Minutes seemed to go by. Vague hints from servants, things I had read in the papers--and still I sat there, not moving by so much as a hair. He was looking at me now and telling me to "keep cool." And then: "I suppose you know there _are_ such places----" He interrupted himself to say: "Remember! A careless look or move would mean--well, it would mean ruin. _Now_ do you understand?" Beyond a doubt I did. If I moved or cried for help, he would kill me before my aunt could get back; before I could cross the room. Though why he should wish to kill me I could form no idea. "You must have time to recover," he said, in that muted, uneven voice. "I will shield you while you pull yourself together." He had bent forward till his shoulders shut out my view of the group at the other end of the room. I shrank further back into the cushions. But: "I have myself in hand, now," I said; for I remembered you must never let the insane know you are afraid. Betty's laughter sounded far away. "Take your time," he said. "They're enjoying themselves. They haven't even rung for the cognac and liqueurs yet." They would make Bettina and me drink a liqueur, he said. Or if they failed in that, they'd say, "'a thimble-full of coffee, then.'" And our coffee would be "doctored." "But we've had coffee," I said, in a new access of terror. Was it drugged coffee that made me feel so lamed? "That was all right," he said. "That was to steady _us_." He did not look as if he needed steadying. What if he were not mad? "Be careful," he said again. "Remember I am running a ghastly risk in telling you. But you are facing a ghastly certainty if I don't." I sat in that stillness of stark terror--staring at him. And as I stared I found myself clinging to the thought that had been horror's height a little while before. "Pray God he's mad," I kept saying inwardly. If I could keep my head, he said, I had no cause to be so frightened. It would be some little time before he could give me up without rousing suspicion. "Before you give me up!" I imagined the Grey Hawk swooping to snatch me. "Before I help you to get out of this," he explained. "And when I do, you will perhaps remember it is at a sacrifice. Greater than I supposed I could feel." I moved at that--but like a sleep-walker on the edge of waking. I asked him in a whisper what we were to do. I meant Betty and me. But he said: "When she begins to play, or to sing, you are to get up quite quietly--_can_ you?" I made a sign for yes. "No haste ... you must do it languidly--go out of the room." "But my----" (I suppressed "my aunt" with an inward twist of questioning anguish) "----shall I not be asked where I am going and why?"