −1
 1 + log ( k 2)  p j , k
j =1

 1 + log ( k 2)
 log k

completing the proof.

It can also be shown that asymptotically, E(Dk)  log(k − 1) − 0.273548.

6.10 (a) Perform a preorder traversal of the heap.

(b) Works for leftist and skew heaps. The running time is O(Kd) for d-heaps.

6.12 Simulations show that the linear time algorithm is the faster, not only on worst-case inputs, but also on

random data.

6.13 (a) If the heap is organized as a (min) heap, then starting at the hole at the root, find a path down to a leaf by

taking the minimum child. The requires roughly log N comparisons. To find the correct place where to move

the hole, perform a binary search on the log N elements. This takes O(log log N) comparisons.

(b) Find a path of minimum children, stopping after log N − log log N levels. At this point, it is easy to

determine if the hole should be placed above or below the stopping point. If it goes below, then continue

finding the path, but perform the binary search on only the last log log N elements on the path, for a total of

log N + log log log N comparisons. Otherwise, perform a binary search on the first log N − log log N

elements. The binary search takes at most log log N comparisons, and the path finding took only log N − log

log N, so the total in this case is log N. So the worst case is the first case.

(c) The bound can be improved to log N + log*N + O(1), where log*N is the inverse Ackerman function (see

Chapter 8). This bound can be found in reference [17].

6.14 The parent is at position (i + d − 2) d  . The children are in positions (i − 1)d + 2, . . . , id + 1.

6.15 (a) O((M + d N) logd N).

(b) O((M + N) log N).

(c) O(M + N2).

(d) d = max(2, M/N). (See the related discussion at the end of Section 11.4.)

©2012 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
6.16 Starting from the second most signficant digit in i, and going toward the least significant digit, branch left for

0s, and right for 1s.

6.17 (a) Place negative infinity as a root with the two heaps as subtrees. Then do a deleteMin.

(b) Place negative infinity as a root with the larger heap as the left subheap, and the smaller heap as the right

subheap. Then do a deleteMin.

(c) SKETCH: Split the larger subheap into smaller heaps as follows: on the left-most path, remove two

subheaps of height r − 1, then one of height r, r + 1, and so one, until l − 2. Then merge the trees, going

smaller to higher, using the results of parts (a) and (b), with the extra nodes on the left path substituting for

the insertion of infinity, and subsequent deleteMin.

6.19

6.20

6.21 This theorem is true, and the proof is very much along the same lines as Exercise 4.20.

6.22 If elements are inserted in decreasing order, a leftist heap consisting of a chain of left children is formed. This

is the best because the right path length is minimized.

6.23 (a) If a decreaseKey is performed on a node that is very deep (very left), the time to percolate up would be

prohibitive. Thus the obvious solution doesn’t work. However, we can still do the operation efficiently by a

combination of remove and insert. To remove an arbitrary node x in the heap, replace x by the merge of its

left and right subheaps. This might create an imbalance for nodes on the path from x’s parent to the root that

©2012 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
 would need to be fixed by a child swap. However, it is easy to show that at most logN nodes can be affected,

preserving the time bound.

This is discussed in Chapter 11.

6.24 Lazy deletion in leftist heaps is discussed in the paper by Cheriton and Tarjan [10]. The general idea is that if

the root is marked deleted, then a preorder traversal of the heap is formed, and the frontier of marked nodes is

removed, leaving a collection of heaps. These can be merged two at a time by placing all the heaps on a

queue, removing two, merging them, and placing the result at the end of the queue, terminating when only

one heap remains.

6.25 (a) The standard way to do this is to divide the work into passes. A new pass begins when the first element

reappears in a heap that is dequeued. The first pass takes roughly 2*1*(N/2) time units because there are N/2

merges of trees with one node each on the right path. The next pass takes 2*2*(N/4) time units because of the

roughly N/4 merges of trees with no more than two nodes on the right path. The third pass takes 2*3*(N/8)

time units, and so on. The sum converges to 4N.

(b) It generates heaps that are more leftist.

6.26

6.27

6.28 This claim is also true, and the proof is similar in spirit to Exercise 4.20 or 6.21.

©2012 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
6.29 Yes. All the single operation estimates in Exercise 6.25 become amortized instead of worst-case, but by the

definition of amortized analysis, the sum of these estimates is a worst-case bound for the sequence.

6.30 Clearly the claim is true for k = 1. Suppose it is true for all values i = 1, 2, . . . , k. A Bk + 1 tree is formed by

attaching a Bk tree to the root of a Bk tree. Thus by induction, it contains a B0 through Bk − 1 tree, as well as the

newly attached Bk tree, proving the claim.

