ll talk much of you, Karen and I. Trust me, I am with you
both. In my hands you are safe."

The cab rolled away and Franz's face, from under the round hat and the
quill, looked back at the triumphant conjuror, dulled and dazed rather
than elated, by the spectacle of her inconceivable skill.

CHAPTER XLIII

Karen lay sleeping in the little room above. She had slept so much since
they had carried her, Franz, and the two women with kind faces, into
this little room; deep draughts of sleep, as though her exhausted nature
could never rest enough. Fever still drowsed in her blood and a haze of
half delirious visions often accompanied her waking. They seemed to
gather round her now, as, in confused and painful dreams, she rose from
the depths towards consciousness again. Dimly she heard the sound of
voices and her dream wove them into images of fear and sorrow.

She was running along the cliff-top. She had run for miles and it was
night and beside her yawned the black gulfs of the cliff-edge. And from
far below, in the darkness, she heard a voice wailing as if from some
creature lost upon the rocky beach. It was Gregory in some great peril.
Pity and fear beat upon her like black wings as she ran, and whether it
was to escape him or to succour him she did not know.

Then from the waking world came distinctly the sound of rolling wheels,
and opening her eyes she looked out upon her room, its low uneven
ceiling, its coloured print of Queen Victoria over the mantelpiece, its
text above the washhand-stand and chest of drawers. On the little table
beside her bed Onkel Ernst's watch ticked softly. The window was open
and a tree rustled outside. And through these small, familiar sounds she
still heard the rolling of retreating wheels. The terror of her dream
fastened upon this sound until another seemed to strike, like a soft,
stealthy blow, upon her consciousness.

Footsteps were mounting the stairs to her room. Not Franz's footsteps,
nor the doctor's, nor the landlady's, nor Annie the housemaid's. She
knew all these.

Who was it then who mounted, softly rustling, towards her? The terror of
the dream vanished in a tense, frozen panic of actuality.

She wished to scream, and could not; she wished to leap up and fly, but
there was no way of escape. It was Tante who came, slowly, softly,
rustling in silken fabrics; the very scent of her garments seemed wafted
before her, and Karen's heart stopped in its heavy beating as