It was something uncanny beyond the large windows that first gently and perceptibly began to draw away his mind from the profusion of town halls on the desk, and so indirectly reminded him of the existence of cigarettes.  When he lighted a cigarette he stretched himself and glanced at the dark windows, of which the blinds had not been pulled down.  He understood then what was the matter.  Dawn was the matter.  The windows were no longer quite dark.  He looked out.  A faint pallor in the sky, and some stars sickening therein, and underneath the silent square with its patient trees and indefatigable lamps!  The cigarette tasted bad in his mouth, but he would not give it up.  He yawned heavily.  The melancholy of the square, awaiting without hope the slow, hard dawn, overcame him suddenly....  Marguerite was a beautiful girl; her nose was marvellous; he could never forget it.  He could never forget her gesture as she intervened between him and her father in the basement at Alexandra Grove.  They had painted lamp-shades together.  She was angelically kind; she could not be ruffled; she would never criticize, never grasp, never exhibit selfishness.  She was a unique combination of the serious and the sensuous.  He felt the passionate, ecstatic clinging of her arm as they walked under the interminable chain of lamp-posts on Chelsea Embankment.  Magical hours!...  And how she could absorb herself in her work!  And what a damned shame it was that rascally employers should have cut down her prices!  It was intolerable; it would not bear thinking about.  He dropped the cigarette and stamped on it angrily.  Then he returned to the desk, and put his head in his hands and shut his eyes.

He awakened with a start of misgiving.  He was alone in the huge house (for the basement was under the house and, somehow, did not count).  Something was astir in the house.  He could hear it through the doors ajar.  His flesh crept.  It was exactly like the flap of a washing-cloth on the stone stairs; it stopped; it came nearer.  He thought inevitably of the dead Mrs. Haim, once charwoman and step cleaner.  In an instant he believed fully in all that he had ever heard about ghosts and spirit manifestations.  An icy wave passed down his spine.  He felt that if the phantom of Mrs. Haim was approaching him he simply could not bear to meet it.  The ordeal would kill him.  Then he decided that the sounds were not those of a washing-cloth, but of slippered feet.  Odd that he should have been so deluded.  Somebody was coming down the long stairs from the upper stories, uninhabited at night.  Burglars?  He was still very perturbed, but differently perturbed.  He could not move a muscle.  The suspense as the footsteps hesitated at the cubicle was awful.  George stood up straight and called out in a rough voice—­louder than he expected it to be: 

“Who’s there?”

Mr. Enwright appeared.  He was wearing beautiful blue pyjamas and a plum-coloured silk dressing-gown and doe-skin slippers.  His hair was extremely deranged; he blinked rapidly, and his lined face seemed very old.