horrible low cry broke upon my ears out of the darkness. It came from immediately in front of me, and sounded like an expression of the most abject fear.     

       My feet rooted themselves to the ground.     

       “Who’s there?” I asked.     

       There came no answer.     

       I listened for a moment, but did not hear the minutest sound. The desire for light was overpowering. I generally did my writing in this room, and knew the exact whereabouts of everything in it. I knew that on the writing-table there was a silver box containing wax matches. It lay on the left of my desk. I moved another step forward.     

       There was the sound of a slight rustle, as if someone shrank back as I advanced.     

       I laid my hand quickly on the box, opened it, and struck a light. The room was vaguely illuminated. I saw something white at the far end, against the wall. I put the match to a candle.     

       The white thing was Margot. She was in her dressing-gown, and was crouched up in an angle of the wall as far away from where I stood as possible. Her blue eyes were wide open, and fixed upon me with an expression of such intense and hideous fear in them that I almost cried out.     

       “Margot, what is the matter?” I said. “Are you ill?”      

       She made no reply. Her face terrified me.     

       “What is it, Margot?” I cried in a loud, almost harsh voice, determined to rouse her from this horrible, unnatural silence. “What are you doing here?”      

       I moved towards her. I stretched out my hands and seized her. As I did so, a sort of sob burst from her. Her hands were cold and trembling.     

       “What is it? What has frightened you?” I reiterated.     

       At last she spoke in a low voice.     

       “You—you looked so strange, so—so cruel as you came in,” she said.     

       “Strange! Cruel! But you could not see me. It was dark,” I answered.     

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