rising from the water. He heard a voice speaking to him across
the waves of many years, and saying "Clarke, Mary will see the
god Pan!" and then he was standing in the grim room beside the
doctor, listening to the heavy ticking of the clock, waiting and
watching, watching the figure lying on the green char beneath
the lamplight. Mary rose up, and he looked into her eyes, and
his heart grew cold within him.

"Who is this woman?" he said at last. His voice was
dry and hoarse.

"That is the woman who Herbert married."

Clarke looked again at the sketch; it was not Mary
after all. There certainly was Mary's face, but there was
something else, something he had not seen on Mary's features
when the white-clad girl entered the laboratory with the doctor,
nor at her terrible awakening, nor when she lay grinning on the
bed. Whatever it was, the glance that came from those eyes,
the smile on the full lips, or the expression of the whole face,
Clarke shuddered before it at his inmost soul, and thought,
unconsciously, of Dr. Phillip's words, "the most vivid
presentment of evil I have ever seen." He turned the paper over
mechanically in his hand and glanced at the back.

"Good God! Clarke, what is the matter? You are as
white as death."

Villiers had started wildly from his chair, as Clarke
fell back with a groan, and let the paper drop from his hands.