resence would scare the Skipper."

Uniacke murmured a word in admiration of the painting.

"And to-morrow," he added.

"To-morrow I shall start on the picture," Sir Graham replied.

After supper he drew aside the blind and looked forth.

"The moon is rising," he said. "I shall go out for a little while. I
want to observe light effects, and to think over what I am going to do.
My mind is full of it, Uniacke; I think it should be a great picture."

His eyes were shining with excitement. He went out. He was away a long
time. The clock in the rectory parlour struck eleven, half-past eleven,
he did not return. Beginning to feel anxious, Uniacke went to the window
and looked out. The night was quiet and clear, bathed in the radiance of
the moon, which defined objects sharply. The dark figure of the painter
was approaching the house from the church. Uniacke, who did not wish to
be thought curious, drew hastily back from the window and dropped the
blind. In a moment Sir Graham entered. He was extremely pale and looked
scared. He shut the door very hastily, almost as if he wished to prevent
some one from entering after him. Then he came up to the fire without a
word.

"You are late," Uniacke said, unpleasantly affected, but trying to speak
indifferently.

"Late, am I? Why--what time is it?"

"Nearly midnight."

"Indeed. I forgot the hour. I was engrossed. I--" He looked up hastily
and looked down again. "A most strange, most unaccountable, thing has
happened."

"What?" said Uniacke. "Surely the Skipper hasn't--"

"No, no. It's nothing to do with him. I haven't seen him. No, no--but
the most unaccountable--how long have I been out there?"

"You went out at nine. It's a quarter to twelve now."

"Two hours and three-quarters! I should have said ten minutes. But
then--how long was I with it?"

"With it?" repeated Uniacke, turning cold.

"Yes, yes--how long? It seemed no time--and yet an eternity, too."

He got up and went to and fro uneasily about the room.

"Horrible!" he muttered, as if to himself. "Horrible!"

He stopped suddenly in front of Uniacke.

"Do you believe," he said, "that when we think very steadily and
intensely of a thing we may, perhaps, project--give life, as it were,
for the moment to our thought?"

"Why do you ask me?" said Uniacke. "It has never happened to me to do
such a thing."

"Why do I ask? Well, I'll--"

He hesitated, keeping his eyes fixed on Uniacke's face.

"Yes, I'll te