ter
presence had found entrance to my room. Yet the room was empty. And I
could have sworn, too, that some silent power of will was commanding me,
with undeniable force, to go out--out into the darkness of Cheney Lane.

I fought it bitterly. I laughed at it, yet even through my laugh came
the memory of Sir John Harmon and Margot, and what they had told me. And
then, unable to resist that unspoken demand, I seized my hat and coat
and went out.

Cheney Lane was deserted, utterly still. At the end of it, the street
lamp glowed dully, throwing a patch of ghastly light over the side of
the adjoining building. I hurried through the shadows, and as I walked,
a single idea had possession of me. I must hurry, I thought, with all
possible speed, to that grim house in Mate Lane--number seven.

Where that deliberate desire came from I did not know. I did not stop to
reason. Something had commanded me to go at once to Michael Strange's
home. And though I stopped more than once, deliberately turning in my
tracks, inevitably I was forced to retrace my steps and continue.

* * * * *

I remember passing through the square, and prowling through the
unlightened side streets that lay beyond. Three miles separated Cheney
Lane from Mate Lane, and I had been over the route only once before, in
a cab. Yet I followed that route without a single false turn, followed
it instinctively. At every intersecting street I was dragged in a
certain direction and not once was I allowed to hesitate. It was as
though some unseen demon perched on my shoulders, as the demon of the
sea rode Sinbad, and pointed out the way.

Only one disturbing thing occurred on that night journey through London.
I had turned into a narrow street hardly more than a quarter mile from
my destination; and before me, in the shadows, I made out the form of a
shuffling old man. And here, as I watched him, I was conscious of a new,
mad desire. I crept upon him stealthily, without a sound. My hands were
outstretched, clutching, for his throat. At that moment I should have
killed him!

I cannot explain it. During that brief interval I was a murderer at
heart. I wanted to kill. And now that I remember it, the desire had been
pregnant in me ever since the lights of Cheney Lane had died behind me.
All the time that I prowled through those black streets, murder lurked
in my heart. I should have killed the first man who crossed my path.

But I did not k