Each man had momentarily contemplated the other in silence, Maitland at a loss for words, the Indian awaiting some remark to which he might reply. Finally, as Maitland had begun to sputter false starts of embarrassed cliché, the Indian, a much older man, simply pointed to himself, saying “E-choc-taqus."
Maitland had managed to get out his own name, albeit srumblingly, as if he were not quite sure of it, and then a third figure had joined them. This man had introduced himself as Winfield Phillips. He had at least matched the general impression of the man in the photograph, though he had had somehow the appearance of being substantially older than his thirty years should have made him. Perhaps the unaccustomed duties of settling his late uncle’s affairs had worn on him. The burdens of everyday life often took a greater toll on those whose minds were characteristically at home with scholarly abstractions, as Jacob Maitland knew only too well.
Maitland had extended a hand and received a shake with a hint of reluctance. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Phillips. I wonder if I might come in to discuss something with you. About your inheritance, you see."
The other's eyes had narrowed in suspicion. "The assessor’s office? But I thought—"
“Oh, no, nothing like that, Mr. Phillips. I’m from the Sanbourne Institute."
“All right. Do come in. I'm afraid I’ve had quite enough of federal, state, and local jackals appearing out of the woodwork, each expecting a share of the carrion. Forgive the imagery."
“Uh, surely," Maitland had said, removing his hat and handing it to the Indian servant, who at first had seemed not quite sure what to do with it.
The place had been sumptuously furnished, mostly in Victorian style, something Maitland had noted with a subliminal note of relief, for he hated to see homes where the inner decor belied the outer facade, or, worse yet, where the oblivious new homeowner had no sense of propriety and would mix styles haphazardly. Then he had realized that Mr. Phillips must simply have had the interior of the old place cleaned out and repaired as necessary, not bothering to second-guess his ancestor’s tastes in furnishings. Still, that very effort implied Phillips’s intent to stay and make the home his own.
Phillips had led his guest into the second floor library and indicated a seat on one of the couches facing the fireplace, while his servant had stoked the fire in the grate. Taking a seat in a wing-back leather chair opposite Maitland's perch, Phillips had sat comfortably, like the lord of the manor settling into the familiar contours of a favorite chair.
"At first, as you may know, Mr. Maitland, I came here from back east, thinking merely to attend my uncle Hiram's funeral and to take care of a few items of business over at the Sanbourne. I’m afraid I haven't got around to that yet. Affairs here have kept me unexpectedly ... busy." He had gazed emptily up at the high ceiling, as if looking through it to greater expanses beyond. “I had planned to sell the old place, but the longer I stayed here, the more I began to feel at home, I can’t say just why. In fact, I almost had the feeling, silly isn’t it, that I had returned home here after being away. No, I had never been here to visit Uncle Hiram, though I confess to feeling that I know him better now, living among his things this way.”
Maitland had not been able to help noticing that in all this garrulous speech, Phillips had made no mention of his cousin and companion Bryan Winfield. It had sounded as if his cousin had formed no part of the events. Maitland had wondered what else Phillips might be strategically omitting. Then again, Maitland’s role was simply to negotiate for some old books, nor to play the role of detective.
"Well, to come to the point, Mr. Phillips, speaking of your late uncle’s possessions, I am here to tell you that the trustees of the Sanbourne Institute are curious to know whether his, that is, your library might contain any more old volumes like those Harold Hadley Copeland once purchased from Hiram Stokely—"
"Yes," Phillips had interrupted. "I know the ones you mean. And frankly, I can't imagine what it was that possessed Uncle Hiram to part with them in the first place. In fact, I’d been considering asking for their return, so that the Stokely Collection, as I’ve begun to think of it, might be complete again. Of course you must have had photographic facsimiles made of them by now, you’ve had them long enough.''
There was a blow! Maitland had come to add to the rare book holdings of the Sanbourne, and here he was, about to lose some of the crown jewels of the Institute. He should, he silently rebuked himself, never have come!
"This comes as something of a surprise, Mr. Phillips, but I can understand your viewpoint. I’m sure the trustees will be willing to consider the matter. I'm sure it can be settled amicably. Before I go, is there something I might help you with over at the Institute? You mentioned some errand you had there—"
"To be sure, Mr. Maitland, I did. But I really don’t think I'll bother seeing it through. You see, it had to do with a fellow named Arthur Wilcox Hodgkins, a rather distraught man who appeared one day at Miskatonic, having come all the way across country from your own Sanbourne Institute. It seems he had a peculiar dread of one of the old Melanesian idols from the Copeland bequest, he sounded more than a little paranoid, if you want my impression. Nonetheless, some of our faculty heard him out and thought it the most compassionate thing to let him take home with him one of our own lesser museum pieces, a star-shaped stone of curious workmanship, which he was convinced would function as some sort of apotropaic device to protect him from the occult doom he feared.
"Newspapers not long afterward reported that his terrors had gotten the best of him at last, that he had gone wild in the Sanbourne Museum gallery, murdering a night-watchman and trying to set the place ablaze. All this transpired some eight years ago.
"My employer at Miskatonic, a Dr. Lapham. asked me, while I was out here for Uncle Hiram's funeral, to check into the matter, wondering if there were something more to the tragedy than the papers thought best to let on. But since coming into my inheritance, I have decided not to return east after all, and as for the Hodgkins case, I rather imagine it best to let sleeping dogs lie, don’t you? The Sanbourne is hardly likely to relish the prospect of the whole messy business being stirred up again for prurient public consumption, are they?"
Maitland had indeed heard of the bizarre tragedy of the unstable Hodgkins, whose days at the Institute had not overlapped his own. He knew there was more to the case, though what it might be he neither knew nor cared to find out. Phillips was right: It would be a blessing for the Sanbourne Institute not to have to deal with that publicity nightmare all over again.
"Your point is well taken, Mr. Phillips. Little is to be gained that way. We appreciate Professor Lapham's concern, but to be honest, we would appreciate your own more!" Both men had laughed, thawing the stiff politeness of the conversation, though only in time for it to draw to its close. Phillips had risen as the old Indian had entered the room.
"Echoctaqus. would you please show our guest out?" The Indian’s features had remained impassive, but something in his bearing had said that the role of underling did not come easily to him. "I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you about those books, and please reassure your trustees that I'll be more than happy to reimburse the Institute for at least the amount Copeland paid my uncle for them. You won’t forget? Good."