r eyes open on the cold dumb darkness,
and there is nothing but the wind and strange sinister emptiness
creaking on the stair.

These are the terrible nights of Living Alone, yet no real lover of that
house and of that state would ever exchange one of those haunted and
desert nights for a night spent watched, in soft warm places.

Sarah Brown was not long left alone that night to look at the strip of
moonlight on the cold ashes of her fireplace. The Shop below shook
suddenly with many footfalls, and the metallic officious barking of the
Dog David rent the still air of her cell.

A man's voice at the foot of the stairs said: "I can hear a dog
barking." And a woman's voice followed it: "Angela, dear, is that you?"

Sarah Brown was only aware of a vague and irksome disturbance. She
groped to her door, opened it, and shouted miserably: "Go away,
policeman, go away. She is not here."

Lady Arabel came up, flashing an electric torch.

"My dear, you look dretfully ill. Why look, you are trembling. Why look,
your little dog is making your counterpane muddy. Don't be afraid for
Angela, we are all here to try and help her."

"All here?"

"Yes, Meta and the Mayor and Mr. Tovey and Mr. Frere. Let me help you
into bed, and then you shall tell me what you know of her. You have had
a dretfully trying time."

"I am well," said Sarah Brown ungraciously. "You are none of you going
to help the witch without me."

"Ah, this is all very dretful," sighed Lady Arabel. "Most foolish of us
to come here all together like this, after the policeman took our names
and addresses, and was dretfully impertinent and suspicious. But Meta
insisted. I quite expect to spend the next twenty-four hours in gaol, or
else to be shot for Offence of the Realm. In fact, speaking as a
ratepayer, I think the police ought to have done it before. Still, Meta
thought we might perhaps be able to help Angela.... Meta has many
friends who seem influential ... but _so_ talkative, my dear."

She led the way downstairs. Mr. Tovey and the Mayor were talking at the
foot of the stairs, Mr. Frere was listening sardonically. As Sarah Brown
went past them into the Shop, she smelt the unflower-like scent that
always denoted the presence of Miss Ford. Sarah Brown herself was
accompanied by nothing more seductive than a faint smell of gasoline,
showing that her clothes had lately been home-cleaned. In the darkness
of the Shop she saw Miss Ford stooping, trying to shut th