spicion as to the cause that held them here--two plain men--in
silence, staring at an old house--not a thought of any hidden life
beyond that of matter, that life by which most men reckon existence.
For them this was but one more night such as they had known for half a
century. There was a moon. It was fine. That was Mrs. Baxter's house.
This was the village street:--that was the sum of the situation....

Mr. Nugent moved off presently with a brisk air, bidding his friend
good night, and the landlord, after another look, went in. There came
the sound of bolts and bars, the light in the window of the parlor
beside the bar suddenly went out, footsteps creaked upstairs; a door
shut, and all was silence.

Half an hour later a shadow moved across the blind upstairs: an arm
appeared to elongate itself; then, up went the blind, the window
followed it, and a bearded face looked out into the moonlight. Behind
was the table littered with papers, for Mr. Cathcart, laborious even
in the midst of anxiety, had brought down with him for the Sunday a
quantity of business that could not easily wait; and had sat there
patiently docketing, correcting, and writing ever since his interview
in the lane nearly five hours before.

Even now his face seemed serene enough; it jerked softly this way and
that, up the street and down again; then once more settled down to
stare across the road at the grey and silver pile beyond the trees.
Yet even he saw nothing there beyond what the landlord had seen. It
stood there, uncrossed by lights or footsteps or sounds, keeping its
secret well, even from him who knew what it contained.

Yet to the watcher the place was as sinister as a prison. Behind the
solemn walls and the superficial flash of the windows, beneath the
silence and the serenity, lay a life more terrible than death, engaged
now in some drama of which he could not guess the issue. A conflict
was proceeding there, more silent than the silence itself. Two souls
fought for one against a foe of unknown strength and unguessed
possibilities. The servants slept apart, and the old mistress apart,
yet in one of those rooms (and he did not know which) a battle was
locked of which the issue was more stupendous than that of any
struggle with disease. Yet he could do nothing to help, except what he
already did, with his fingers twisting and gripping a string of beads
beneath the window-sill. Such a battle as this must be fought by
picked champions; and