Her eyes had fallen on a shape, shrouded in the obscurity of the rocks not far from the window, which seemed to have some semblance to the motionless figure of a man.  She had stood there for a moment, glancing down intently, but it had not stirred.  If it had human semblance, it seemed to be carved in stone.  She came to the conclusion that she was mistaken.  Experience had taught her what strange shapes the rocks took after nightfall.  With another fleeting glance she had hurried downstairs, and from the house.

She thought about it now without arriving at any conclusion as to what it was that she had seen so indistinctly—­whether man or rock.  Charles had been up there that night, but it was not Charles.  This figure or rock was on the other side of the house.

Stupor descended gradually on her tired brain like the coming of darkness, and she fell into sleep—­the first rest that had visited her since she learnt of Charles’s arrest.  But her slumber was disturbed by dreams.  She dreamt that she was back in Cornwall, sitting on her old perch at the foot of the cliffs, looking at the Moon Rock.  The face in the Rock was watching her, as it had always watched her, but this time with a dreadful sneer which she had never seen before.  It frightened her so that she moaned and tossed uneasily, and awoke with a cry, shaking with terror.

As she reached out her hand for the matches by the bedside to light the gas, the sound of the front door-bell pealed through the house.  Sisily sprang up, her eyes seeking to pierce the darkness, her ears listening intently.  Who could it be?  She was alone in the house.  Mrs. Johns had gone to one of her spiritualistic meetings, and was not likely to be home until late.  Besides, she had her own key, with which she always let herself in.  She crept cautiously to the window and strained her eyes downward.  She was just able to catch a glimpse of two vague figures underneath in the darkness.  The light of the street lamp glinted on something one of them was wearing on his head.  It was a policeman’s helmet.

The terror of the hunted took possession of her.  She sought to remain calm; her trembling lips essayed a sentence of a prayer.  But it was no use.  She was too young for philosophy or Christian resignation.  Terror shook her with massive jaws.  She did not want to be caught, to be put in prison, to be killed.  She wandered aimlessly about the room like a trapped creature.  She must escape—­she would escape!

With a great effort she calmed herself to reflect—­to calculate if there was any chance of getting away.  She esteemed it fortunate that she had not lit the gas in her room.  The whole house was in darkness.  The policeman might think there was nobody in, and go away.  But she dared not reckon on that.

There came another and louder ring of the bell downstairs.

Again she crept to the window and looked down.  The policeman and the other man were conferring in a murmur which reached her ears.  The policeman stepped back into the garden path and scanned the darkened windows of the house.  She shrank back from the window.