She stood, for a second, with the handle of the open door in her grasp--as if she was glad of its support to aid her stand. Then, with a quick glance backwards, as of pleading to the one who exercised over her so strange a spell, she tottered from the room. She continued speaking as she went, as if deprecating the other's wrath.

"I shall be all right--in a moment--if you don't--hurry me at first. I'm only slow because--I'm a little tired. It'll soon go, this tired feeling, Tom--and I'll be sure--to be quicker when it's gone."

Ballingall hung back as she passed from the room, seeming, from his attitude, to be in two minds whether to follow her at all. The others, as if taking their cue from him, seemed hesitating too--until Madge, with head thrown back, and fists hanging clenched at her sides, went after her through the door. Then they moved close on Madge's heels--Bruce Graham in front, Ballingall bringing up the rear.

The woman was staggering up the stairs, with obvious unwillingness--and, also, with more than sufficient feebleness. It was with difficulty she could lift her feet from step to step. Each time she raised her foot she gave a backward lurch, which threatened to precipitate her down the whole of the distance she had gained.

Madge's impulse was to dash forward, put her arms about the unfortunate creature's wrist and, if she needs must go forward, bear her bodily to the top of the stairs. But although, at the pitiful sight which the woman presented, her fingers tingled and her pulses throbbed, she was stayed from advancing to proffer her the assistance which she longed to render by the consciousness, against which she strove in vain, that between the woman and herself there was a something which not only did she dare not pass, but which she dare not even closely approach. Over and over again she told herself that it was nonsense--but a delusion born of the woman's diseased and conscience-haunted brain. There was absolutely nothing to be seen; and why should she, a healthy-minded young woman, suffer herself to be frightened by the vacant air? But in spite of all her efforts at self-persuasion, she allowed a considerable space to continue to exist between herself and the trembling wretch upon the stairs.

Slowly the queer procession advanced--the woman punctuating, as it were, with her plaintive wailings every step she took.

"Tom! Tom! Tom!" She continually repeated the name, with all the intonations of endearment, supplication, reproach, and even terror. To hear her was a liberal education in the different effects which may be produced by varieties of emphasis.

"Don't hurry me! I'm--going as quickly as I can. I--shall soon be at the top! It's so--so steep--a staircase--Tom."

At last the top was reached. She stood upon the landing, clinging to the banisters as she gasped for breath. Her figure swayed backward and forward, in so ominous a fashion that, halfway up the staircase, almost involuntarily Madge stretched out her arms to catch her if she fell. But she did not fall--nor was she allowed much time to recover from her exertions.

"I'm going--if--you'll let me--rest--for just one moment--Tom. Where do you wish me to go?"

It seemed as if her question was answered, for she gave a shuddering movement towards the wall, and burst into a passion of cries.

"No, Tom--not there! not there! not there! Don't make me go into our bedroom--not into our bedroom!"

The command which had been given her was apparently repeated, for, drawing herself away from the wall, she went with new and shuddering haste along the passage.

"I'm--I'm going! Only--have mercy--have mercy on me, Tom! I don't wish to anger you, only have mercy, Tom!"

The bedroom in front of the house was the one which was occupied by Ella, It was towards this room that the woman was moving with hurried, tremulous steps. Her unwillingness to advance was more marked than before, and yet she seemed urged by something which was both in front and behind her, which she was powerless to resist. They could see she shuddered as she went; and she uttered cries, half of terror, half of pain.

And yet she advanced with a decision, and a firmness, and also a rapidity, which was unlike anything she hitherto had shown. On the threshold of the room she stopped, starting back, and throwing out her hands in front of her.

"It's our bedroom, Tom--it's full of ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts! Don't make me go into the bedroom, Tom."

But the propelling force, whatever it might have been, was beyond her power to withstand. She gave a sudden, exceeding bitter cry. Turning the handle, she flung the door right back upon its hinges. With a peal of laughter, which grated on the ears of those who heard almost more than anything which had gone before, she staggered into the room. As she disappeared they stopped, listening, with faces which had suddenly grown whiter, to her strange merriment.

"This is our bedroom--ha! ha! ha!--where you brought me when we were first married! Why, Tom, how many years is it since I was here? Ha, ha, ha!--I never thought I should come back to our bedroom, Tom--never! Ha, ha, ha!"

All at once there was a change in her tone--a note of terror. The laughter fled with the dreadful suddenness with which it had come.

"Don't, Tom, Don't! Have mercy--mercy! I'll do as you wish me--you know I will; I'll--get your money. Only--I didn't know--you kept it--in our bedroom--Tom. You didn't use to."

