‘I tried to get farther into the cave at the mouth of which I’d been lying; but I soon found the way closed by a big chunk of rock. There was no other outlet to the cave, and there was nothing to explain the mystery. There was no sign of Vermudyn or his horse; _that_, no doubt, had strayed during the night. But where was _he_, and where, above all, had we two spent the night? I was fairly stunned. I felt for my knife, my revolver. These, with my belt, were safe enough. I had lost nothing. I was simply cold, hungry, and quite alone—save for my nag; and how glad I was of that companion, I can’t tell you! He would be the means of getting me away from that awful place faster than my legs could carry me.
‘I found a hunch of bread and some meat in my wallet; but I was too excited and wretched over Vermudyn’s disappearance, to light a fire and boil some tea. As soon as I’d swallowed down my breakfast, I mounted my horse, and rode backwards and forwards for a good two hours, searching for the body, for I was clear in my own mind that my poor old mate was dead.
‘Dead or alive, I hated to think of riding away and leaving him there in the Devil’s Panniken. But it was no good. I hunted every hole and corner within a mile of the place—as near as I could judge—where we had spent the night. At last I gave up the hopeless search—no signs of Vermudyn anywhere; and before noon, I had turned my horse’s head away from the wretched place, and for the first mile or so I rode so hard and fast that I began to blame my own folly in running away in broad daylight. From what, too?
‘Ay, there was the rub! What was I riding away from? and how had I escaped, while Vermudyn was lost? I was almost mad when I went over the past twenty-four hours. I couldn’t believe my senses. All I’d seen and heard too; and the only other witness was gone, vanished as completely as if he had been a spectre or part of some nightmare dream!
‘I felt my brain reel as I passed mile after mile along the lonely road, till at last I began to wonder if the Vermudyn I thought I knew was ever a living man, or if he made part of a long hideous dream, which I thought I should never forget or get over.
‘But I couldn’t cheat myself so; the man had written his name inside my pocket-book, “C. Vermudyn,” and had given me a ring he told me he once bought in an eastern bazaar. I’ve worn the ring ever since, in memory of him and that awful Halloween night.