6.31 Proof is by induction. Clearly the claim is true for k = 1. Assume true for all values i = 1, 2, . . . ,k. A Bk + 1

k 
tree is formed by attaching a Bk tree to the original Bk tree. The original thus had   nodes at depth d. The
d 

 k 
attached tree had   nodes at depth d−1, which are now at depth d. Adding these two terms and using a
 d − 1

well-known formula establishes the theorem.

6.32

6.33 This is established in Chapter 11.

6.38 Don’t keep the key values in the heap, but keep only the difference between the value of the key in a node

and the value of the parent’s key.

6.39 O(N + k log N) is a better bound than O(N log k). The first bound is O(N) if k = O(N/log N). The second

bound is more than this as soon as k grows faster than a constant. For the other values (N/log N) = k = (N),

the first bound is better. When k = (N), the bounds are identical.

©2012 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
 Another Random Document on
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Title: A Warning to the Curious, and Other Ghost Stories

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WARNING TO

THE CURIOUS, AND OTHER GHOST STORIES ***
A WARNING TO THE CURIOUS
 By Dr M. R. JAMES
PROVOST OF ETON

GHOST STORIES OF AN ANTIQUARY

5s. net.
MORE GHOST STORIES
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A THIN GHOST AND OTHERS
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LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD & CO.

 A WARNING TO
THE CURIOUS
and other Ghost Stories

BY
MONTAGUE RHODES JAMES
Author of “Ghost Stories of an Antiquary,” etc.

LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD & CO.
1925
[All rights reserved]
 MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
THE EDINBURGH PRESS, 9 AND 11 YOUNG STREET, EDINBURGH.
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The first of these stories was written for the
library of the Queen’s Doll’s House, and was
printed in the Book thereof; I gratefully
acknowledge the gracious permission
granted by Her Majesty to have it reprinted
in this volume.
For like permissions from the editors of the
Atlantic Monthly, Empire Review, London
Mercury, and Eton Chronic I return thanks.
M. R. JAMES.
September 1925.
 CONTENTS
PAGE
The Haunted Doll’s House 9
The Uncommon Prayer-Book 35
A Neighbour’s Landmark 70
A View from a Hill 97
A Warning to the Curious 138
An Evening’s Entertainment 176
 THE HAUNTED DOLL’S HOUSE.
“I SUPPOSE you get stuff of that kind through your hands pretty
often?” said Mr Dillet, as he pointed with his stick to an object which
shall be described when the time comes: and when he said it, he
lied in his throat, and knew that he lied. Not once in twenty years—
perhaps not once in a lifetime—could Mr Chittenden, skilled as he
was in ferreting out the forgotten treasures of half-a-dozen counties,
expect to handle such a specimen. It was collectors’ palaver, and Mr
Chittenden recognised it as such.
“Stuff of that kind, Mr Dillet! It’s a museum piece, that is.”
“Well, I suppose there are museums that’ll take anything.”
“I’ve seen one, not as good as that, years back,” said Mr Chittenden,
thoughtfully. “But that’s not likely to come into the market: and I’m
told they ’ave some fine ones of the period over the water. No: I’m
only telling you the truth, Mr Dillet, when I say that if you was to
place an unlimited order with me for the very best that could be got
—and you know I ’ave facilities for getting to know of such things,
and a reputation to maintain—well, all I can say is, I should lead you
straight up to that one and say, ‘I can’t do no better for you than
that, Sir.’”
“Hear, hear!” said Mr Dillet, applauding ironically with the end of his
stick on the floor of the shop. “How much are you sticking the
innocent American buyer for it, eh?”
“Oh, I shan’t be over hard on the buyer, American or otherwise. You
see, it stands this way, Mr Dillet—if I knew just a bit more about the
pedigree——”
“Or just a bit less,” Mr Dillet put in.
“Ha, ha! you will have your joke, Sir. No, but as I was saying, if I
knew just a little more than what I do about the piece—though
anyone can see for themselves it’s a genuine thing, every last corner
of it, and there’s not been one of my men allowed to so much as
touch it since it came into the shop—there’d be another figure in the
price I’m asking.”
“And what’s that: five and twenty?”
“Multiply that by three and you’ve got it, Sir. Seventy-five’s my price.”
“And fifty’s mine,” said Mr Dillet.
The point of agreement was, of course, somewhere between the
two, it does not matter exactly where—I think sixty guineas. But
half-an-hour later the object was being packed, and within an hour
Mr Dillet had called for it in his car and driven away. Mr Chittenden,
holding the cheque in his hand, saw him off from the door with
smiles, and returned, still smiling, into the parlour where his wife
was making the tea. He stopped at the door.
“It’s gone,” he said.
“Thank God for that!” said Mrs Chittenden, putting down the teapot.
“Mr Dillet, was it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Well, I’d sooner it was him than another.”
“Oh, I don’t know, he ain’t a bad feller, my dear.”
“May be not, but in my opinion he’d be none the worse for a bit of a
shake up.”
“Well, if that’s your opinion, it’s my opinion he’s put himself into the
way of getting one. Anyhow, we shan’t have no more of it, and
that’s something to be thankful for.”
And so Mr and Mrs Chittenden sat down to tea.
And what of Mr Dillet and of his new acquisition? What it was, the
title of this story will have told you. What it was like, I shall have to
indicate as well as I can.
There was only just room enough for it in the car, and Mr Dillet had
to sit with the driver: he had also to go slow, for though the rooms
of the Doll’s House had all been stuffed carefully with soft cotton-
wool, jolting was to be avoided, in view of the immense number of
small objects which thronged them; and the ten-mile drive was an
anxious time for him, in spite of all the precautions he insisted upon.
At last his front door was reached, and Collins, the butler, came out.
“Look here, Collins, you must help me with this thing—it’s a delicate
job. We must get it out upright, see? It’s full of little things that
mustn’t be displaced more than we can help. Let’s see, where shall
we have it? (After a pause for consideration). Really, I think I shall
have to put it in my own room, to begin with at any rate. On the big
table—that’s it.”
It was conveyed—with much talking—to Mr Dillet’s spacious room on
the first floor, looking out on the drive. The sheeting was unwound
from it, and the front thrown open, and for the next hour or two Mr
Dillet was fully occupied in extracting the padding and setting in
order the contents of the rooms.
When this thoroughly congenial task was finished, I must say that it
would have been difficult to find a more perfect and attractive
specimen of a Doll’s House in Strawberry Hill Gothic than that which
now stood on Mr Dillet’s large kneehole table, lighted up by the
evening sun which came slanting through three tall sash-windows.
It was quite six feet long, including the Chapel or Oratory which
flanked the front on the left as you faced it, and the stable on the
right. The main block of the house was, as I have said, in the Gothic
manner: that is to say, the windows had pointed arches and were
surmounted by what are called ogival hoods, with crockets and
finials such as we see on the canopies of tombs built into church
walls. At the angles were absurd turrets covered with arched panels.
The Chapel had pinnacles and buttresses, and a bell in the turret
and coloured glass in the windows. When the front of the house was
open you saw four large rooms, bedroom, dining-room, drawing-
room and kitchen, each with its appropriate furniture in a very
complete state.
The stable on the right was in two storeys, with its proper
complement of horses, coaches and grooms, and with its clock and
Gothic cupola for the clock bell.
Pages, of course, might be written on the outfit of the mansion—
how many frying pans, how many gilt chairs, what pictures, carpets,
