nts had already gathered there as well as the staff of doctors and
the whole regiment of keepers and assistants. But when they entered the
lamp-lit hall, and the high iron door was clashed to and locked behind
them, yet a new amazement leapt into their eyes, and the stalwart
Turnbull almost fell. For he saw a sight which was indeed, as MacIan had
said--either the Day of Judgement or a dream.

Within a few feet of him at one corner of the square of standing people
stood the girl he had known in Jersey, Madeleine Durand. She looked
straight at him with a steady smile which lit up the scene of darkness
and unreason like the light of some honest fireside. Her square face
and throat were thrown back, as her habit was, and there was something
almost sleepy in the geniality of her eyes. He saw her first, and for
a few seconds saw her only; then the outer edge of his eyesight took in
all the other staring faces, and he saw all the faces he had ever seen
for weeks and months past. There was the Tolstoyan in Jaeger flannel,
with the yellow beard that went backward and the foolish nose and eyes
that went forward, with the curiosity of a crank. He was talking eagerly
to Mr. Gordon, the corpulent Jew shopkeeper whom they had once gagged
in his own shop. There was the tipsy old Hertfordshire rustic; he
was talking energetically to himself. There was not only Mr. Vane the
magistrate, but the clerk of Mr. Vane, the magistrate. There was not
only Miss Drake of the motor-car, but also Miss Drake's chauffeur.
Nothing wild or unfamiliar could have produced upon Turnbull such a
nightmare impression as that ring of familiar faces. Yet he had one
intellectual shock which was greater than all the others. He stepped
impulsively forward towards Madeleine, and then wavered with a kind
of wild humility. As he did so he caught sight of another square face
behind Madeleine's, a face with long grey whiskers and an austere stare.
It was old Durand, the girls' father; and when Turnbull saw him he saw
the last and worst marvel of that monstrous night. He remembered Durand;
he remembered his monotonous, everlasting lucidity, his stupefyingly
sensible views of everything, his colossal contentment with truisms
merely because they were true. "Confound it all!" cried Turnbull to
himself, "if _he_ is in the asylum, there can't be anyone outside."
He drew nearer to Madeleine, but still doubtfully and all the more
so because she still smiled at him. MacIan had a