The clock struck twelve, and shook the silent tower.

Then he collected his powers of memory and of induction, and recognised in the sound of the bell the sound of the front door bell.  Some one must be at the front door.  The singular and highly-disturbing phenomena of distant clanging, of thrills, and of flesh-creepings were all resolved into the simple fact that some one was at the front door.

He went back into his little room; instead of opening the front door like a man, he opened the window of the little room, and stuck out the tassel of his cap.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

“It’s I, Mr. Ollerenshaw,” said a voice, queenly and nervous.

“Not Mrs. Prockter?” he suggested.

“Yes.”

“I reckon ye’d like to come in,” he said.

She admitted the desire with a laugh which struck him as excessively free.  He did not know whether to be glad or sorry that Helen had departed to bed.  He did not even know whether to be glad or sorry that Mrs. Prockter had called.  But he vividly remembered what Helen had said about caps.

Naturally, he had to let her in.  He held the candle in his left hand, as he opened the door with his right, and the tassel of his cap was over his eye.

“You’ll think I’m in the habit of calling on you at night,” said Mrs. Prockter, as she slid through the narrow space which James allotted to her, and she laughed again.  “Where is dear Helen?”

“She’s gone to bed, missis,” said James, holding high the candle and gazing at the generous vision in front of him.  It wore a bonnet, and a rich Paisley shawl over its flowered silk.

“But it’s only ten o’clock!” Mrs. Prockter protested.

“Yes.  But her’s gone to bed.”

“Why,” Mrs. Prockter exclaimed, changing the subject wilfully, “you are all straight here!” (For the carpets had been unrolled and laid.)

And she sat down on a massive Early Victorian mahogany chair about fifteen feet from the dying fire, and began to fan herself with her hands.  She was one of your women who are never cold.

James, having nothing to say, said nothing, following his custom.

“I’m not ill-pleased,” said Mrs. Prockter, “that Helen is out of the way.  The fact is—­it was you that I wanted to have a word with.  You’ll guess what about?”

“Mr. Emanuel?” James hazarded.

“Precisely.  I had to put him to bed.  He is certainly in for a very serious cold, and I trust—­I fervently trust—­it may not be bronchitis.  That would mean nurses, and nothing upsets a house more than nurses.  What happened, Mr. Ollerenshaw?”

James set the candle down on another Early Victorian chair, there being no occasional table at hand, and very slowly lowered himself to a sitting posture on a third.

“I’ll tell you what happened, missis,” he said, putting his hands on his knees.

And he told her, beginning with the loss of the ship and ocean, and ending with Helen’s ever memorable words:  “You must help me.”