stone, cold as stone--Clara stands on the moonlit lawn, facing
the seaward view. Mrs. Crayford waits at her side, patiently
watching for the change which she knows is to come. "Catalepsy,"
as some call it--"hysteria," as others say--this alone is
certain, the same interval always passes; the same change always
appears.

It comes now. Not a change in her eyes; they still remain wide
open, fixed and glassy. The first movement is a movement of her
hands. They rise slowly from her side and waver in the air like
the hands of a person groping in the dark. Another interval, and
the movement spreads to her lips: they part and tremble. A few
minutes more, and words begin to drop, one by one, from those
parted lips--words spoken in a lost, vacant tone, as if she is
talking in her sleep.

Mrs. Crayford looks back at the house. Sad experience makes her
suspicious of the servants' curiosity. Sad experience has long
since warned her that the servants are not to be trusted within
hearing of the wild words which Clara speaks in the trance. Has
any one of them ventured into the garden? No. They are out of
hearing at the window, waiting for the signal which tells them
that their help is needed.

Turning toward Clara once more, Mrs. Crayford hears the vacantly
uttered words, falling faster and faster from her lips,

"Frank! Frank! Frank! Don't drop behind--don't trust Richard
Wardour. While you can stand, keep with the other men, Frank!"