Frank said, ‘An admirable summing-up.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘As to your two uncomfortable points – have you toid him that you consider the attack you witnessed was an attempt at murder?’

He said, ‘No.’

‘And you are wondering if you should put him on his guard.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And you are also wondering whether you should pass on Mrs. Darcy’s information as to his marriage.’

Frank lifted a hand and let it fall again.

‘Correct on both counts. But what is there to say? I can tell him that the chap who hit him once was going to hit him again. It doesn’t prove anything – does it? I rather blench at telling him that my cousin Mildred says he is a married man, because – well, you used the word information, but anything Mildred produces is entirely without form and void. I told you she had an inconsequent mind. That’s putting it much too mildly. When it comes to anything like evidence, she hasn’t really got a mind at all – she just dives into a sort of lumber-room and brings out odds and ends. If you put them together they make something, but nobody – least of all Mildred herself – can do more than guess at whether the result bears any relation to fact. I think she really does remember that Bill did marry the girl in the gold dress, but I can’t be sure, and I don’t see that I’m justified in passing it on unless I am sure. On the other hand, if I did pass it on it might be a clue to his identity, or it might give his memory a jog, so I don’t see that I am justified in keeping it to myself. I am in fact exhibiting extreme infirmity of purpose, and as I usually don’t find any difficulty in making up my mind I don’t like it.’

Miss Silver knitted briskly.

‘There are interesting possibilities. On the other hand your cousin may be mistaken, and the attack you witnessed have been a mere sporadic act of violence, the initial purpose robbery, with the brutal instinct to strike a second time overpowering reason. This has been, and is, a factor in many crimes.’

‘I agree. But I am left with my impression. Would you like to discourse on the interesting possibilities?’

Miss Silver turned the pale blue leggings, which had now assumed a definite shape. She said,

‘You recognized him. Someone else may have done so.’

‘Yes.’

‘After seven or eight years a return from the grave would not always be welcome. On the purely material side, it might be inconvenient, or even disastrous. You have, I suppose, no idea of this young man’s circumstances?’

‘You mean when he was Bill? Well, no. The Latimers – Mildred said it was their party – well, they were in a fairly moneyed set. His father made a pile in soap. Most of their friends would be well-to-do. But’ – he laughed – ‘well, I was there! Bill may have been on the same footing. His girl looked expensive. But there again – you can’t tell with girls. My cousin Rachel who hasn’t a bean turns out looking like a million dollars, and I know women who spend hundreds and miss the bus every time. Bill’s girl may have made her own dress, or Aunt Sophy may have given it to her – or any of the other old ladies whom Mildred reeled off. There was a Cousin Barbara, I remember, queer and rather rich. Mildred’s mother had a whole tribe of relations, and they are all dead, so it’s no good saying go and ask them what about it. The whole thing could hardly be vaguer – could it? What I can’t account for is the fact that it has left me with these impressions, which are not vague at all, but quite definite and sharp. Do you know what it reminds me of? Looking up at a lighted window out of a dark street and seeing someone or something or watching a train go past and getting a glimpse of a face you can’t forget.’

Miss Sliver had a Victorian habit of quotation. She employed it now. The late Lord Tennyson was her favourite poet, but on this occasion it was Longfellow who came aptly to her lips:

‘Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing…

So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another.’

Katharine woke with the night turning towards day. It was the hour when even a great city is quiet – a still hour, but not dark, because the sky was clear. Somewhere behind all those houses the moon was going down. From where she lay she could see the tracery of leafless trees above the roof-line over the way. The trees were in the garden of Rasselas House. They were old, and tall, and beautiful. She looked at them now and was at peace. The window was open and a soft air came in. She turned a little. On the other side of Carol’s wide, low bed William was very deeply asleep. One of his hands was tucked under the pillow, the other lay across his chest. She had to listen to catch the quiet, even breathing. If she put out her own hand it would touch him. But her thought could not reach him at all. Or could it? She wondered. When you loved someone as much as this it didn’t seem possible that he could go where you couldn’t reach him. All through time – all through space-. The thought broke off. Time and space were frightening things – cold, far, endless. No, not that, because time must come to an end. There was a verse about it in the Bible – the angel standing upon the sea and upon the earth and lifting up his hand to swear that there should be time no longer. A little shiver went over her. Time and space were cold and far away. She and William were here. This was their hour. Her thought swung back again. His body was here. William was somewhere else – perhaps in the very deep places of sleep where they say there are no dreams. How do they know? All they can really tell is that you don’t remember what you dream in those deep places. Perhaps William was there.

William came up into the shallows where dreams begin. The dream that met him there was the one he knew, only this time it was different. Always before it had begun in the street. He would be walking up the steps and going into the house. The last time he had had the dream was when he was hit over the head and he couldn’t get into the house because someone was holding the door against him. That hadn’t ever happened before, and it worried him. This time was quite different, because he was not only in the house, but he was right up at the top of the stairs. As a rule, that was when he woke. Always in the dream someone was waiting for him, and when he got to the top, or nearly to the top, he woke up.

This time it was different. He stood at the top of the stairs and looked down. He could see all the way down the stairs into the hall. There was plenty of light – but not daylight – there wasn’t ever daylight in his dream. Everything was all right. And then quite suddenly it wasn’t. The dream took a slant, the way dreams sometimes do. The newel-posts which were carved with the four Evangelists went queer. He was standing at the head of the stairs between the eagle and the man, looking down to the lion and the ox at the foot, and all at once they were different. The eagle had changed into a Boomalong Bird, and the man was Mr. Tattlecombe, looking indignant, as well he might, with his grey hair standing up and his eyes very blue. And down there on either side of the bottom step there was a Wurzel Dog and a Crummocky Cow. He came down the stairs into the hall, and someone knocked three times on the door. They wanted to get in, but the door was barred. Then they came through the door – just like that – the door didn’t open, they came through it with their arms linked – three of them, with the woman in the middle. He knew her at once. She was Miss Jones, the secretary who had told him that Eversleys wouldn’t be interested in the Wurzel toys. He knew her, but he didn’t know the men, because there wasn’t anything to know. They were just trousers and coats, and faces painted smooth and featureless with the paint they used in the workshop for undercoating the toys. It was a horrid pinkish colour and it glistened. The faces had no eyes and no features. They were just paint. They came towards him. He called out, ‘No – no – no! and the dream broke up. He opened his eyes on the room, the glimmering square of the window, the light air coming in.