away the whole pack of them with a silent cry, a motionless dismissing
wave of his hands. But there might be other beings round us, condemned
to eternal invisibility lest the sight of them should drive men mad. We
cannot see them, he thought. As a rule, we have no sensation of these
gaunt neighbours, no suspicion of their approach, of their companionship.
We do not hear their footsteps. We are utterly unconscious of them. Yet
may there not be physical or mental paroxysms, during which we become
conscious of them, during which we know, beyond all power of doubt, that
they are near us, with us? And, in such paroxysms, is it not possible for
them to break through the intangible and yet all-powerful barriers that
divide them from us, and to touch us, caress us, attack us? Valentine
believed that he was immersed in such a paroxysm, and that the barriers
were in process of being broken down. He seemed actually to hear the
faint cry of an approaching being, the dim uproar of its violent efforts
to obtain its sinister will, and gain the power to make itself known to
him by some ghastly and malignant deed. He was unutterably afraid.

"The hand again!" Julian suddenly cried. "Valentine, is it yours? Why
don't you answer? I say, is it yours?"

"No," Valentine forced himself, with difficulty, to reply.

"For God's sake then--the light!"

Valentine felt for it, but his hand shook and did not find the button.

"Make haste, Val. What are you doing? Ah!"

The room sprang into view, and Julian's eyes, with a furious, sick
eagerness, sought his hands.