chester who had followed
him, who had drawn him back, who had plunged him into darkness.

The street was deserted. No policeman passed, regarding him with
suspicion, and Mailing went on sentinel duty. The dark house fascinated
him. More than once a desire came to him to make an effort for the
release of Marcus Harding, to cross the street and to hammer brutally
at the green door. He recalled Henry Chichester's strange sermon, and
he felt as if he assisted at the torture of the double, which he himself
had imaginatively suggested to the two clergymen in Lady Sophia's
drawing-room. Ought he not to interrupt such a torture?

Midnight struck, and he had not knocked. One o'clock struck; he had paced
the street, but had never gone out of sight of the curate's door. It was
nearly two, and Mailing was not far from the High Street end of the
thoroughfare when he heard a door bang. He turned sharply. A heavy
uncertain footstep rang on the pavement. Out of the darkness emerged a
tall figure with bowed head. As it moved slowly forward once or twice it
swayed, and a wavering arm shot out as if seeking for some support.
Malling stood where he was till he saw the broad ghastliness of Marcus
Harding's white face show under the ray of a lamp. He discerned no eyes.
The eyes of the unhappy man seemed sunken out of recognition in the
dreadful whiteness of his countenance. The gait was that of one who
believes himself dogged, and who tries to slink furtively, but who has
partly lost control of his bodily powers, and who starts in terror at his
own too heavy and sounding footfalls.

This figure went by Malling, and was lost in the lighted emptiness of the
High Street. Malling did not follow it. Now he had a great desire, born
out of his inmost humanity, to speak with Henry Chichester. He made up
his mind to return to the curate's door: if he saw a light to knock and
ask for admittance; if the window was dark to go on his way. He retraced
his steps, looked up, and saw a light. Then it was to be. That man and he
were to speak together. But as he looked, the light was extinguished.
Nevertheless he struck upon the door.

No one answered. He struck again, then stepped back into the roadway, and
looked up at Chichester's window. The curate must surely have heard. Yes,
for even as Malling gazed the window moved. No light appeared. But after
a pause a voice above said:

"Is that you, Mr. Harding?"

The dim figure of a man was apparent, standin