All the currents of his life had turned inwards upon himself,
striving to bring to the surface something that lay buried almost
beyond reach, determined to force his recognition of something he had
long forgotten--forgotten years upon years, centuries almost ago. It
seemed as though a window deep within his being would presently open
and reveal an entirely new world, yet somehow a world that was not
unfamiliar. Beyond that, again, he fancied a great curtain hung; and
when that too rolled up he would see still farther into this region and
at last understand something of the secret life of these extraordinary
people. “Is this why they wait and watch?” he asked himself with rather a
shaking heart, “for the time when I shall join them--or refuse to join
them? Does the decision rest with me after all, and not with them?”

And it was at this point that the sinister character of the adventure
first really declared itself, and he became genuinely alarmed. The
stability of his rather fluid little personality was at stake, he felt,
and something in his heart turned coward. Why otherwise should he have suddenly taken to walking stealthily,
silently, making as little sound as possible, for ever looking behind
him? Why else should he have moved almost on tiptoe about the passages
of the practically deserted inn, and when he was abroad have found
himself deliberately taking advantage of what cover presented itself? And why, if he was not afraid, should the wisdom of staying indoors
after sundown have suddenly occurred to him as eminently desirable? Why, indeed? And, when John Silence gently pressed him for an explanation of these
things, he admitted apologetically that he had none to give. “It was simply that I feared something might happen to me unless I kept
a sharp look-out. I felt afraid. It was instinctive,” was all he could
say. “I got the impression that the whole town was after me--wanted me
for something; and that if it got me I should lose myself, or at least
the Self I knew, in some unfamiliar state of consciousness. But I am
not a psychologist, you know,” he added meekly, “and I cannot define it
better than that.”

It was while lounging in the courtyard half an hour before the evening
meal that Vezin made this discovery, and he at once went upstairs to
his quiet room at the end of the winding passage to think it over
alone. In the yard it was empty enough, true, but there was always the
possibility that the big woman whom he dreaded would come out of some
door, with her pretence of knitting, to sit and watch him. This had
happened several times, and he could not endure the sight of her. He
still remembered his original fancy, bizarre though it was, that she
would spring upon him the moment his back was turned and land with one
single crushing leap upon his neck. Of course it was nonsense, but then
it haunted him, and once an idea begins to do that it ceases to be
nonsense. It has clothed itself in reality. He went upstairs accordingly. It was dusk, and the oil lamps had not
yet been lit in the passages. He stumbled over the uneven surface of
the ancient flooring, passing the dim outlines of doors along the
corridor--doors that he had never once seen opened--rooms that seemed
never occupied. He moved, as his habit now was, stealthily and on
tiptoe. Half-way down the last passage to his own chamber there was a sharp
turn, and it was just here, while groping round the walls with
outstretched hands, that his fingers touched something that was
not wall--something that moved. It was soft and warm in texture,
indescribably fragrant, and about the height of his shoulder; and he
immediately thought of a furry, sweet-smelling kitten. The next minute
he knew it was something quite different. Instead of investigating, however,--his nerves must have been too
overwrought for that, he said,--he shrank back as closely as possible
against the wall on the other side. The thing, whatever it was, slipped
past him with a sound of rustling, and retreating with light footsteps
down the passage behind him, was gone. A breath of warm, scented air
was wafted to his nostrils. Vezin caught his breath for an instant and paused, stockstill, half
leaning against the wall--and then almost ran down the remaining
distance and entered his room with a rush, locking the door hurriedly
behind him. Yet it was not fear that made him run: it was excitement,
pleasurable excitement. His nerves were tingling, and a delicious glow
made itself felt all over his body. In a flash it came to him that this
was just what he had felt twenty-five years ago as a boy when he was
in love for the first time. Warm currents of life ran all over him and
mounted to his brain in a whirl of soft delight. His mood was suddenly
become tender, melting, loving. The room was quite dark, and he collapsed upon the sofa by the window,
wondering what had happened to him and what it all meant. But the only
thing he understood clearly in that instant was that something in him
had swiftly, magically changed: he no longer wished to leave, or to
argue with himself about leaving. The encounter in the passage-way
had changed all that. The strange perfume of it still hung about him,
bemusing his heart and mind. For he knew that it was a girl who had
passed him, a girl’s face that his fingers had brushed in the darkness,
and he felt in some extraordinary way as though he had been actually
kissed by her, kissed full upon the lips. Trembling, he sat upon the sofa by the window and struggled to collect
his thoughts. He was utterly unable to understand how the mere passing
of a girl in the darkness of a narrow passage-way could communicate
so electric a thrill to his whole being that he still shook with the
sweetness of it. Yet, there it was! And he found it as useless to deny
as to attempt analysis. Some ancient fire had entered his veins, and
now ran coursing through his blood; and that he was forty-five instead
of twenty did not matter one little jot. Out of all the inner turmoil
and confusion emerged the one salient fact that the mere atmosphere,
the merest casual touch, of this girl, unseen, unknown in the darkness,
had been sufficient to stir dormant fires in the centre of his heart,
and rouse his whole being from a state of feeble sluggishness to one of
tearing and tumultuous excitement. After a time, however, the number of Vezin’s years began to assert
their cumulative power; he grew calmer; and when a knock came at
length upon his door and he heard the waiter’s voice suggesting that
dinner was nearly over, he pulled himself together and slowly made his
way downstairs into the dining-room. Every one looked up as he entered, for he was very late, but he took
his customary seat in the far corner and began to eat. The trepidation
was still in his nerves, but the fact that he had passed through the
courtyard and hall without catching sight of a petticoat served to calm
him a little.