behind me, within my head, about me, was me, invading and possessing the “me” that sat at the table.  At one moment the eyes mockingly invited me to go on with my work; the next, a frown had seated itself on that massive pylon of his forehead; and then suddenly his countenance changed entirely....  A wave of horror broke over me.  He was suddenly as I had seen him that last time in the Hampstead “Home”—­sitting up on his pillow, looking into my eyes with that terrible look of profundity and familiarity, and asking me who I was.... "Harrison—­ha ha!...  You shall very soon know that I know you, if ..."

It is but by the accidence of our limited experience that sounds are loud or soft to that inner ear of us; these words were at one and the same time a dreadful thunder and a voice interstellarly inaccessible and withdrawn.  They, too, were before, behind, without, and within.  And incorporated (I know not how else to express it) with these words were other words, in the English I knew, in the Hebrew in which he had quoted them from the sacred Books of his People, in all languages, in no language save that essential communication of which languages are but the inessential husk and medium—­words that told me that though I took the Wings of the Morning and fled into the uttermost parts of the earth, yea, though I made my bed in Hell, I could not escape him....

He had kept his word.  I did know that he knew who and what I was....

I cannot tell whether my lips actually shaped the question that even in that moment burst from me.

“But Form—­and Forms?  It is then true that all things are but aspects of One thing?...”

“Yes—­in death,” the voice seemed to reply.

My next words, I know, were actually spoken aloud.

“Then tell me—­tell me—­do you not wish me to write it?"

Suddenly I leapt out of my chair with a gulping cry.  A voice had spoken....

“Of course we wish you to write it....”

For one instant of time my vision seemed to fold on itself like smoke; then it was gone.  The face into which I was wildly staring was Maschka’s, and behind her stood Schofield.  They had been announced, but I had heard nothing of it.

“Were you thinking of not writing it?” she demanded, while Schofield scowled at me.

“No—­no—­,” I stammered, as I got up and tardily placed them chairs.

Schofield did not speak, but he did not remove his eyes from me.  Somehow I could not meet them.

“Well,” she said, “Jack had already told me that you seemed in two minds about it.  That’s what we’ve called about—­to know definitely what it is you propose to do.”

I saw that she had also called, if necessary, to quarrel.  I began to recover a little.

“Did you tell her that?” I demanded of Schofield.  “If you did, you—­misinterpreted me.”

In my house, he ignored the fact that I was in the room.  He replied to Maschka.