ing; then
brought me erect, gripping the edge of the table lest I forget restraint
and move toward her.

"By what right?" I cried. "By what claim? Desire Michell, what has the
Horror to do with you?"

The vehemence and heat of my cry struck a shock through the hushed room
distinct as the shattering of crystal. There was no answer, no movement;
no rebuke of my movement. I was alone. With that confession she had
fled.

My cry had been louder than I knew. Presently I heard a door open. Steps
sounded along the hall from the rooms on the opposite side of the house.
Someone knocked hesitatingly.

"Are you all right, Mr. Locke?" Vere's voice came through the panels.

I crossed to the door and opened it. He stood at the threshold, an
electric torch in his hand.

"We thought you called," he apologized. "I thought maybe you were sick,
or wanted something; and no light showed around your door."

I found the wall switch and turned on the lamps. As on the last
occasion, she had switched the lights off there, beyond my reach unless
I broke my promise not to move about the room while she remained my
guest.

"Come in," I invited him. "Much obliged to you and Phillida for looking
me up! I had been working late and dropped asleep in my chair, with a
nightmare as the result."

It was pleasant to have his normal presence, prosaic in bathrobe and
pajamas, in my cheerfully lighted room. His dark eyes glanced toward the
music-scrawled papers scattered about, then returned to meet my eyes
smilingly.

"We heard some of that work," he admitted. "Phil and I--well, I guess we
were guilty of sitting on the stairs to hear you play it over. I never
listened to a tune that took hold of me, kind of, like that one. We'd
certainly prize hearing all of it together, sometime, if you didn't
mind."

The warmth of achievement flowed again in me. I crossed to the piano to
assemble the finished sheets, answering him with one of those
expressions of thanks artists use to cloak modestly their sleek inward
vanity. I was really grateful for this first criticism that soothed me
back to the reality of my own world.

Across the top of the uppermost sheet of music, in small, square script
quaint as the pomander, was written a quotation strange to me:

"We walk upon the shadows of hills across a level thrown, and pant like
climbers."

I did not know that I had read the words aloud until Vere answered them.

"So we do! I guess there is more panting o