So soon as the laughter, fading, was exchanged for that panic cry, Madge hurried after her into the room--the others, as ever, hard upon her heels. The woman stood in the centre of the floor, looking about her with glances of evident bewilderment, as if seeking for something she had been told to look for. She searched in vain. Her eagerness was pitiful. She looked hither and thither, in every direction, as if, urged to the search, she feared, in speechless agony, the penalties of disobedience. All the while she kept giving short, sharp cries of strained and frenzied fear.

"I'm looking! I'm looking, Tom, as hard as I can, but--I see nothing--nothing, Tom! I'm doing as you tell me--I am--I am--I am! Oh, Tom, I am! But I don't see your money--I don't! I don't! If you'll show me where it is, I'll get it; but I see nothing of your money, Tom! Where is it?--Here!"

She moved towards the wash-hand stand, which was at the side of the room.

"Behind the washstand?"

She lifted the piece of furniture on one side with a degree of strength of which, light though it was, one would not have thought that she was capable. Getting behind it, she placed against the wall her eager, trembling hand.

"But--your money isn't here. There's nothing but the wall. Take the paper off the wall? But--how am I to do it?--With my fingers!--I can't tear off with my fingers, Tom. Oh, Tom, I'll try! Don't speak to me like that--I'll try!"

With feverish haste she dragged the apologies for gloves off her quivering hands.

"Where shall I tear it off?--Here? Yes, Tom, I'll try to tear it off just here."

Dropping on her knees she attacked with her nails the wall where, while she remained in that posture, it was about the height of her head--endeavouring to drive the edges through the paper, and to pick it off, as children do.

But her attempts were less successful than are the efforts of the average ingenious child.

"I can't, Tom, I can't! My fingers are not strong enough, and my nails are broken--don't be angry with me, Tom."

She made frantic little dabs at the wall. But her endeavours to make an impression on the paper were without result. It was plain that with her unassisted nails she might continue to peck at it in vain for ever.

Madge turned to Mr. Graham.

p290
"'I can't, Tom, I can't! My
fingers are not strong enough,
and my nails are broken--don't
be angry with me, Tom!'" (To
face p. 290.)

"Have you a pocket-knife?"

Without a word he took one from his waistcoat pocket.

Not waiting for him to open it, she took it from him with an action which almost amounted to a snatch. With her own fingers she opened the largest blade. Making a large, and under the circumstances curious circuit, in order to reach her, leaning over the washstand, touching the woman on the shoulder, she held out to her the knife.

Shrinking under Madge's finger, with an exclamation she looked round to see who touched her.

"Take this," said Madge. "It's a knife. With its help you'll be better able to tear the paper off the wall."

She took it--without a word of thanks, and, with it in her grasp, returned to the attack with energies renewed.

"I've got a knife, Tom, I've got a knife. Now I'll get the paper off quicker--much quicker. I'll soon get to your money, Tom."

But she did not get to it. On the contrary, the process of stripping off the paper did not proceed much more rapidly than before, even with the help of Mr. Graham's knife. It was with the greatest difficulty that she was able to get off two or three square inches.

The disappearance, however, of even this small portion revealed the fact that the paper-hanger who had been responsible for putting it into place, instead of stripping off the previous wall covering, as paperhangers are supposed to do, had been content, to save himself what he had, perhaps, deemed unnecessary trouble, to paste this latest covering on the previous one. This former paper appeared to have been of that old-fashioned kind which used to be popular in the parlours of country inns, and such-like places, and which was wont to be embellished with "pictorial illustrations." The scraping off, by the woman, of the small fragments of paper which she had succeeded in removing, showed that the one beneath it seemed to have been ornamented with more or less striking representations of various four-footed animals. On the space laid bare were figures of what might have been meant for anything; and which, in the light of the last line on Mr. Ballingall's manuscript, were probably intended for cats and dogs.

With these the woman was fumbling with hesitating, awkward fingers.

"Cat--dog? I don't--I don't understand, Tom--I see, Tom,--these are the pictures of cats and dogs. I'm blind, and stupid, and slow. I ought to have seen at once what they were?--I know I ought. But--be patient with me, Tom. Which one?--This one? Yes, I see--this one. It's--it's--yes, Tom, it's a dog's head, I see it is.--What am I to do with it? Press?--Yes, Tom, I am pressing.--Press harder? Yes, I'll--I'll try; but I'm--I'm not very strong, and I can't press much harder. Have mercy!--have mercy, Tom! Say--say you forgive me--forgive me! but I--I can't press harder, Tom--I can't!"

She could not--so much was plain. Even as the words were passing from her lips, she relinquished pressing altogether. Uttering a little throbbing cry, she turned away from the wall, throwing up her arms with a gesture of entreaty, and sinking on to the floor, she lay there still. As she dropped, that gentle, mocking laugh rang through the startled room.