Bulstrode, on coming to himself, actually ran out of the house to escape that terrible Presence that had just made its majestic self known. Sylvia, on the contrary, could not be forced away until she had at least seen Skelton once more. Conyers sat by her in one of the great drawing-rooms, awed at her perfectly silent and tearless grief. A few candles made the darkness visible. The room was one that was never used except upon some festive occasion, and the contrast of Sylvia sitting in mute despair in the gala room was a ghastly epitome of life and death. Overhead was audible occasionally the muffled sound of the watchers moving about Lewis Pryor’s bed; and across the hall, on the other side, could be heard distinctly in the midnight stillness the gruesome preparations that His Majesty Death requires. Conyers was as silent as Sylvia. His emotions were always insoluble in speech, and now they froze the words upon his tongue. As soon as that one last look at Skelton was had Sylvia must leave the house. After waiting as much as an hour, a step was heard crossing the hall, and Bob Skinny, with a candle in his hand, opened the door noiselessly and beckoned to Conyers. Sylvia rose too. She knew what that gesture meant. She walked firmly forward a few steps, and then stopped, trembling; but, with a supreme effort, she went upon her way, Conyers close at hand but not touching her. She felt herself to be in a dream as she crossed the familiar hall and entered the library, which was peculiarly Skelton’s room. She turned and closed the door after her, which Conyers had left partly open. The great room was dimly lighted, but the light scarcely penetrated the deep darkness of the corners, and the ceiling was lost in gloom. A window was open, and through it came softly a faint, chill, odoriferous wind. Sylvia remembered Skelton once telling her that in the East such a wind was called the Wind of Death. The heavy curtains moved gently, as if touched by a ghostly hand, and a branch of white hydrangeas, with which the fireplace was filled, trembled at it. On the sofa lay Skelton, looking the least deathlike object in the room. He was dressed in his ordinary evening clothes, and on his delicate high-arched feet were black silk stockings and pumps with diamond buckles. He lay on his side quite naturally, his dislocated arm drawn up under the discoloured side of his face, so that both injuries were quite concealed. Anything more natural or graceful could not be conceived. He seemed to have thrown himself on the lounge after dinner, and have dropped asleep for a few moments. It was the first dead person Sylvia had ever seen, and at first that natural human horror of the dead quite overcame her. She covered her face and fell on a chair, and presently looked fearfully around her, and everything was terrifying until she saw Skelton. All at once horror of him was banished. She was no more afraid than if he had been lying before her asleep.