ng atmosphere of the yards, he would have supposed that
they were shadows formed by the beams of his lamp, being interrupted
here and there by the eddying snow where the wind whirled it most
densely. He did not close his shutters, he even left his inner window
partially open, because, unaccustomed to a stove, he felt oppressed by
its heat. When he threw himself down, he slept deeply, as men sleep
after days among snowfields, when a sense of entire security is the
lethargic brain's lullaby.

He was conscious first of a dream in which the sisters experienced some
imminent danger; he heard their shrieks piercing the night. He woke to
feel snow and wind driving upon his face, to realise a half-waking
impression that a man had passed through his room, to know that the
screams of a woman's voice were a reality. As he sprang for his clothes
he saw that the window was wide open, the whole frame of the outer
double glass having been removed, but the screams of terror he heard
were within the house. Opening the door to the dark hall he ran, guided
by the sound, to the foot of the staircase which the girls had ascended,
then up its long straight ascent. He took its first steps in a bound,
but, as his brain became more perfectly awake, confusion of thought,
wonder, a certain timidity because now the screaming had ceased, caused
him to slacken his pace. He was thus hesitating in the darkness when he
found himself confronted by Madge King. She stood majestic in grey
woollen gown, candle in hand, and her dark eyes blazed upon him in
terror, wrath and indignation.

It seemed for a moment that she could not speak; some movement passed
over the white sweep of her throat and the full dimpling lips, and
then--

'Go down!' She would have spoken to a dog with the same authority, but
never with such contemptuous wrath. 'Go down at once! How dare you!'

Abashed, knowing not what he might have done to offend, Courthope fell
back a step against the wall of the staircase. From within the room Eliz
cried, 'Is he there? Come in and lock the door, Madge, or he'll kill
you!' The voice, sharp, high with terror, rose at the end, and burst
into one of those piercing shrieks which seemed to fill the night, as
the voices of some small insects have the power to make the welkin ring
in response.

Before Courthope could find a word to utter, another light was thrown
upon him from a lamp at the foot of the stair. It was held by Jacques
Morin, grey-haire