Spinrobin, in that quick second, caught a glimpse of flying hair, and saw that it moved either as a human being or as a bird—­on two legs.

The same moment it sprang deftly from the high table to the mantelpiece, turned, stood erect, and looked at him with the whole glare of the light upon its face; and Spinrobin, bereft of all power of intelligible sensation whatever, saw to his unutterable distress that it was—­a man.  The dignity of its movements had already stirred vaguely his sense of awe, but now the realization beyond doubt of its diminutive human shape added a singularly acute touch of horror; and it was the combination of the two emotions, possibly, that were responsible also for the two remarkable impulses of which he was first conscious:  first, a mad desire to strike and kill; secondly, an imperious feeling that he must hide his eyes in some act or other of worship!

And it was then he realized that the man was—­Philip Skale!

Mr. Skale, scarcely a foot high, dressed as usual in black, flowing beard, hooked nose, lambent, flashing eyes and all, stood there upon the mantelpiece level with his secretary’s face, not three feet separating them, and—­smiled at him.  He was small as a Tanagra figure, and in perfect proportion.

It was unspeakably terrible.

II

“Of course—­I’m dreaming,” cried Spinrobin, half aloud, half to the figure before him.  He searched behind him with one hand for solid support.  “You’re a dream thing.  It’s some awful trick—­God will protect me—!”

Mr. Skale’s tiny lips moved.  “No, no,” his voice said, and it sounded as from a great distance.  “I’m no dream thing at all, and you are wide awake.  Look at me well.  I am the man you know—­Philip Skale.  Look straight into my eyes and be convinced.”  Again he smiled his kindly, winning smile.  “What you now see is nothing but a result of sounding my true name in a certain way—­very softly—­to increase the cohesion of my physical molecules and reduce my visible expression.  Listen, and watch!”

And Spinrobin, half stupefied, obeyed, feeling that his weakening knees must in another moment give way and precipitate him to the floor.  He was utterly unnerved.  The onslaught of terror and amazement was overwhelming.  For something dreadful beyond all words lay in the sight of this man, whom he was accustomed to reverence in his gigantic everyday shape, here reduced to the stature of a pygmy, yet compelling as ever, terrific even when thus dwarfed.  And to hear the voice of thunder that he knew so well come to him disguised within this thin and almost wailing tone, passed equally beyond the limits of what he could feel as emotion or translate into any intelligible words or gesture.

While, therefore, the secretary stood in awful wonder, doing as he was told simply because he could do nothing else, the figure of the clergyman moved with tiny steps to the edge of the mantelpiece, until it seemed as though he meant in another moment to leap on to his companion’s shoulder, or into his arms.  At the edge, however, he stopped—­the brink of a precipice, to him!—­and Spinrobin then became aware that from his moving lips, doll-like though bearded, his voice was issuing with an ever-growing volume of sound and power.