A faint glow heralded the appearance of a mandolin, outlined in fire, hanging unsupported in midair. A strain of soft music sounded.

"David," the Duchess whispered. "David, is it you?"

The mandolin swooped up and down, still playing.

Hands fumbled at Marianne's feet, touched the bonds on her ankles, and moved up to her wrists.

"I beg your pardon," Carlton whispered. "I only wanted to make certain -"

"Your head is in my way," Marianne answered, straining her neck to watch the gyrations of the flying mandolin.

"Stop squirming! How can I be sure -"

"Move your head! Oh – oh, it is gone."

The luminous mandolin had indeed disappeared.

A medley of music followed – bells rang, chords sounded on the piano, a tambourine jingled. They were pleasant-enough sounds, though they formed no pattern and no recognizable tune.

Then there was a brief pause, as if the spirit needed rest after its strenuous efforts. In the silence Marianne heard the Duchess's breath coming in quick, sobbing pants, and her initial fascinated interest faded. She felt sad and a little giddy, and wished she had not taken quite so much wine at dinner.

The next demonstration was of a luminous hand that appeared suddenly in midair. Marianne could see it was not the same shape as the one that had materialized on the previous evening, being long and slim with delicate fingers.

This time the Duchess's cry was one of recognition.

"David – it is you!" A scrape of wood and a rustle of skirts told Marianne that the distraught woman had left her chair to pursue the phantom hand. As if to tease her, it darted back and forth. Panting and gasping, the Duchess stumbled after it.

"Stop her," Marianne exclaimed. "Oh, stop her; this is dreadful! She will fall and hurt herself -"

She pulled against the bonds that confined her hands., but Carlton had tied the knots too well. The struggle made her dizzier than before; she felt herself on the verge of swooning.

The grotesque, pitiful chase had only lasted for a few seconds, in fact, and Carlton was rising to his feet when the voice came.

"Silence. Be still. Silence."

It was hardly more than a whisper, but it had a hollow, penetrating quality that echoed as if the words had been pronounced in some other place, much larger than the parlor.

"Honor," the whisper came again. "Honor, listen and do not speak. I have little strength. I may not stay. The day approaches, be ready for me then. Now let me rest. I must have rest…"

The final sibilant turned into an insect buzzing that went on and on. Marianne felt as if it sounded inside her head. She shook that member and at once regretted the movement, for the darkness blazed with colored cartwheels and rings of fire. An icy wind touched the back of her neck.

With an effort she kept her senses. The eerie effects seemed to be over. The cold wind ceased to blow, the whispering voice was no longer heard, and she was beginning to relax when a new outburst brought her upright and shaking. This was the worst yet: a cry of wordless, almost animal, rage, a crash, a thud as of a heavy body falling – and then a horrible choking rattle and drumming.

Brightness flared, and she realized that Carlton had had the foresight to provide himself with a lamp and the means of lighting it. He held it high.

Writhing on the floor, his heels pounding in jerky spasms, foam issuing from his mouth, was a form Marianne scarcely recognized as that of the Duke. The tutor stood over the boy, wringing his hands and looking half-witted. Marianne could only think of the vicar's warnings and the old horror tales of men possessed by demons.

Then Carlton said sharply, "Don't stand there gaping, man; you know what to do"; and Victor, after a startled glance, dropped to his knees beside the boy.

" 'Twas dark; I could not see," he stammered, forgetting his French accent in his agitation.

Scarcely had this crisis been dealt with -

Marianne realized that it had, though she still did not understand its precise nature – than a stifled cry from the Duchess drew her attention in that direction just in time to see the lady's slender form crumple to the floor, one hand pressed against her heart.

The doctor, who had started toward the fallen boy, wheeled around and hurried toward her. Marianne tugged against her bonds.

"For pity's sake," she exclaimed. "Mr. Carlton, please -"

Carlton did not move. He stood staring at the Duchess's still form.

"What is it?" he mumbled. "What?"

"Her heart." Gruffstone's hands moved with deft quickness, quite unlike his usual clumsy motions. "Fortunately I brought my bag with me. Annabelle! On the table by the window – step lively -"

So admonished, Annabelle moved quickly, and after a few moments the doctor looked up. His face was shining wet in the lamplight, whether with perspiration or tears or a blend of both Marianne could not tell.

"She lives," he said. "We must get her to her room now. Call the servants. Victor, how does the boy?"

"As usual," the tutor replied.

Marianne did not know which way to turn. She continued to wriggle and protest, and finally Carlton broke through his paralysis and untied her.

"At any rate," he remarked, with a ghastly attempt at jauntiness, "I can testify that you did not free yourself. These are my knots, no question about it. I'm sorry to have left you so long, but a string of horrors like this is really a bit much, even for me."

"The night is not over," the doctor said. "Annabelle, ring again; where in heaven's name are those worthless servants? One of the footmen can carry the boy, but I want a thin mattress or cot for Her Grace; she must be transported as gently as possible."

It was done as he directed. Before long Marianne found herself alone with Carlton. The Duke had recovered from his fit and seemed better although he was sobbing softly – possibly with embarrassment, for a damp stain on the Persian rug indicated that he had suffered an accident more explicable in a much younger child.

"Will she be all right?" Marianne asked.

Carlton shook his head. "If anyone can save her, Gruffstone can. I knew her heart was weak, but… I suppose seeing the boy was the final straw. She has seen it before, but it seems to grow worse each time, and after the emotional strain of this evening…"

"What is wrong with Henry?"

"He is an epileptic, of course." Carlton gave her a derisive look, though he was still pale and his disheveled hair had tumbled over his brow. "Did you think him a victim of demonic possession?"

"You could hardly blame me if I did, after all the other things that happened."

Carlton flung out his arms in a gesture of despair that was nonetheless genuine for looking so theatrical.

"For heaven's sake, let us not even think of that! My brain is reeling; I cannot think sensibly. You look as if you could do with a restorative. A glass of wine, perhaps?"

"I have had too much wine," Marianne said faintly. "I don't seem to be accustomed to it."

"You only had two glasses," Carlton said. "I wonder… Never mind that now. Let me help you upstairs."

Marianne was glad to take his arm. "I could not possibly sleep," she insisted.

"Nor I. Perhaps we could both do with that universal nursery panacea, a cup of good strong tea. There is a little sitting room upstairs, not far from your bedchamber; the Duchess meant – means – to have it refurbished for you, but it is habitable. We will wait there for news."

The Duchess's illness had roused the household. The servants seemed genuinely devoted and concerned; they hovered anxiously about the stairs and jumped to obey Carlton's orders. A fire was lighted in the sitting room he had mentioned, and the housekeeper herself brought tea and biscuits. The poor old creature's eyes were suffused with tears when she asked about her mistress, and Carlton patted her hand as he tried to find some answer that would combine truth and comfort.