Then, in a dry, croaking voice, he managed: "Stop Tansy. Bring her here." * * * * * The walls were shaken as if they were at the center of a whirlpool. Darkness became absolute. There was an eruption of force from the table. He felt himself flung across the room. Then the forces were gone. In all things, tension gave way to limpness. Sound and light returned. He was sprawled across the bed. On the table was a little flannel packet, no longer of any consequence. He felt as if he had been doped, or were waking after a debauch. There was no inclination to do anything. Emotion was absent. Outwardly everything was the same. Even his mind, with automatic rationality, could still wearily take up the thankless task of explaining his experiences on a scientific basis--weaving an elaborate web in which psychosis, hallucination, and improbable coincidences were the strands. But inwardly something had changed, and would never change back. Considerable time passed. He heard steps mounting the stairs, then in the hall. They made a _squish-squish_ sound, as if the shoes were soaking wet. They stopped outside his door. There was a soft rap. He crossed the room, turned the key in the lock-- A strand of seaweed was caught in the silver brooch. The gray suit was dark now and heavy with water, except for one spot which had started to dry and was faintly dusted with a white powder--salt. The odor of the Bay was intimate and close. There was another strand of seaweed clinging to one ankle against the wrinkled stocking. And around the stained shoes, a little pool of water was forming. His eyes traced the wet footprints down the hall. At the head of the stairs the old clerk was standing, one foot still on the last step. He was carrying a small pigskin suitcase. "What's all this about?" he quavered, when he saw that Norman was looking at him. "You didn't tell me you were expecting your wife. She looks like she'd thrown herself in the Bay. We don't want anything queer happening in this hotel--anything wrong." "It's quite all right," said Norman, prolonging the moment before he would have to look at her face. "I'm sorry I forgot to tell you. May I have the bag?" "--only last year we had a suicide"--the old clerk did not seem to realize he was speaking his thoughts aloud--"bad for the hotel--" His voice trailed off. He looked at Norman, gathered himself together, and came hesitatingly down the hall. When he was a few steps away, he stopped, reached out and put down the suitcase, turned, and walked rapidly away. Unwillingly, Norman raised his eyes until they were on a level with hers.