hand and steadying himself. He caught over his shoulder the
glimpse of a curiously distorted vision, a lifted candle, and a
still face gazing after him with infinitely grieved eyes, then
found himself groping and stumbling down the steep, uneven
staircase into the darkness of the queer old wooden and hushed
and lonely house. The night air cold on his face calmed his mind.
He turned and held out his hand.

'You'll come again?' Herbert was saying, with a hint of anxiety,
even of apology in his voice.

Lawford nodded, with eyes fixed blankly on the candle, and
turning once more, made his way slowly down the narrow
green-bordered path upon which the stars rained a scattered light
so feeble it seemed but as a haze that blurred the darkness. He
pushed open the little white wicket and turned his face towards
the soundless, leaf-crowned hill. He had advanced hardly a score
of steps in the thick dust when almost as if its very silence had
struck upon his ear he remembered the black broken grave with its
sightless heads that lay beyond the leaves. And fear, vast and
menacing, fear such as only children know, broke like a sea of
darkness on his heart. He stopped dead--cold, helpless, trembling.
And, in the silence he heard a faint cry behind him and light
footsteps pursuing him. He turned again. In the thick close gloom
beneath the enormous elm-boughs the grey eyes shone clearly
visible in the face upturned to him. 'My brother,' she began
breathlessly--'the little French book. It was I who--who mislaid
it.'

The set, stricken face listened unmoved.