filled her with a nameless dread, when the very foundations of her confidence were shaken, and she felt as a prisoner behind iron bars.  She did not know him, that was her trouble.  There were in him depths that she could not reach, could scarcely even realize.  He was slow to reveal himself to her, and she had but the vaguest indications to guide her.  She even felt sometimes that he deliberately kept back from her that which she felt to be almost the essential part of him.  This she knew that time must remedy.  Living his life, she was bound ultimately to know whereof he was made, and she tried to assure herself that when that knowledge came to her she would not be dismayed.  And yet she had occasional glimpses of him that made her tremble.

One evening, after they had spent the entire day in the saddle, he went after supper to look at one of the horses that was suffering from a cracked hock.  Curtis was busy in the kitchen, and Sybil betook herself to the step to wait for her husband.  She often sat in the starlight while he smoked his pipe.  She knew that he liked to have her there.

She was drowsy after her long exercise, and must have dozed with her head against the door-post, when suddenly she became conscious of a curious sound.  It came from the direction of the stable which was on the other side of the house.  But for the absolute stillness of the night she would not have heard it.  She started upright in alarm, and listened intently.

It came again—­a terrible wailing, unlike anything she had ever heard, ending in a staccato shriek that made her blood run cold.

She sprang up and turned into the house, almost running into Curtis, who had just appeared in the passage behind her.

“Oh, what is it?” she cried.  “What is it?  Something terrible is happening!  Did you hear?”

She would have turned into the kitchen, that being the shortest route to the stable, but he stretched an arm in front of her.

“I shouldn’t go if I were you,” he said.  “You can’t do any good.”

She stood and stared at him, a ghastly fear clutching her heart.  “What—­what do you mean?” she gasped.

“It’s only Beelzebub,” he said, “getting hammered for his sins.”

She gripped her hands tightly over her breast.  “You mean that—­that my husband—?”

He nodded.  “It won’t go on much longer.  I should go to bed if I were you.”

He meant it kindly, but the words sounded to her most hideously callous.  She turned from him, sobbing hysterically, and sprang for the open door.

The next moment she was running swiftly round the house to the stable.  Turning the corner, she heard a sound like a pistol-shot.  It was followed instantly by a scream so utterly inhuman that even then she almost wheeled and fled.  But she mastered the impulse.  She reached the stable-door, fumbled at the latch, finally burst inwards as it swung open.