heard Edith cry out, "Oh, God!" and then silence again. Presently
Edith stood in the doorway, looking at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed,
and yet there was an air of importance, of solemn triumph about her.

"Your father is--is very ill. The man downstairs has gone for the
doctor, and I am going to ask Christine to come round. You must be a
good boy, Robert. You must do as I tell you and go to bed."

So they meant to leave him alone in the house with that dreadful still
thing lying somewhere upstairs. Or perhaps it wasn't really still. It
might have strange powers now. You might come upon it anywhere. You
couldn't be sure. It might even be in your bed. He did not want to
disobey Edith. Just then he could have clung to her. But he could not
go up those stairs. He could not pass those open doors, gaping with
unspeakable things. He felt that if he kept very still, hiding his
face, They would not touch him. There seemed to be a thin--frightfully
thin--partition between him and the world in which they lived, and that
by a sudden movement he might break through. He had to hold fast to
his body. It was beginning to run away again, to start into long
agonized shudderings.

At last a key turned in the latch. Invisible people went up the stairs
in silence. But he knew that Christine was among them. He knew
because of the sense of sweet security and rest that came over him. He
tumbled on to the hearthrug and fell asleep.

He was cold and stiff when the opening of the library door wakened him.
He did not know who had opened the door. All he saw was Christine
coming down the stairs. Her face was old and almost silver grey. She
was not crying like Edith, whose sniffs came assertively and at regular