Down in the quadrangle he stood for a moment, reflecting; then, acting upon a sudden resolution, he strode over towards the gate and ascended Ferrara's stair. For some time he knocked at the door in vain, but he persisted in his clamouring, arousing the ancient echoes. Finally, the door was opened. Antony Ferrara faced him. He wore a silver-grey dressing gown, trimmed with white swansdown, above which his ivory throat rose statuesque. The almond-shaped eyes, black as night, gleamed strangely beneath the low, smooth brow. The lank black hair appeared lustreless by comparison. His lips were very red. In his whole appearance there was something repellently effeminate. "Can I come in?" demanded Cairn abruptly. "Is it--something important?" Ferrara's voice was husky but not unmusical. "Why, are you busy?" "Well--er--" Ferrara smiled oddly. "Oh, a visitor?" snapped Cairn. "Not at all." "Accounts for your delay in opening," said Cairn, and turned on his heel. "Mistook me for the proctor, in person, I suppose. Good-night." Ferrara made no reply. But, although he never once glanced back, Cairn knew that Ferrara, leaning over the rail, above, was looking after him; it was as though elemental heat were beating down upon his head. CHAPTER II THE PHANTOM HANDS A week later Robert Cairn quitted Oxford to take up the newspaper appointment offered to him in London. It may have been due to some mysterious design of a hidden providence that Sime 'phoned him early in the week about an unusual case in one of the hospitals. "Walton is junior house-surgeon there," he said, "and he can arrange for you to see the case. She (the patient) undoubtedly died from some rare nervous affection. I have a theory," etc.; the conversation became technical. Cairn went to the hospital, and by courtesy of Walton, whom he had known at Oxford, was permitted to view the body. "The symptoms which Sime has got to hear about," explained the surgeon, raising the sheet from the dead woman's face, "are--" He broke off. Cairn had suddenly exhibited a ghastly pallor; he clutched at Walton for support. "My God!" Cairn, still holding on to the other, stooped over the discoloured face. It had been a pretty face when warm life had tinted its curves; now it was congested--awful; two heavy discolorations showed, one on either side of the region of the larynx. "What on earth is wrong with you?" demanded Walton. "I thought," gasped Cairn, "for a moment, that I knew--" "Really! I wish you did! We can't find out anything about her. Have a good look." "No," said Cairn, mastering himself with an effort--"a chance resemblance, that's all." He wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. "You look jolly shaky," commented Walton. "Is she like someone you know very well?" "No, not at all, now that I come to consider the features; but it was a shock at first. What on earth caused death?" "Asphyxia," answered Walton shortly. "Can't you see?"