chandeliers, four-posters, table linen, glass, crockery and plate it
possessed; but all this must be left to the imagination. I will only say
that the base or plinth on which the house stood (for it was fitted
with one of some depth which allowed of a flight of steps to the
front door and a terrace, partly balustraded) contained a shallow
drawer or drawers in which were neatly stored sets of embroidered
curtains, changes of raiment for the inmates, and, in short, all the
materials for an infinite series of variations and refittings of the most
absorbing and delightful kind.
“Quintessence of Horace Walpole, that’s what it is: he must have
had something to do with the making of it.” Such was Mr Dillet’s
murmured reflection as he knelt before it in a reverent ecstasy.
“Simply wonderful; this is my day and no mistake. Five hundred
pound coming in this morning for that cabinet which I never cared
about, and now this tumbling into my hands for a tenth, at the very
most, of what it would fetch in town. Well, well! It almost makes one
afraid something’ll happen to counter it. Let’s have a look at the
population, anyhow.”
Accordingly, he set them before him in a row. Again, here is an
opportunity, which some would snatch at, of making an inventory of
costume: I am incapable of it.
There were a gentleman and lady, in blue satin and brocade
respectively. There were two children, a boy and a girl. There was a
cook, a nurse, a footman, and there were the stable servants, two
postillions, a coachman, two grooms.
“Anyone else? Yes, possibly.”
The curtains of the four-poster in the bedroom were closely drawn
round four sides of it, and he put his finger in between them and felt
in the bed. He drew the finger back hastily, for it almost seemed to
him as if something had—not stirred, perhaps, but yielded—in an
odd live way as he pressed it. Then he put back the curtains, which
ran on rods in the proper manner, and extracted from the bed a
white-haired old gentleman in a long linen night-dress and cap, and
laid him down by the rest. The tale was complete.
Dinner time was now near, so Mr Dillet spent but five minutes in
putting the lady and children into the drawing-room, the gentleman
into the dining-room, the servants into the kitchen and stables, and
the old man back into his bed. He retired into his dressing room next
door, and we see and hear no more of him until something like
eleven o’clock at night.
His whim was to sleep surrounded by some of the gems of his
collection. The big room in which we have seen him contained his
bed: bath, wardrobe, and all the appliances of dressing were in a
commodious room adjoining: but his four-poster, which itself was a
valued treasure, stood in the large room where he sometimes wrote,
and often sat, and even received visitors. To-night he repaired to it
in a highly complacent frame of mind.
There was no striking clock within earshot—none on the staircase,
none in the stable, none in the distant Church tower. Yet it is
indubitable that Mr Dillet was startled out of a very pleasant slumber
by a bell tolling One.
He was so much startled that he did not merely lie breathless with
wide-open eyes, but actually sat up in his bed.
He never asked himself, till the morning hours, how it was that,
though there was no light at all in the room, the Doll’s House on the
kneehole table stood out with complete clearness. But it was so. The
effect was that of a bright harvest moon shining full on the front of a
big white stone mansion—a quarter of a mile away it might be, and
yet every detail was photographically sharp. There were trees about
it, too—trees rising behind the chapel and the house. He seemed to
be conscious of the scent of a cool still September night. He thought
he could hear an occasional stamp and clink from the stables, as of
horses stirring. And with another shock he realized that, above the
house, he was looking, not at the wall of his room with its pictures,
but into the profound blue of a night sky.
There were lights, more than one, in the windows, and he quickly
saw that this was no four-roomed house with a movable front, but
one of many rooms, and staircases—a real house, but seen as if
through the wrong end of a telescope. “You mean to show me
something,” he muttered to himself, and he gazed earnestly on the
lighted windows. They would in real life have been shuttered or
curtained, no doubt, he thought; but, as it was, there was nothing to
intercept his view of what was being transacted inside the rooms.
Two rooms were lighted—one on the ground floor to the right of the
door, one upstairs, on the left—the first brightly enough, the other
rather dimly. The lower room was the dining-room: a table was laid,
but the meal was over, and only wine and glasses were left on the
table. The man of the blue satin and the woman of the brocade
were alone in the room, and they were talking very earnestly, seated
close together at the table, their elbows on it: every now and again
stopping to listen, as it seemed. Once he rose, came to the window
and opened it and put his head out and his hand to his ear. There
was a lighted taper in a silver candlestick on a sideboard. When the
man left the window he seemed to leave the room also; and the
lady, taper in hand, remained standing and listening. The expression
on her face was that of one striving her utmost to keep down a fear
that threatened to master her—and succeeding. It was a hateful
face, too; broad, flat and sly. Now the man came back and she took
some small thing from him and hurried out of the room. He, too,
disappeared, but only for a moment or two. The front door slowly
opened and he stepped out and stood on the top of the perron,
looking this way and that; then turned towards the upper window
that was lighted, and shook his fist.
It was time to look at that upper window. Through it was seen a
four-post bed: a nurse or other servant in an armchair, evidently
sound asleep; in the bed an old man lying: awake, and, one would
say, anxious, from the way in which he shifted about and moved his
fingers, beating tunes on the coverlet. Beyond the bed a door
opened. Light was seen on the ceiling, and the lady came in: she set
down her candle on a table, came to the fireside and roused the
nurse. In her hand she had an old-fashioned wine bottle, ready
uncorked. The nurse took it, poured some of the contents into a
little silver sauce-pan, added some spice and sugar from casters on
the table, and set it to warm on the fire. Meanwhile the old man in
