“ ‘For in that sleep of death what dreams may come must give us pause,’ ” he said slowly, with a little satirical catch on the last word. “What did you dream?”
Lawford glanced helplessly about him. The moon cast lean grey beams of light between the cypresses. But to his wide and wandering eyes it seemed that a radiance other than hers haunted these mounds and leaning stones. “Have you ever noticed it?” he said, putting out his hand towards his unknown companion; “this stone is cracked from head to foot? … But there”—he rose stiff and chilled—“I am afraid I have bored you with my company. You came here for solitude, and I have been trying to convince you that we are surrounded with witnesses. You will forgive my intrusion?” There was a kind of old-fashioned courtesy in his manner that he himself was dimly aware of. He held out his hand.
“I hope you will think nothing of the kind,” said the other earnestly; “how could it be in any sense an intrusion? It’s the old story of Bluebeard. And I confess I too should very much like a peep into his cupboard. Who wouldn’t? But there, it’s merely a matter of time, I suppose.” He paused, and together they slowly ascended the path already glimmering with a heavy dew. At the porch they paused once more. And now it was the stranger that held out his hand.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you will give me the pleasure of some day continuing our talk. As for our friend below, it so happens that I have managed to pick up a little more of his history than the sexton seems to have heard of—if you would care some time or other to share it. I live only at the foot of the hill, not half a mile distant. Perhaps you could spare the time now?”
Lawford took out his watch, “You are really very kind,” he said. “But, perhaps—well, whatever that history may be, I think you would agree that mine is even—but, there, I’ve talked too much about myself already. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Why, tomorrow, then,” said his companion. “It’s a flat wooden house, on the left-hand side. Come at any time of the evening”; he paused again and smiled—“the third house after the Rectory, which is marked up on the gate. My name is Herbert—Herbert Herbert to be precise.”
Lawford took out his pocketbook and a card. “Mine,” he said, handing it gravely to his companion, “is Lawford—at least …” It was really the first time that either had seen the other’s face at close quarters and clear-lit; and on Lawford’s a moon almost at the full shone dazzlingly. He saw an expression—dismay, incredulity, overwhelming astonishment—start suddenly into the dark, rather indifferent eyes.
“What is it?” he cried, hastily stooping close.
“Why,” said the other, laughing and turning away, “I think the moon must have bewitched me too.”
X
Lawford listened awhile before opening his door. He heard voices in the dining-room. A light shone faintly between the blinds of his bedroom. He very gently let himself in, and unheard, unseen, mounted the stairs. He sat down in front of the fire, tired out and bitterly cold in spite of his long walk home. But his mind was wearier even than his body. He tried in vain to catch up the thread of his thoughts. He only knew for certain that so far as his first hope and motives had gone his errand had proved entirely futile. “How could I possibly fall asleep with that fellow talking there?” he had said to himself angrily; yet knew in his heart that their talk had driven every other idea out of his mind. He had not yet even glanced into the glass. His every thought was vainly wandering round and round the one curious hint that had drifted in, but which he had not yet been able to put into words.
Supposing, though, that he had really fallen into a deep sleep, with none to watch or spy—what then? However ridiculous that idea, it was not more ridiculous, more incredible than the actual fact. If he had remained there, he might, it was just possible that he would by now, have actually awakened just his own familiar everyday self again. And the thought of that—though he hardly realised its full import—actually did send him on tiptoe for a glance that more or less effectually set the question at rest. And there looked out at him, it seemed, the same dark sallow face that had so much appalled him only two nights ago—expressionless, cadaverous, with shadowy hollows beneath the glittering eyes. And even as he watched it, its lips, of their own volition, drew together and questioned him—“Whose?”
He was not to be given much leisure, however, for fantastic reveries like this. As he leaned his head on his hands, gladly conscious that he could not possibly bear this incessant strain for long, Sheila opened the door. He started up.
“I wish you would knock,” he said angrily; “you talk of quiet; you tell me to rest, and think; and here you come creeping and spying on me as if I was a child in a nursery. I refuse to be watched and guarded and peeped on like this.” He knew that his hands were trembling, that he could not keep his eyes fixed, that his voice was nearly inarticulate.
Sheila drew in her lips. “I have merely come to tell you, Arthur, that Mr. Bethany has brought Mr. Danton in to supper. He agrees with me it really would be advisable to take such a very old and prudent and practical friend into our confidence. You do nothing I ask of you. I simply cannot bear the burden of this incessant anxiety. Look, now, what your night walk has done for you! You look positively at death’s door.”
“What—what an instinct you have for the right word,” said Lawford
