How I reached my bedroom I do not know.  I found Fanchette awaiting me.  For the moment her presence was a positive comfort,—­until I realised the amazement with which she was regarding me.

‘Mademoiselle is not well?’

’Thank you, Fanchette, I—­I am rather tired.  I will undress myself to-night—­you can go to bed.’

’But if mademoiselle is so tired, will she not permit me to assist her?’

The suggestion was reasonable enough,—­and kindly too; for, to say the least of it, she had as much cause for fatigue as I had.  I hesitated.  I should have liked to throw my arms about her neck, and beg her not to leave me; but, the plain truth is, I was ashamed.  In my inner consciousness I was persuaded that the sense of terror which had suddenly come over me was so absolutely causeless, that I could not bear the notion of playing the craven in my maid’s eyes.  While I hesitated, something seemed to sweep past me through the air, and to brush against my cheek in passing.  I caught at Fanchette’s arm.

‘Fanchette!—­Is there something with us in the room?’

’Something with us in the room?—­Mademoiselle?—­What does mademoiselle mean?’

She looked disturbed,—­which was, on the whole, excusable.  Fanchette is not exactly a strong-minded person, and not likely to be much of a support when a support was most required.  If I was going to play the fool, I would be my own audience.  So I sent her off.

’Did you not hear me tell you that I will undress myself?—­you are to go to bed.’

She went to bed,—­with quite sufficient willingness.

The instant that she was out of the room I wished that she was back again.  Such a paroxysm of fear came over me, that I was incapable of stirring from the spot on which I stood, and it was all I could do to prevent myself from collapsing in heap on the floor.  I had never, till then, had reason to suppose that I was a coward.  Nor to suspect myself of being the possessor of ‘nerves.’  I was as little likely as anyone to be frightened by shadows.  I told myself that the whole thing was sheer absurdity, and that I should be thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct when the morning came.  ’If you don’t want to be self-branded as a contemptible idiot, Marjorie Lindon, you will call up your courage, and these foolish fears will fly.’  But it would not do.  Instead of flying, they grew worse.  I became convinced,—­and the process of conviction was terrible beyond words!—­that there actually was something with me in the room, some invisible horror,—­which, at any moment, might become visible.  I seemed to understand—­with a sense of agony which nothing can describe!—­that this thing which was with me was with Paul.  That we were linked together by the bond of a common, and a dreadful terror.  That, at that moment, that same awful peril which was threatening me, was threatening him, and that I was powerless to move a finger in his aid.  As with a sort of second sight, I saw out