All this spying and watching, he

said, had as it were spun a net about his feet so that he was trapped

and powerless to escape; he felt like a fly that had blundered into the

intricacies of a great web; he was caught, imprisoned, and could not

get away. It was a distressing sensation. A numbness had crept over his

will till it had become almost incapable of decision. The mere thought

of vigorous action—action towards escape—began to terrify him. All

the currents of his life had turned inwards upon himself, striving to

bring to the surface something that lay buried almost beyond reach,

determined to force his recognition of something he had long

forgotten—forgotten years upon years, centuries almost ago. It seemed

as though a window deep within his being would presently open and

reveal an entirely new world, yet somehow a world that was not

unfamiliar. Beyond that, again, he fancied a great Curtain hung; and

when that too rolled up he would see still farther into this region and

at last understand something of the secret life of these extraordinary

people.

“Is this why they wait and watch?” he asked himself

with rather a shaking heart, “for the time when I shall join them—or

refuse to join them? Does the decision rest with me after all, and not

with them?”

And it was at this point that the sinister character

of the adventure first really declared itself, and he became genuinely

alarmed. The stability of his rather fluid little personality was at

stake, he felt, and something in his heart turned coward:

Why otherwise should he have suddenly taken to

walking stealthily, silently, making as little sound as possible, for

ever looking behind him? Why else should he have moved almost on tiptoe

about the passages of the practically deserted inn, and when he was

abroad have found himself deliberately taking advantage of what cover

presented itself? And why, if he was not afraid, should the wisdom of

staying indoors after sundown have suddenly occurred to him as

eminently desirable? Why, indeed?

And, when John Silence gently pressed him for an

explanation of these things, he admitted apologetically that he had

none to give.

“It was simply that I feared something might happen

to me unless I kept a sharp look-out. I felt afraid. It was

instinctive,” was all he could say. “I got the impression that the

whole town was after me—wanted me for something; and that if it got me

I should lose myself, or at least the Self I knew, in some unfamiliar

state of consciousness. But I am not a psychologist, you know,” he

added meekly, “and I cannot define it better than that.”

It was while lounging in the courtyard half an hour

before the evening meal that Vezin made this discovery, and he at once

went upstairs to his quiet room at the end of the winding passage to

think it over alone. In the yard it was empty enough, true, but there

was always the possibility that the big woman whom he dreaded would

come out of some door, with her pretence of knitting, to sit and watch

him. This had happened several times, and he could not endure the sight

of her. He still remembered his original fancy, bizarre though it was,

that she would spring upon him the moment his back was turned and land

with one single crushing leap upon his neck. Of course it was nonsense,

but then it haunted him, and once an idea begins to do that it ceases

to be nonsense. It has clothed itself in reality.

He went upstairs ‘accordingly. It was dusk, and the

oil lamps had not yet been lit in the passages. He stumbled over the

uneven surface of the ancient flooring, passing the dim outlines of

doors along the corridor— doors that he had never once seen

opened—rooms that seemed never occupied. He moved, as his habit now

was, stealthily and on tiptoe.

Halfway down the last passage to his own chamber

there was a sharp turn, and it was just here, while groping round the

walls with outstretched hands, that his fingers touched something that

was not wall— something that moved. It was soft and warm in texture,

indescribably fragrant, and about the height of his shoulder; and he

immediately thought of a furry, sweet-smelling kitten. The next minute

he knew it was something quite different.

Instead of investigating, however,—his nerves must

have been too overwrought for that, he said,—he shrank back as closely

as possible against the wall on the other side. The thing, whatever it

was, slipped past him with a sound of rustling and, retreating with

light footsteps down the passage behind him, was gone. A breath of

warm, scented air was wafted to his nostrils.

Vezin caught his breath for an instant and paused,

stockstill, half leaning against the wall—and then almost ran down the

remaining distance and entered his room with a rush, locking the door

hurriedly behind him. Yet it was not fear that made him run: it was

excitement, pleasurable excitement. His nerves were tingling, and a

delicious glow made itself felt all over his body. In a flash it came

to him that this was just what he had felt twenty-five years ago as a

boy when he was in love for the first time. Warm currents of life ran

all over him and mounted to his brain in a whirl of soft delight. His

mood was suddenly become tender, melting, loving.

The room was quite dark, and he collapsed upon the

sofa by the window, wondering what had happened to him and what it all

meant. But , the only thing he understood clearly in that instant was

that something in him had swiftly, magically changed: he no longer

wished to leave, or to argue with himself about leaving.