ne to Weymore," he said with dry lips.

"Sorry, sir; wires all down. We've been trying the last hour to get New
York again for Mr. Lavington."

Faxon shot on to his room, burst into it, and bolted the door. The
lamplight lay on furniture, flowers, books; in the ashes a log still
glimmered. He dropped down on the sofa and hid his face. The room was
profoundly silent, the whole house was still: nothing about him gave a
hint of what was going on, darkly and dumbly, in the room he had flown
from, and with the covering of his eyes oblivion and reassurance seemed
to fall on him. But they fell for a moment only; then his lids opened
again to the monstrous vision. There it was, stamped on his pupils, a
part of him forever, an indelible horror burnt into his body and brain.
But why into his--just his? Why had he alone been chosen to see what he
had seen? What business was it of _his_, in God's name? Any one of the
others, thus enlightened, might have exposed the horror and defeated
it; but _he_, the one weaponless and defenceless spectator, the one whom
none of the others would believe or understand if he attempted to reveal
what he knew--_he_ alone had been singled out as the victim of this
dreadful initiation!

Suddenly he sat up, listening: he had heard a step on the stairs. Some
one, no doubt, was coming to see how he was--to urge him, if he felt
better, to go down and join the smokers. Cautiously he opened his
door; yes, it was young Rainer's step. Faxon looked down the passage,
remembered the other stairway and darted to it. All he wanted was to get
out of the house. Not another instant would he breathe its abominable
air! What business was it of _his_, in God's name?

He reached the opposite end of the lower gallery, and beyond it saw
the hall by which he had entered. It was empty, and on a long table he
recognized his coat and cap. He got into his coat, unbolted the door,
and plunged into the purifying night.

The darkness was deep, and the cold so intense that for an instant
it stopped his breathing. Then he perceived that only a thin snow was
falling, and resolutely he set his face for flight. The trees along the
avenue marked his way as he hastened with long strides over the beaten
snow. Gradually, while he walked, the tumult in his brain subsided. The
impulse to fly still drove him forward, but he began feel that he was
flying from a terror of his own creating, and that the most urgent
reason for escape was the