“Going to give me away,” he said, and, still holding her, took a knife out of his side pocket. Back, at the full length of her arm, Dinny looked him in the face. Somehow she was not so scared as she had been; her chief feeling was a sort of shame at having her shoes in her hand.

“That’s silly, Captain Ferse,” she said, icily. “You know we’d neither of us do you any harm.”

Ferse flung her hand from him, opened the knife, and with a violent effort severed the telephone wire. The receiver dropped on the floor. He closed the knife and put it back into his pocket. Dinny had the impression that with action he had become less unbalanced.

“Put on your shoes,” he said.

She did so.

“Understand me, I’m not going to be interfered with, or messed about. I shall do what I like with myself.”

Dinny remained silent. Her heart was beating furiously, and she did not want her voice to betray it.

“Did you hear?”

“Yes. No one wants to interfere with you, or do anything you don’t like. We only want your good.”

“I know that good,” said Ferse. “No more of that for me.” He went across to the window, tore a curtain aside, and looked out. “It’s raining like hell,” he said, then turned and stood looking at her. His face began to twitch, his hands to clench. He moved his head from side to side. Suddenly he shouted: “Get out of this room, quick! Get out, get out!”

As swiftly as she could without running Dinny slid to the door, closed it behind her and flew upstairs. Diana was still standing in the bedroom doorway. Dinny pushed her in, locked the door, and sank down breathless.

“He came out after me,” she gasped, “and cut the wire. He’s got a knife; I’m afraid there’s mania coming on. Will that door hold if he tries to break it down? Shall we put the bed against it?”

“If we do we should never sleep.”

“We shall never sleep, anyway,” and she began dragging at the bed. They moved it square against the door.

“Do the maids lock their doors?”

“They have, since he’s been back.”

Dinny sighed with relief. The idea of going out again to warn them made her shudder. She sat on the bed looking at Diana, who was standing by the window.

“What are you thinking of, Diana?”

“I was thinking what I should be feeling if the children were still here.”

“Yes, thank heaven, they’re not.”

Diana came back to the bed and took Dinny’s hand. Grip and answering grip tightened till they were almost painful.

“Is there nothing we can do, Dinny?”

“Perhaps he’ll sleep, and be much better in the morning. Now there’s danger I don’t feel half so sorry for him.”

Diana said stonily: “I’m past feeling. I wonder if he knows yet that I’m not in my own room? Perhaps I ought to go down and face it.”

“You shan’t!” And taking the key from the lock Dinny thrust it into the top of her stocking: its cold hardness rallied her nerves.

“Now,” she said, “we’ll lie down with our feet to the door. It’s no good getting worn out for nothing.”

A sort of apathy had come over both of them, and they lay a long time thus, close together under the eiderdown, neither of them sleeping, neither of them quite awake. Dinny had dozed off at last when a stealthy sound awakened her. She looked at Diana. She was asleep, really asleep, dead asleep. A streak of light from outside showed at the top of the door, which fitted loosely. Leaning on her elbow she strained her ears. The handle of the door was turned, and softly shaken. There was a gentle knocking.

“Yes,” said Dinny, very low, “what is it?”

“Diana,” said Ferse’s voice, but quite subdued: “I want her.”

Dinny crouched forward close to the keyhole.

“Diana’s not well,” she said. “She’s asleep now, don’t disturb her.”

There was silence. And then to her horror she heard a long moaning sigh; a sound so miserable, and as it were so final that she was on the point of taking out the key. The sight of Diana’s face, white and worn, stopped her. No good! Whatever that sound meant—no good! And crouching back on the bed, she listened. No more sound! Diana slept on, but Dinny could not get to sleep again. ‘If he kills himself,’ she thought, ‘shall I be to blame?’ Would that not be best for everyone, for Diana and his children, for himself? But that long sighing moan went on echoing through her nerves. Poor man, poor man! She felt nothing now but a dreadful sore pity, a sort of resentment at the inexorability of Nature that did such things to human creatures. Accept the mysterious ways of Providence? Who could? Insensate and cruel! Beside the worn-out sleeper she lay, quivering. What had they done that they ought not to have done? Could they have helped him more than they had tried to? What could they do when morning came? Diana stirred. Was she going to wake? But she just turned and sank back into her heavy slumber. And slowly a drowsy feeling stole on Dinny herself and she slept.

A knocking on the door awakened her. It was daylight. Diana was still sleeping. She looked at her wrist watch. Eight o’clock. She was being called.

“All right, Mary!” she answered, softly: “Mrs. Ferse is here.”

Diana sat up, her eyes on Dinny’s half-clothed figure.

“What is it?”

“It’s all right, Diana. Eight o’clock! We’d better get up and put the bed back. You’ve had a real good sleep. The maids are up.”

They put on wrappers, and pulled the bed into place. Dinny took the key from its queer hiding nook, and unlocked the door.

“No good craning at it. Let’s go down!”

They stood a moment at the top of the stairs listening, and then descended. Diana’s room was untouched. The maid had evidently been in and pulled aside the curtains. They stood at the door that led from it to Ferse’s room. No sound came from there. They went out to the other door. Still no sound!

“We’d better go down,” whispered Dinny. “What shall you say to Mary?”

“Nothing. She’ll understand.”

The dining room and study doors were open. The telephone receiver still lay severed on the floor; there was no other sign of last night’s terrors.

Suddenly, Dinny said: “Diana, his hat and coat are gone. They were on that chair.”

Diana went into the dining room and rang the bell. The elderly maid, coming from the basement stairs, had a scared and anxious look.

“Have you seen Captain Ferse’s hat and coat this morning Mary?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“What time did you come down?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“You haven’t been to his room?”

“Not yet, Ma’am.”

“I was not well last night; I slept upstairs with Miss Dinny.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

They all three went upstairs.

“Knock on his door.”

The maid knocked. Dinny and Diana stood close by. There was no answer.

“Knock again, Mary, louder.”

Again and again the maid knocked. No answer. Diana put her aside and turned the handle. The door came open. Ferse was not there. The room was in disorder, as if someone had tramped and wrestled in it. The water bottle was empty, and tobacco ash was strewn about. The bed had been lain on, but not slept in. There was no sign of packing or of anything having been taken from the drawers. The three women looked at each other. Then Diana said:

“Get breakfast quick, Mary. We must go out.”

“Yes, Ma’am—I saw the telephone.”

“Hide that up, and get it mended; and don’t tell the others anything. Just say: ‘He’s away for a night or two.’ Make things here look like that. We’ll dress quickly, Dinny.”

The maid went downstairs again.

Dinny said: “Has he any money?”

“I don’t know. I can see if his cheque book has gone.”

She ran down again, and Dinny waited. Diana came back into the hall.

“No; it’s on the bureau in the dining-room. Quick, Dinny, dress!”

That meant… What did it mean? A strange conflict of hopes and fears raged within Dinny. She flew upstairs.