For a while I sat there wondering what it could mean, till stories of impostors who feigned blindness and lameness came into my mind. I told myself it was some sham beggar, and turned my thoughts to my own case. Again I looked towards Sunset Towers; but the light had gone from the window. Only a looming black shadow shutting out a patch of the sky told me where the great mansion stood. I got up slowly, and still uncertain what to do made my way back to the old house. Without thinking I wandered round to the side where I had seen the light, and found myself looking up at the window. And then I started to climb. I was soon on the sill peering into the room, but couldn't distinguish anything through the blackness. I wondered whether I had better descend again before I was seen, but something held me there in spite of myself. And while I crouched I thought I heard a faint muffled cry echo through the house, but though I strained my ears I didn't hear it again. Then it seemed to me that it must be terrible for Jenny to be alone there, with the sobs and moans I knew from of old haunting the night-time, startling one from sleep with a strange sense of unseen things flitting and hovering in the gloom. I tapped at the window, and said softly, "Jenny, Jenny!" She didn't hear me. Perhaps she was asleep. I tapped again, and a third time. Then I drew back and nearly fell, for I suddenly became aware of a white figure on the other side of the glass with face pressed to the pane. I had never before seen anything quite so ghost-like. But I recovered myself immediately, for it was Jenny herself. I hadn't heard her noiseless passage across the room. I spoke her name again. She opened the window and let me in, shutting it behind me. "Have you come to tell me why?" she asked. "I've come to stay," I answered, adding rather paradoxically, "If I don't go away I can come back." She didn't notice the paradox, but took my meaning. "Yes," she said; and then, "It's cold." She slipped back into the great bed, where I could dimly see her little figure like a tiny mound in a wide plain. I jumped on to the bed and lay at her feet. "I'll stay here," I said. She sat up and turned down the coverlet, telling me to wrap it round me. I curled myself into it, pulling it up tight under my chin, and soon began to glow warmly. And then again I heard that cry. It wasn't like the cries I had heard before. It was wilder and more ringing, not so sad and plaintive. Jenny asked, "Did you hear that?" "It's the wind," I answered. "There's no wind," she said. I lay and said nothing, not wishing to frighten her with stories of ghosts. Presently I heard her call me: "Tommy!" "Yes," I answered. "I think it's daddy." "No," I contradicted her with emphasis. "I think it is." "Jenny it's--it's a ghost," I declared, remembering my instructions. "No, it's daddy," she asserted again. "I've often heard him. There's a bad man who comes and frightens him; then he shouts like that."