and Nephthys stirred in their long-forgotten centres. There
revived in him, too long buried, the awful glamour of those liturgal
rites and vast body of observances, those spells and formulae of
incantation of the oldest known recension that years ago had captured
his imagination and belief--the Book of the Dead. Trumpet voices called
to his heart again across the desert of some dim past. There were forms
of life--impulses from the Creative Power which is the Universe--other
than the soul of man. They could be known. A spiritual exaltation,
roused by the words and presence of this singular woman, shouted to him
as he went.

Then, as he closed his bedroom door, carefully locking it, there stood
beside him--Vance. The forgotten figure of Vance came up close--the
watching eyes, the simulated interest, the feigned belief, the detective
mental attitude, these broke through the grandiose panorama, bringing
darkness. Vance, strong personality that hid behind assumed nonentity
for some purpose of his own, intruded with sudden violence, demanding an
explanation of his presence.

And, with an equal suddenness, explanation offered itself then and
there. It came unsought, its horror of certainty utterly unjustified;
and it came in this unexpected fashion:

Behind the interest and acquiescence of the man ran--fear: but behind
the vivid fear ran another thing that Henriot now perceived was vile.
For the first time in his life, Henriot knew it at close quarters,
actual, ready to operate. Though familiar enough in daily life to be of
common occurrence, Henriot had never realised it as he did now, so close
and terrible. In the same way he had never _realised_ that he would
die--vanish from the busy world of men and women, forgotten as though he
had never existed, an eddy of wind-blown dust. And in the man named
Richard Vance this thing was close upon blossom. Henriot could not name
it to himself. Even in thought it appalled him.

* * * * *

He undressed hurriedly, almost with the child's idea of finding safety
between the sheets. His mind undressed itself as well. The business of
the day laid itself automatically aside; the will sank down; desire grew
inactive. Henriot was exhausted. But, in that stage towards slumber when
thinking stops, and only fugitive pictures pass across the mind in
shadowy dance, his brain ceased shouting its mechanical explanations,
and his soul unveiled a peering eye. Great l