Work, he thought, should be the likeliest antidote to the poisonous thoughts which oppressed his mind, and again he seated himself at the table and opened his notes before him. The silken rope lay close to his left hand, but he did not touch it. He was about to switch on the reading lamp, for it was now too dark to write, when his mind wandered off along another channel of reflection. He found himself picturing Myra as she had looked the last time that he had seen her. She was seated in Mr. Saunderson's garden, still pale from her dreadful illness, but beautiful--more beautiful in the eyes of Robert Cairn than any other woman in the world. The breeze was blowing her rebellious curls across her eyes--eyes bright with a happiness which he loved to see. Her cheeks were paler than they were wont to be, and the sweet lips had lost something of their firmness. She wore a short cloak, and a wide-brimmed hat, unfashionable, but becoming. No one but Myra could successfully have worn that hat, he thought. Wrapt in such lover-like memories, he forgot that he had sat down to write--forgot that he held a pen in his hand--and that this same hand had been outstretched to ignite the lamp. When he ultimately awoke again to the hard facts of his lonely environment, he also awoke to a singular circumstance; he made the acquaintance of a strange phenomenon. He had been writing unconsciously! And this was what he had written: "Robert Cairn--renounce your pursuit of me, and renounce Myra; or to-night--" The sentence was unfinished. Momentarily, he stared at the words, endeavouring to persuade himself that he had written them consciously, in idle mood. But some voice within gave him the lie; so that with a suppressed groan he muttered aloud: "It has begun!" Almost as he spoke there came a sound, from the passage outside, that led him to slide his hand across the table--and to seize his revolver. The visible presence of the little weapon reassured him; and, as a further sedative, he resorted to tobacco, filled and lighted his pipe, and leant back in the chair, blowing smoke rings towards the closed door. He listened intently--and heard the sound again. It was a soft _hiss_! And now, he thought he could detect another noise--as of some creature dragging its body along the floor. "A lizard!" he thought; and a memory of the basilisk eyes of Antony Ferrara came to him. Both the sounds seemed to come slowly nearer and nearer--the dragging thing being evidently responsible for the hissing; until Cairn decided that the creature must be immediately outside the door. Revolver in hand, he leapt across the room, and threw the door open. The red carpet, to right and left, was innocent of reptiles! Perhaps the creaking of the revolving chair, as he had prepared to quit it, had frightened the thing. With the idea before him, he systematically searched all the rooms into which it might have gone.