Mohun was a trifle sentimental, and had in
him a singular element of superstition, which led him
to the study of all manner of occult subjects, al-
though his sane mental health safeguarded him
against fantastic and perilous faiths. He made daring
incursions into the realm of the unreal without re-
nouncing his residence in the partly surveyed and
uncharted region of what we are pleased to call
certitude.
The night of my visit to him was stormy. The
Californian winter was on, and the incessant rain
plashed in the deserted streets, or, lifted by irregular
gusts of wind, was hurled against the houses with
incredible fury. With no small difficulty my cabman
found the right place, away out toward the ocean
beach, in a sparsely populated suburb. The dwelling,
a rather ugly one, apparently, stood in the centre
of its grounds, which as nearly as I could make out
in the gloom were destitute of either flowers or grass.
Three or four trees, writhing and moaning in the
torment of the tempest, appeared to be trying to
escape from their dismal environment and take the
chance of finding a better one out at sea. The house
was a two-story brick structure with a tower, a story
higher, at one corner. In a window of that was the
only visible light. Something in the appearance of
the place made me shudder, a performance that
may have been assisted by a rill of rain-water down
my back as I scuttled to cover in the doorway.
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