the bed beckoned feebly to the lady, who came to him, smiling, took
his wrist as if to feel his pulse, and bit her lip as if in consternation.
He looked at her anxiously, and then pointed to the window, and
spoke. She nodded, and did as the man below had done; opened
the casement and listened—perhaps rather ostentatiously: then
drew in her head and shook it, looking at the old man, who seemed
to sigh.
By this time the posset on the fire was steaming, and the nurse
poured it into a small two-handled silver bowl and brought it to the
bedside. The old man seemed disinclined for it and was waving it
away, but the lady and the nurse together bent over him and
evidently pressed it upon him. He must have yielded, for they
supported him into a sitting position, and put it to his lips. He drank
most of it, in several draughts, and they laid him down. The lady left
the room, smiling good-night to him, and took the bowl, the bottle
and the silver sauce-pan with her. The nurse returned to the chair,
and there was an interval of complete quiet.
Suddenly the old man started up in his bed—and he must have
uttered some cry, for the nurse started out of her chair and made
but one step of it to the bedside. He was a sad and terrible sight—
flushed in the face, almost to blackness, the eyes glaring whitely,
both hands clutching at his heart, foam at his lips.
For a moment the nurse left him, ran to the door, flung it wide open,
and, one supposes, screamed aloud for help, then darted back to
the bed and seemed to try feverishly to soothe him—to lay him
down—anything. But as the lady, her husband, and several servants,
rushed into the room with horrified faces, the old man collapsed
under the nurse’s hands and lay back, and the features, contorted
with agony and rage, relaxed slowly into calm.
A few moments later, lights showed out to the left of the house, and
a coach with flambeaux drove up to the door. A white-wigged man in
black got nimbly out and ran up the steps, carrying a small leather
trunk-shaped box. He was met in the doorway by the man and his
wife, she with her handkerchief clutched between her hands, he with
a tragic face, but retaining his self-control. They led the newcomer
into the dining-room, where he set his box of papers on the table,
and, turning to them, listened with a face of consternation at what
they had to tell. He nodded his head again and again, threw out his
hands slightly, declined, it seemed, offers of refreshment and lodging
for the night, and within a few minutes came slowly down the steps
entering the coach and driving off the way he had come. As the man
in blue watched him from the top of the steps, a smile not pleasant
to see stole slowly over his fat white face. Darkness fell over the
whole scene as the lights of the coach disappeared.
But Mr Dillet remained sitting up in the bed: he had rightly guessed
that there would be a sequel. The house front glimmered out again
before long. But now there was a difference. The lights were in
other windows, one at the top of the house, the other illuminating
the range of coloured windows of the chapel. How he saw through
these is not quite obvious, but he did. The interior was as carefully
furnished as the rest of the establishment, with its minute red
cushions on the desks, its Gothic stall-canopies, and its western
gallery and pinnacled organ with gold pipes. On the centre of the
black and white pavement was a bier: four tall candles burned at the
corners. On the bier was a coffin covered with a pall of black velvet.
As he looked the folds of the pall stirred. It seemed to rise at one
end: it slid downwards: it fell away, exposing the black coffin with its
silver handles and name-plate. One of the tall candlesticks swayed
and toppled over. Ask no more, but turn, as Mr Dillet hastily did, and
look in at the lighted window at the top of the house, where a boy
and girl lay in two truckle-beds, and a four-poster for the nurse rose
above them. The nurse was not visible for the moment; but the
father and mother were there, dressed now in mourning, but with
very little sign of mourning in their demeanour. Indeed, they were
laughing and talking with a good deal of animation, sometimes to
each other, and sometimes throwing a remark to one or other of the
children, and again laughing at the answers. Then the father was
seen to go on tiptoe out of the room, taking with him as he went a
white garment that hung on a peg near the door. He shut the door
after him. A minute or two later it was slowly opened again, and a
muffled head poked round it. A bent form of sinister shape stepped
across to the truckle-beds, and suddenly stopped, threw up its arms
and revealed, of course, the father, laughing. The children were in
agonies of terror, the boy with the bed clothes over his head, the girl
throwing herself out of bed into her mother’s arms. Attempts at
consolation followed—the parents took the children on their laps,
patted them, picked up the white gown and showed there was no
harm in it, and so forth; and at last putting the children back into
bed, left the room with encouraging waves of the hand. As they left
it, the nurse came in, and soon the light died down.
Still Mr Dillet watched immovable.
A new sort of light—not of lamp or candle—a pale ugly light, began
to dawn around the door-case at the back of the room. The door
was opening again. The seer does not like to dwell upon what he
saw entering the room: he says it might be described as a frog—the
size of a man—but it had scanty white hair about its head. It was
busy about the truckle-beds, but not for long. The sound of cries—
faint, as if coming out of a vast distance—but, even so, infinitely
appalling, reached the ear.
There were signs of a hideous commotion all over the house: lights
passed along and up, and doors opened and shut, and running
figures passed within the windows. The clock in the stable turret
tolled one, and darkness fell again.
It was only dispelled once more, to show the house front. At the
bottom of the steps dark figures were drawn up in two lines, holding
flaming torches. More dark figures came down the steps, bearing,
first one, then another small coffin. And the lines of torch-bearers
with the coffins between them moved silently onward to the left.
The hours of night passed on—never so slowly, Mr Dillet thought.
Gradually he sank down from sitting to lying in his bed—but he did
not close an eye: and early next morning he sent for the doctor.
The doctor found him in a disquieting state of nerves, and
