I fell asleep that night early, and dreamt that I was sitting with
Gladys in the frescoed dining-room of an old Italian palace. It was
night, and through the open window came one long shaft of moonlight,
that vanished in the aureole of the shaded lamp standing with wine and
fruit upon the table between us. And I said in my dream--

"Oh, Gladys, will it be always like this, or must we part again?"

And she, smiling her slow soft smile, said: "You may stay with me till
the knock comes."

"What knock, my darling?"

But even as I spoke I heard it, low and penetrating, and I stretched out
my arms imploringly towards Gladys; but she only smiled, and the knock
was repeated, and the whole scene dissolved around me, and I was sitting
up in bed in semi-darkness, while somebody was tapping with a quick
agitated touch at my door. I remembered then that I had forgotten to
unlock it before I went to bed, and I rose at once and made haste to
open it, not without a passing thrill of unpleasant conjecture as to
what might be behind it. It was a tall figure in a long grey garment,
who carried a lighted candle in his hand. For a moment, startled and
stupefied as I was, I failed to recognise the livid face.

"Canon Vernade! You are ill?"

Too ill to speak, it would seem, for without a word he staggered forward
and sank into a chair, letting the candle almost drop from his hand on
to the table beside him; but when I put out my hand to ring the bell, he