“I don’t see your point,” said the Vicar, thinking it was part of the argument.

That night Hapley found the moth crawling over his counterpane.  He sat on the edge of the bed in his shirt-sleeves and reasoned with himself.  Was it pure hallucination?  He knew he was slipping, and he battled for his sanity with the same silent energy he had formerly displayed against Pawkins.  So persistent is mental habit, that he felt as if it were still a struggle with Pawkins.  He was well versed in psychology.  He knew that such visual illusions do come as a result of mental strain.  But the point was, he did not only see the moth, he had heard it when it touched the edge of the lampshade, and afterwards when it hit against the wall, and he had felt it strike his face in the dark.

He looked at it.  It was not at all dreamlike, but perfectly clear and solid-looking in the candle-light.  He saw the hairy body, and the short feathery antennae, the jointed legs, even a place where the down was rubbed from the wing.  He suddenly felt angry with himself for being afraid of a little insect.

His landlady had got the servant to sleep with her that night, because she was afraid to be alone.  In addition she had locked the door, and put the chest of drawers against it.  They listened and talked in whispers after they had gone to bed, but nothing occurred to alarm them.  About eleven they had ventured to put the candle out, and had both dozed off to sleep.  They woke up with a start, and sat up in bed, listening in the darkness.

Then they heard slippered feet going to and fro in Hapley’s room.  A chair was overturned, and there was a violent dab at the wall.  Then a china mantel ornament smashed upon the fender.  Suddenly the door of the room opened, and they heard him upon the landing.  They clung to one another, listening.  He seemed to be dancing upon the staircase.  Now he would go down three or four steps quickly, then up again, then hurry down into the hall.  They heard the umbrella stand go over, and the fanlight break.  Then the bolt shot and the chain rattled.  He was opening the door.

They hurried to the window.  It was a dim grey night; an almost unbroken sheet of watery cloud was sweeping across the moon, and the hedge and trees in front of the house were black against the pale roadway.  They saw Hapley, looking like a ghost in his shirt and white trousers, running to and fro in the road, and beating the air.  Now he would stop, now he would dart very rapidly at something invisible, now he would move upon it with stealthy strides.  At last he went out of sight up the road towards the down.  Then, while they argued who should go down and lock the door, he returned.  He was walking very fast, and he came straight into the house, closed the door carefully, and went quietly up to his bedroom.  Then everything was silent.

“Mrs Colville,” said Hapley, calling down the staircase next morning.  “I hope I did not alarm you last night.”