recommended sea-air. To a quiet place on the East Coast he
accordingly repaired by easy stages in his car.
One of the first people he met on the sea-front was Mr Chittenden,
who, it appeared, had likewise been advised to take his wife away
for a bit of a change.
Mr Chittenden looked somewhat askance upon him when they met:
and not without cause.
“Well, I don’t wonder at you being a bit upset, Mr Dillet. What? yes,
well, I might say ’orrible upset, to be sure, seeing what me and my
poor wife went through ourselves. But I put it to you, Mr Dillet, one
of two things: was I going to scrap a lovely piece like that on the
one ’and, or was I going to tell customers: ‘I’m selling you a regular
picture-palace-dramar in reel life of the olden time, billed to perform
regular at one o’clock a.m.’? Why, what would you ’ave said
yourself? And next thing you know, two Justices of the Peace in the
back parlour, and pore Mr and Mrs Chittenden off in a spring cart to
the County Asylum and everyone in the street saying, ‘Ah, I thought
it ’ud come to that. Look at the way the man drank!’—and me next
door, or next door but one, to a total abstainer, as you know. Well,
there was my position. What? Me ’ave it back in the shop? Well,
what do you think? No, but I’ll tell you what I will do. You shall have
your money back, bar the ten pound I paid for it, and you make
what you can.”
Later in the day, in what is offensively called the “smoke-room” of
the hotel, a murmured conversation between the two went on for
some time.
“How much do you really know about that thing, and where it came
from?”
“Honest, Mr Dillet, I don’t know the ’ouse. Of course, it came out of
the lumber room of a country ’ouse—that anyone could guess. But
I’ll go as far as say this, that I believe it’s not a hundred miles from
this place. Which direction and how far I’ve no notion. I’m only
judging by guess-work. The man as I actually paid the cheque to
ain’t one of my regular men, and I’ve lost sight of him; but I ’ave the
idea that this part of the country was his beat, and that’s every word
I can tell you. But now, Mr Dillet, there’s one thing that rather
physicks me—that old chap,—I suppose you saw him drive up to the
door—I thought so: now, would he have been the medical man, do
you take it? My wife would have it so, but I stuck to it that was the
lawyer, because he had papers with him, and one he took out was
folded up.”
“I agree,” said Mr Dillet. “Thinking it over, I came to the conclusion
that was the old man’s will, ready to be signed.”
“Just what I thought,” said Mr Chittenden, “and I took it that will
would have cut out the young people, eh? Well, well! It’s been a
lesson to me, I know that. I shan’t buy no more dolls’ houses, nor
waste no more money on the pictures—and as to this business of
poisonin’ grandpa, well, if I know myself, I never ’ad much of a turn
for that. Live and let live: that’s bin my motto throughout life, and I
ain’t found it a bad one.”
Filled with these elevated sentiments, Mr Chittenden retired to his
lodgings. Mr Dillet next day repaired to the local Institute, where he
hoped to find some clue to the riddle that absorbed him. He gazed in
despair at a long file of the Canterbury and York Society’s
publications of the Parish Registers of the district. No print
resembling the house of his nightmare was among those that hung
on the staircase and in the passages. Disconsolate, he found himself
at last in a derelict room, staring at a dusty model of a church in a
dusty glass case: Model of St Stephen’s Church, Coxham. Presented
by J. Merewether, Esq., of Ilbridge House, 1877. The work of his
ancestor James Merewether, d. 1786. There was something in the
fashion of it that reminded him dimly of his horror. He retraced his
steps to a wall map he had noticed, and made out that Ilbridge
House was in Coxham Parish. Coxham was, as it happened, one of
the parishes of which he had retained the name when he glanced
over the file of printed registers, and it was not long before he found
in them the record of the burial of Roger Milford, aged 76, on the
11th of September, 1757, and of Roger and Elizabeth Merewether,
aged 9 and 7, on the 19th of the same month. It seemed worth
while to follow up this clue, frail as it was; and in the afternoon he
drove out to Coxham. The east end of the north aisle of the church
is a Milford chapel, and on its north wall are tablets to the same
persons; Roger, the elder, it seems, was distinguished by all the
qualities which adorn “the Father, the Magistrate, and the Man”: the
memorial was erected by his attached daughter Elizabeth, “who did
not long survive the loss of a parent ever solicitous for her welfare,
and of two amiable children.” The last sentence was plainly an
addition to the original inscription.
A yet later slab told of James Merewether, husband of Elizabeth,
“who in the dawn of life practised, not without success, those arts
which, had he continued their exercise, might in the opinion of the
most competent judges have earned for him the name of the British
Vitruvius: but who, overwhelmed by the visitation which deprived
him of an affectionate partner and a blooming offspring, passed his
Prime and Age in a secluded yet elegant Retirement: his grateful
Nephew and Heir indulges a pious sorrow by this too brief recital of
his excellences.”
The children were more simply commemorated. Both died on the
night of the 12th of September.
Mr Dillet felt sure that in Ilbridge House he had found the scene of
his drama. In some old sketch-book, possibly in some old print, he
may yet find convincing evidence that he is right. But the Ilbridge
House of to-day is not that which he sought; it is an Elizabethan
erection of the forties, in red brick with stone quoins and dressings.
A quarter of a mile from it, in a low part of the park, backed by
ancient, stag-horned, ivy-strangled trees and thick undergrowth, are
marks of a terraced platform overgrown with rough grass. A few
stone balusters lie here and there, and a heap or two, covered with
nettles and ivy, of wrought stones with badly carved crockets. This,
someone told Mr Dillet, was the site of an older house.
As he drove out of the village, the hall clock struck four, and Mr Dillet
started up and clapped his hands to his ears. It was not the first
time he had heard that bell.
Awaiting an offer from the other side of the Atlantic, the doll’s house
still reposes, carefully sheeted, in a loft over Mr Dillet’s stables,
whither Collins conveyed it on the day when Mr Dillet started for the
sea coast.

