back. He was hastening headlong, muttering to himself his own
flat meaningless name, like a child repeating as he runs his
errand. And then as if in a charmed cold pool he awoke and opened
his eyes again on the gathering darkness of the great bedroom,
and heard a quick, importunate, long-continued knocking on the
door below, as of some one who had already knocked in vain.

Cramped and heavy-limbed, he felt his way across the room and lit
a candle. He stood listening awhile: his eyes fixed on the door
that hung a little open. All in the room seemed acutely
fantastically still. The flame burned dim, misled in the sluggish
air. He stole slowly to the door, looked out, and again listened.
Again the knocking broke out, more impetuously and yet with a
certain restraint and caution. Shielding the flame of his candle
in the shell of his left hand, Lawford moved slowly, with chin
uplifted, to the stairs. He bent forward a little, and stood
motionless and drawn up, the pupils of his eyes slowly
contracting and expanding as he gazed down into the carpeted
vacant gloom; past the dim louring presence that had fallen back
before him.

His mouth opened. 'Who's there?' at last he called.

'Thank God, thank God!' he heard Mr Bethany mutter. 'I mustn't
call, Lawford,' came a hurried whisper as if the old gentleman
were pressing his lips to speak through the letter-box. 'Come
down and open the door; there's a good fellow! I've been knocking
no end of a time.'

'Yes, I am coming,' said Lawford. He shut his mouth and held his