hat 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 every-day self again. And
the thought of that--though he hardly realised its full import--actually
did send him on tip-toe 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
softly. 'And Danton, of all people in the world! It was surely rather a
curious, a thoughtless choice.