[It will be said, perhaps, and not unjustly, that this is no more than a
variation on a former story of mine called The Mezzotint. I can only
hope that there is enough of variation in the setting to make the
repetition of the motif tolerable].
 THE UNCOMMON PRAYER-BOOK
I
MR DAVIDSON was spending the first week in January alone in a
country town. A combination of circumstances had driven him to
that drastic course: his nearest relations were enjoying winter sports
abroad, and the friends who had been kindly anxious to replace
them had an infectious complaint in the house. Doubtless he might
have found someone else to take pity on him. “But,” he reflected,
“most of them have made up their parties, and, after all, it is only
for three or four days at most that I have to fend for myself, and it
will be just as well if I can get a move on with my introduction to the
Leventhorp Papers. I might use the time by going down as near as I
can to Gaulsford and making acquaintance with[36] the
neighbourhood. I ought to see the remains of Leventhorp House,
and the tombs in the church.”
The first day after his arrival at the Swan Hotel at Longbridge was so
stormy that he got no farther than the tobacconist’s. The next,
comparatively bright, he used for his visit to Gaulsford, which
interested him more than a little, but had no ulterior consequences.
The third, which was really a pearl of a day for early January, was
too fine to be spent indoors. He gathered from the landlord that a
favourite practice of visitors in the summer was to take a morning
train to a couple of stations westward, and walk back down the
valley of the Tent, through Stanford St Thomas and Stanford
Magdalene, both of which were accounted highly picturesque
villages. He closed with this plan, and we now find him seated in a
third-class carriage at 9.45 a.m., on his way to Kingsbourne Junction,
and studying the map of the district.
One old man was his only fellow-traveller, a piping old man, who
seemed inclined for conversation. So Mr Davidson, after going
through the necessary versicles and responses about the weather,
inquired whether he was going far.
“No, sir, not far, not this morning, sir,” said the old man. “I ain’t only
goin’ so far as what they call Kingsbourne Junction. There isn’t but
two stations betwixt here and there. Yes, they calls it Kingsbourne
Junction.”
“I’m going there, too,” said Mr Davidson.
“Oh, indeed, sir; do you know that part?”
“No, I’m only going for the sake of taking a walk back to Longbridge,
and seeing a bit of the country.”
“Oh, indeed, sir! Well, ’tis a beautiful day for a gentleman as enjoys
a bit of a walk.”
“Yes, to be sure. Have you got far to go when you get to
Kingsbourne?”
“No, sir, I ain’t got far to go, once I get to Kingsbourne Junction. I’m
agoin’ to see my daughter, sir. She live at Brockstone. That’s about
two mile across the fields from what they call Kingsbourne Junction,
that is. You’ve got that marked down on your map, I expect, sir.”
“I expect I have. Let me see, Brockstone, did you say? Here’s
Kingsbourne, yes; and which way is Brockstone—toward the
Stanfords? Ah, I see it: Brockstone Court, in a park. I don’t see the
village, though.”
“No, sir, you wouldn’t see no village of Brockstone. There ain’t only
the Court and the Chapel at Brockstone.”
“Chapel? Oh, yes, that’s marked here, too. The Chapel; close by the
Court, it seems to be. Does it belong to the Court?”
“Yes, sir, that’s close up to the Court, only a step. Yes, that belong to
the Court. My daughter, you see, sir, she’s the keeper’s wife now,
and she live at the Court and look after things now the family’s
away.”
“No one living there now, then?”
“No, sir, not for a number of years. The old gentleman, he lived
there when I was a lad; and the lady, she lived on after him to very
near upon ninety years of age. And then she died, and them that
have it now, they’ve got this other place, in Warwickshire I believe it
is, and they don’t do nothin’ about lettin’ the Court out; but Colonel
Wildman, he have the shooting, and young Mr Clark, he’s the agent,
he come over once in so many weeks to see to things, and my
daughter’s husband, he’s the keeper.”
“And who uses the Chapel? just the people round about, I suppose.”
“Oh, no, no one don’t use the Chapel. Why, there ain’t no one to go.
All the people about, they go to Stanford St Thomas Church; but my
son-in-law, he go to Kingsbourne Church now, because the
gentleman at Stanford, he have this Gregory singin’, and my son-in-
law, he don’t like that; he say he can hear the old donkey brayin’
any day of the week, and he like something a little cheerful on the
Sunday.” The old man drew his hand across his mouth and laughed.
“That’s what my son-in-law say; he say he can hear the old donkey,”
etc., da capo.
Mr Davidson also laughed as honestly as he could, thinking
meanwhile that Brockstone Court and Chapel would probably be
worth including in his walk; for the map showed that from
Brockstone he could strike the Tent Valley quite as easily as by
following the main Kingsbourne-Longbridge road. So, when the
mirth excited by the remembrance of the son-in-law’s bon mot had
died down, he returned to the charge, and ascertained that both the
Court and the Chapel were of the class known as “old-fashioned
places,” and that the old man would be very willing to take him
thither, and his daughter would be happy to show him whatever she
could.
“But that ain’t a lot, sir, not as if the family was livin’ there; all the
lookin’-glasses is covered up, and the paintin’s, and the curtains and
carpets folded away; not but what I dare say she could show you a
pair just to look at, because she go over them to see as the morth
shouldn’t get into ’em.”
“I shan’t mind about that, thank you; if she can show me the inside
of the Chapel, that’s what I’d like best to see.”
“Oh, she can show you that right enough, sir. She have the key of
the door, you see, and most weeks she go in and dust about. That’s
a nice Chapel, that is. My son-in-law, he say he’ll be bound they
didn’t have none of this Gregory singin’ there. Dear! I can’t help but
smile when I think of him sayin’ that about th’ old donkey. ‘I can
hear him bray,’ he say, ‘any day of the week’; and so he can, sir;
that’s true, anyway.”
The walk across the fields from Kingsbourne to Brockstone was very
pleasant. It lay for the most part on the top of the country, and
commanded wide views over a succession of ridges, plough and
pasture, or covered with dark-blue woods—all ending, more or less
abruptly, on the right, in headlands that overlooked the wide valley
of a great western river. The last field they crossed was bounded by
a close copse, and no sooner were they in it than the path turned
downward very sharply, and it became evident that Brockstone was
neatly fitted into a sudden and very narrow valley. It was not long
before they had glimpses of groups of smokeless stone chimneys,
and stone-tiled roofs, close beneath their feet; and, not many
minutes after that, they were wiping their shoes at the back door of
Brockstone Court, while the keeper’s dogs barked very loudly in
unseen places, and Mrs Porter, in quick succession, screamed at
them to be quiet, greeted her father, and begged both her visitors to
step in.

