completely and take the undisturbed rest he needed for a time to restore
him thoroughly.

About a fortnight after our arrival I was sitting alone in the
dining-room. My wife and visitor had retired an hour ago. It was a
glorious night. I turned out the gas, walked to the window, and drew up
the blinds. The sea was sparkling with gems thrown out by the
moon-beams. The beauty of the night seemed to heighten the stillness of
the surroundings. Although it wanted but a few minutes to midnight I
determined to walk out to the cliffs--a couple of hundred yards from the
house--and view the moonlit scenery to greater advantage. I turned from
the window, opened the door, and, just as I was turning into the
passage, I heard a footstep. It was a steady, deliberate step; there was
nothing uncertain or hesitating about it. I waited a moment; it came
nearer. I drew back into the shadow. Now it was on the top stair. A form
appeared in sight. It was Wilfred Colensoe.

"Colensoe," I cried, softly; "why, what's the matter?"

[Illustration: "HE STOOD BEFORE HIS EASEL."]

He made no answer. With monotonous step he descended the stairs and was
now at the bottom. His blank, staring eyes at once told me that he was
in a state of somnambulism. He was fully dressed. His face was deadly
pale, his features stolidly set, and his lips were gently moving as
though impressively muttering. When he reached the bottom stair, he
turned and walked in the direction of the room we had converted into a
studio for him. I followed on quietly. With all the method and
mysterious discretionary power of the sleep-walker he turned the handle
of the door and entered. The room was flooded with light, for the roof
was a glass one. I watched him take his palette in hand and play with
the brushes on the colours. He stood before his easel, on which rested a
half-finished canvas. And he painted--painted as true and as sure as if
awake, blending the colours, picking out his work, working with all his
old artistic touch and finish. All this time his lips were moving,
muttering incoherent words I could not hear. At last he laid aside his
tools with a sigh that almost raised compassion in my heart. Then
walking towards the window at the far end of the room, he appeared to
look out upon the sea. He was now talking louder. I crept up to him and
tried to catch a word. It was a terrible brain-ringing word I heard--and
uttered in a way I shall never forget.

"Murder!"

That