But
never mind; why I should have dreamed you would believe me; or taken
this awful thing differently, I don’t know. It’s rather awful to have
to go on alone. But there, think it over. I shall not stir until I hear
the voices. And then: honestly, Sheila, I couldn’t face quite that. I’d
sooner give up altogether. Any proof you can think of—I will... O God,
I cannot bear it!’ He covered his face with his hands; but in a moment
looked up, unmoved once more. ‘Why, for that matter,’ he added slowly,
and, as it were, with infinite pains, a faint thin smile again stealing
into his face, ‘I think,’ he turned wearily to the glass, ‘I think,
it’s almost an improvement!’

Something deep in those dark clear pupils, out of that lean adventurous
face, gleamed back at him, the distant flash of a heliograph, as it
were, height to height, flashing ‘Courage!’ He shuddered, and shut his
eyes. ‘But I would really rather,’ he added in a quiet childlike way,
‘I would really rather, Sheila, you left me alone now.’

His wife stood irresolute. ‘I understand you to explain,’ she said,
‘that you went out of this house, just your usual self, this afternoon,
for a walk; that for some reason you went to Widderstone—“to read the
tombstones,” that you had a heart attack, or, as you said at first, a
fit, that you fell into a stupor, and came home like—like this. Am I
likely to believe all that? Am I likely to believe such a story as
that? Whoever you are, whoever you may be, is it likely? I am not in
the least afraid. I thought at first it was some silly practical joke. I thought that at first.’ She paused, but no answer came. ‘Well, I
suppose in a civilised country there is a remedy even for a joke as
wicked as that.’

Lawford listened patiently. ‘She is pretending; she is trying me; she
is feeling her way,’ he kept repeating to himself. ‘She knows I _am_ I,
but hasn’t the courage... Let her talk!’

‘I shall leave the door open,’ Sheila continued. ‘I am not, as you no
doubt very naturally assumed—I am not going to do anything either
senseless or heedless. I am merely going to ask your brother Cecil to
come in, if he is at home, and if not, no doubt our old friend Mr.
Montgomery would—would help us.’ Her scrutiny was still and
concentrated, like that of a cat above a mouse’s hole. Lawford sat crouched together in the candle-light. ‘By all means,
Sheila,’ he said slowly choosing his words, ‘if you think poor old
Cecil, who next January will have been three years in his grave, will
be of any use in our difficulty. Who Mr. Montgomery is...’ His voice
dropped in utter weariness. ‘You did it very well, my dear,’ he added
softly. Sheila gently closed the door and sat down on the bed. He heard her
softly crying, he heard the bed shaken with her sobs. But a slow glance
towards the steady candle-flames restrained him. He let her cry on
alone. When she had become a little more composed he stood up. ‘You
have had no dinner,’ he managed to blurt out at last, ‘you will be
faint. It’s useless to talk, even to think, any more to-night. Leave me
to myself for a while. Don’t look at me any more. Perhaps I can sleep:
perhaps if I sleep it will come right again. When the servants are gone
up, I will come down. Just let me have some—some medical book, or
other; and some more candles. Don’t think, Sheila; don’t even think!’

Sheila paid him no attention for a while. ‘You tell me not to think,’
she began, in a low, almost listless voice; ‘why—I wonder I am in my
right mind. And “eat”! How can you have the heartlessness to suggest
it? You don’t seem in the least to _realize_ what you say. You seem to
have lost all—all consciousness. I quite agree, it is useless for me to
burden you with my company while you are in your present condition of
mind. But you will at least promise me that you won’t take any further
steps in this awful business.’ She could not, try as she would, bring
herself again to look at him. She rose softly, paused a moment with
sidelong eyes, then turned deliberately towards the door, ‘What, what
have I done to deserve all this?’

From behind her that voice, so extraordinarily like—and yet in some
vague fashion more arresting, more resonant than her husband’s, broke
incredibly out once more. ‘You will please leave the key, Sheila. I am
ill, but I am not yet in the padded room. And please understand, I take
no further steps in “this awful business” until I hear a strange voice
in the house.’ Sheila paused, but the quiet voice rang in her ear,
desperately yet convincingly. She took the key out of the lock, placed
it on the bed, and with a sigh, that was not quite without a hint of
relief in its misery, she furtively extinguished the gas-light on the
landing and rustled downstairs. She speedily returned. ‘I have brought the book.’ she said hastily. ‘I
could only find the one volume. I have said you have taken a fresh
chill. No one will disturb you.’

Lawford took the book without a word. And once more, with eyes stonily
averted, his wife left him to his own company and that of the face in
the glass. When completely deserted, Lawford with fumbling fingers opened Quain’s
‘Dictionary of Medicine.’ He had never had much curiosity, and had
always hated what he disbelieved, but none the less he had heard
occasionally of absurd and questionable experiments. He remembered even
to have glanced over reports of cases in the newspapers concerning
disappearances, loss of memory, dual personality. Cranks... Oh yes, he
thought now, with a sense of cold humiliating relief, there _had_ been
such cases as his before. They were no doubt curable. They must be
comparatively common in America—that land of jangled nerves. Possibly
bromide, rest, a battery. But Quain, it seemed, shared his prejudices,
at least in this edition, or had hidden away all such apocryphal matter
beneath technical terms, where no sensible man could find it,
‘Besides,’ he muttered angrily, ‘what’s the good of your one volume?’
He flung it down and strode to the bed, and rang the bell. Then
suddenly recollecting himself, he paused and listened. There came a tap
on the door. ‘Is that you, Sheila?’ he called, doubtfully. ‘No, sir, it’s me,’ came the answer. ‘Oh, don’t trouble; I only wanted to speak to your mistress. It’s all
right.’

‘Mrs. Lawford has gone out, sir,’ replied the voice. ‘Gone out?’

‘Yes, sir; she told me not to mention it; but I suppose as you asked—’

‘Oh, that’s all right; never mind; I didn’t ring.’ He stood with face
uplifted, thinking. ‘Can I do anything, sir?’ came the faint, nervous question after a long
pause. ‘One moment, Ada,’ he called in a loud voice. He took out his
pocket-book, sat down, and scribbled a little note. He hardly noticed
how changed his handwriting was—the clear round letters crabbed and
irregular. ‘Are you there, Ada?’ he called. ‘I am slipping a note beneath the
door; just draw back the mat; that’s it. Take it at once, please, to
Mr. Critchett’s, and be sure to wait for an answer.