of ink, though I'd pulled back the curtains before going
to bed, and the sky was sequined with stars. But on my retina was
photographed a pale, illumined circle with a face looking out of
it--looking straight at me. You know how quickly these light-pictures
begin to fade, but, before this dimmed I had time to verify my first
waking impression.

The face was a woman's face--beautiful and hideous at the same time,
like Medusa. It was young, yet old. It had deep-set, long eyes that
slanted slightly up to the corners. It was thin and hollow-cheeked, with
a pointed chin cleft in the middle; and was framed with bright auburn
hair of a curiously _unreal_ colour.

When the blackness closed in, and I heard in the dark scrambling sounds
like a rat running amok in the wainscot, I gave a cry. In my horror and
bewilderment I wasn't sure yet whether I were awake or asleep; but
someone answered. Dazed as I was, I recognized Shelagh's sweet young
voice, and at the same instant her electric bed-lamp was switched on in
the next room. "Coming!--coming!" she cried, and appeared in the
doorway, her hair gold against the light.

By this time I had the sense to switch on my own lamp, and, comforted by
it and my pal's presence, I told Shelagh in a few words what had
happened. "Why, how weird! I dreamed the same dream!" she broke in. "At
least, I dreamed about a light, and a face."

Hastily we compared notes, and realized that Shelagh had not dreamed:
that the woman of mystery had visited us both; only, she had gone to
Shelagh first, and had not been scared away as by me, because Shelagh
hadn't thoroughly waked up.

We decided that our vision was no ghost, but that, for once, rumour was
right. In some amazing way a spy had concealed herself in the rambling
old Abbey (the house has several secret rooms of which we know; and
there might be others, long forgotten), and probably she had been
signalling until warned of danger by that visit from the police. We
resolved to rise at daybreak, and walk to Courtenay Coombe to let the
police know what had happened to us; but, as it turned out, a great deal
more was to happen before dawn.

We felt pretty sure that the spy would cease her activities for the
night, after the shock of finding our rooms occupied. Still it would be
cowardly--we thought--to lie in bed. We slipped on dressing-gowns,
therefore, and with candles (only our wing was furnished with electric
light, for which dear Grandmother had