II
It was not to be expected that Mr Davidson should escape being
taken through the principal rooms of the Court, in spite of the fact
that the house was entirely out of commission. Pictures, carpets,
curtains, furniture, were all covered up or put away, as old Mr Avery
had said; and the admiration which our friend was very ready to
bestow had to be lavished on the proportions of the rooms, and on
the one painted ceiling, upon which an artist who had fled from
London in the plague-year had depicted the Triumph of Loyalty and
Defeat of Sedition. In this Mr Davidson could show an unfeigned
interest. The portraits of Cromwell, Ireton, Bradshaw, Peters, and
the rest, writhing in carefully devised torments, were evidently the
part of the design to which most pains had been devoted.
“That were the old Lady Sadleir had that paintin’ done, same as the
one what put up the Chapel. They say she were the first that went
up to London to dance on Oliver Cromwell’s grave.” So said Mr Avery,
and continued musingly, “Well, I suppose she got some satisfaction
to her mind, but I don’t know as I should want to pay the fare to
London and back just for that; and my son-in-law, he say the same;
he say he don’t know as he should have cared to pay all that money
only for that. I was tellin’ the gentleman as we came along in the
train, Mary, what your ’Arry says about this Gregory singin’ down at
Stanford here. We ’ad a bit of a laugh over that, sir, didn’t us?”
“Yes, to be sure we did; ha! ha!” Once again Mr Davidson strove to
do justice to the pleasantry of the keeper. “But,” he said, “if Mrs
Porter can show me the Chapel, I think it should be now, for the
days aren’t long, and I want to get back to Longbridge before it falls
quite dark.”
Even if Brockstone Court has not been illustrated in Rural Life (and I
think it has not), I do not propose to point out its excellences here;
but of the Chapel a word must be said. It stands about a hundred
yards from the house, and has its own little graveyard and trees
about it. It is a stone building about seventy feet long, and in the
Gothic style, as that style was understood in the middle of the
seventeenth century. On the whole it resembles some of the Oxford