I did not feel much inclined to talk after this, and so, dismissing Simon, I began to think of how matters stood.  Certainly everything was strange.  Everything, too, had been done in a hurry.  It seemed to me I had lived a long life in twenty-four hours.  I had fallen in love, I had made an enemy, and I had matched myself against men who possessed a knowledge of some of the secret forces of life, without ever calculating my own strength.  And yet I seemed to be beating the air.  Were not my thoughts concerning Voltaire’s schemes about Miss Forrest all fancy?  Was not I the victim of some Quixotic ideas?  Was not the creation of Cervantes’ brain about as sensible as I?  Surely I, a man of thirty, ought to know better?  And yet some things were terribly real.  My love for Gertrude Forrest was real; my walk and talk with her that day were real.  Ay, and the hateful glitter of Voltaire’s eyes was real too; his talk with Kaffar behind the shrubs the night before was real.  The biological or hypnotic power that I had felt that very night was real, and, above all, a feeling of dread that had gripped my being was real.  I could not explain it, and I could not throw it off, but ever since I had awoke out of my mesmeric sleep, or whatever the reader may be pleased to call it, I felt numbed; weights seemed to hang on my limbs, and my whole being was in a kind of torpor.

I went to bed at length, however, and, after an hour’s tossing, fell asleep, from which I did not wake until ten o’clock next morning.  I found, on descending, that nearly all had breakfasted, but the few with whom I spoke were very kind and pleasant towards me.  I had no sooner finished breakfast than I met Miss Forrest, and entered into conversation with her.  Once with her, all my dreads and fears vanished.  Her light eyes and merry laugh drove away dull care, and soon I was in Paradise.  Surely I could not be mistaken!  Surely the quivering hand, the tremulous mouth, the downcast eye, meant something!  Surely she need not be agitated at meeting me, unless she took a special interest in me—­unless, indeed, she felt as I felt!  At any rate, it were heaven to think so.  We had been talking I should think ten minutes, when Tom Temple came towards us.

“Say, Justin, my boy,” he said, “what do you say to a gallop of four?”

“Who are the four?” I asked.

“Miss Forrest, Miss Edith Gray, Justin Blake, and—­myself,” was the reply.

“I shall be more than delighted if Miss Forrest will—­” I did not finish the sentence.  At that moment I felt gripped by an unseen power, and I was irresistibly drawn towards the door.  I muttered something about forgetting, and then, like a man in a sleep, I put on my hat and coat and went out, I know not where.

I cannot remember much about the walk.  It was very cold, and my feet crunched the frozen snow; but I thought little of it—­I was drawn on and on by some secret power.  I was painfully aware that Miss Forrest must think I was acting strangely and discourteously, and once or twice I essayed to go back to her, but I could not I was drawn on and on, always away from the house.