She slept for only a little while.  Then she lay awake, listening with a growing expectancy for some message to slip across the court.  The moon had ceased struggling.  The wind cried.  The baying of a dog echoed mournfully from a great distance.  It was like a remote alarm bell which vibrates too perfectly, whose resonance is too prolonged.

She sat upright.  She sprang from the bed and, her heart beating insufferably, felt her way to the window.  From the wing opposite the message had come—­a soft, shrouded sound, another long-drawn sigh.

She tried to call across the court.  At first no response came from her tight throat.  When it did at last, her voice was unfamiliar in her own ears, the voice of one who has to know a thing but shrinks from asking.

“Uncle!”

The wind mocked her.

“It is nothing,” she told herself, “nothing.”

But her vigil had been too long, her loneliness too complete.  Her earlier impression of the presence of death in the decaying house tightened its hold.  She had to assure herself that Silas Blackburn slept untroubled.  The thing she had heard was peculiar, and he hadn’t answered across the court.  The dark, empty corridors at first were an impassable barrier, but while she put on her slippers and her dressing-gown she strengthened her courage.  There was a bell rope in the upper hall.  She might get Jenkins.

When she stood in the main hall she hesitated.  It would probably be a long time, provided he heard at all, before Jenkins could answer her.  Her candle outlined the entrance to the musty corridor.  Just a few running steps down there, a quick rap at the door, and, perhaps, in an instant her uncle’s voice, and the blessed power to return to her room and sleep!

While her fear grew she called on her pride to let her accomplish that brief, abhorrent journey.

Then for the first time a different doubt came to her.  As she waited alone in this disturbing nocturnal intimacy of an old house, she shrank from no thought of human intrusion, and she wondered if her uncle had been afraid of that, too, of the sort of thing that might lurk in the ancient wing with its recollections of birth and suffering and death.  But he had gone there as an escape.  Surely he had been afraid of men.  It shamed her that, in spite of that, her fear defined itself ever more clearly as something indefinable.  With a passionate determination to strangle such thoughts she held her breath.  She tried to close her mind.  She entered the corridor.  She ran its length.  She knocked at the locked door of the old bedroom.  She shrank as the echoes rattled from the dingy walls where her candle cast strange reflections.  There was no other answer.  A sense of an intolerable companionship made her want to cry out for brilliant light, for help.  She screamed.

“Uncle Silas!  Uncle Silas!”

Through the silence that crushed her voice she became aware finally of the accomplishment of its mission by death in this house.  And she fled into the main hall.  She jerked at the bell rope.  The contact steadied her, stimulated her to reason.  One slender hope remained.  The oppressive bedroom might have driven Silas Blackburn through the private hall and down the enclosed staircase.  Perhaps he slept on the lounge in the library.