rom
five till seven. On this particular day I struggled against the double
effect of my bad night and the narcotic. I have already mentioned that
there was a recess in the library, and in this it was my habit to work.
I settled down steadily to my task, but my weariness overcame me and,
falling back upon the settee, I dropped into a heavy sleep.

How long I slept I do not know, but it was quite dark when I awoke.
Confused by the chlorodyne which I had taken, I lay motionless in a
semi-conscious state. The great room with its high walls covered with
books loomed darkly all round me. A dim radiance from the moonlight
came through the farther window, and against this lighter background I
saw that Sir John Bollamore was sitting at his study table. His
well-set head and clearly cut profile were sharply outlined against the
glimmering square behind him. He bent as I watched him, and I heard
the sharp turning of a key and the rasping of metal upon metal. As if
in a dream I was vaguely conscious that this was the japanned box which
stood in front of him, and that he had drawn something out of it,
something squat and uncouth, which now lay before him upon the table.
I never realized--it never occurred to my bemuddled and torpid brain
that I was intruding upon his privacy, that he imagined himself to be
alone in the room. And then, just as it rushed upon my horrified
perceptions, and I had half risen to announce my presence, I heard a
strange, crisp, metallic clicking, and then the voice.

Yes, it was a woman's voice; there could not be a doubt of it. But a
voice so charged with entreaty and with yearning love, that it will
ring for ever in my ears. It came with a curious faraway tinkle, but
every word was clear, though faint--very faint, for they were the last
words of a dying woman.

"I am not really gone, John," said the thin, gasping voice. "I am here
at your very elbow, and shall be until we meet once more. I die happy
to think that morning and night you will hear my voice. Oh, John, be
strong, be strong, until we meet again."

I say that I had risen in order to announce my presence, but I could
not do so while the voice was sounding. I could only remain half
lying, half sitting, paralysed, astounded, listening to those yearning
distant musical words. And he--he was so absorbed that even if I had
spoken he might not have heard me. But with the silence of the voice
came my half articulated apologies and expla