a wall—­the memory of a still form with arms wide-tossed and face hidden among dead leaves.  And at such times Spike writhed in the grip of horror and groaned under the gnawing fangs of remorse; sometimes he prayed wild, passionate prayers, and sometimes he wetted his pillow with unavailing tears, while in his ears, like a small voice, soft and insistent, repeated over and over again, was the dread word murder.  By day it haunted him also; it stared up at him from the white cloth of the breakfast table, forbidding him to eat; he read it on floor and walls and ceiling; he saw it in bloody characters that straggled across the very sky; wherever he turned his haggard gaze there he needs must read it.

And then—­there were the footsteps.  All day long they tramped up and down the stairs outside—­everyday sounds that he had never heeded before, but now they were warnings to hearken to and shudder at, and he would sit pretending to read but with ears straining for the sound of feet upon the landing or on the stair.  Now they were feet that crept—­the stealthy steps of one that lurked to catch him unaware; or again, they were the loud tramp of those who came with authority to drag him to doom, and he would watch the door, staring wide-eyed, waiting for the thundering knock he expected yet which never came.  All day long they haunted him, and at night, locked within his bedroom, he must needs lift heavy head from the pillow to hearken with ears straining even yet, until, haggard and worn, he had shivered and groaned and wept himself to sleep, only to awake and start up in sweating terror, thinking he heard a fierce hand knocking, knocking upon the outer door.

Thus, for three long days Spike had lived in torment, and to-night, as he leaned throbbing head between clutching hands, his haggard eyes sought vainly for that fell word which he could read everywhere except in the newspaper before him; his sufferings had grown almost beyond his strength, for to his old torments was added harrowing suspense.

“Why?” “Why?” “Why” was the word that stared at him from ceiling and walls and blue expanse of heaven; why was it there and not in the papers?  Could it be that it was lying there yet, that awful, still thing, lying as he remembered it, as he could see it now, its ghastly features hidden among the leaves that rotted, its long arms outflung and strong hands griped among the grass with clutching fingers—­could it be?—­

“Arthur—­boy—­what’s the matter?”

Spike started and looked up to find Hermione beside him, and instinctively he shrank away.

“Arthur—­oh, what is it?  Are you sick?”

“N-no, why?”

“You were moaning.”

“Oh, well, I—­I’m all right, I guess.  Got a headache, that’s all.”

“Why have you avoided me lately, Arthur?  I’m not angry any more, I’m only—­disappointed.”

“Y’ mean because I lost me job?  They don’t want my kind; I—­oh, I’m too mean—­too rotten, I guess.”