The answer was instantaneous. As though some giant hand had seized the house in its grip, it shook. Shook for an infinitesimal fraction of an instant. Almost, it seemed to Lindsay, walls quivered; panes rattled; shutters banged, doors slammed. And yet in the next infinitesimal fraction of that instant he knew that he had heard no tangible sound. Something more exquisite than sound had filled that unmeasurable interval with shattering, deafening confusion. Lindsay turned with a sharp wheel; glared into the dark of the other side of the room. * * * * * Lindsay dashed upstairs to his desk. There he found a time-table. The ten-fifteen from Quinanog would give him ample time to catch the midnight to New York. He might not be able to get a sleeping berth; but the thing he needed least, at that moment, was sleep. In fact, he would rather sit up all night. He flung a few things into his suitcase; dashed off a note to Mrs. Spash. In an incredibly short time, he was striding over the two miles of road which led to the station. There happened to be an unreserved upper berth. It was a superfluous luxury as far as Lindsay was concerned. He lay in it during what remained of the night, his eyes shut but his spirit more wakeful than he had ever known it. "Every revolution of these wheels," he said once to himself, "brings me nearer to it, whatever it is." He arose early; was the first to invade the washroom; the first to step off the train; the first to leap into a taxicab. He gave the address of Spink's apartments to the driver. "Get there faster than you can!" he ordered briefly. The man looked at him--and then proceeded to break the speed law. Washington Square was hardly awake when they churned up to the sidewalk. Lindsay let himself in the door; bounded lightly up the two flights of stairs; unlocked the door of Spink's apartment. Everything was silent there. The dust of two months of vacancy lay on the furnishings. Lindsay stood in the center of the room, contemplating the door which led backward into the rest of the apartment. "Well, old top, _you're_ not going to trouble me any longer. I get that with my first breath. I've done what _she_ wanted and what _you_ wanted so far. Now what in the name of heaven is the next move?" He stood in the center of the room waiting, listening. And then into his hearing, stretched to its final capacity, came sound. Just _sound_ at first; then a dull murmur. Lindsay's hair rose with a prickling progress from his scalp. But that murmur was human. It continued. Lindsay went to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall. The murmur grew louder. It was a woman's voice; a girl's voice; unmistakably the voice of youth. It came from the little room next to Spink's apartment. Again Lindsay listened. The monotone broke; grew jagged; grew shrill; became monotonous again. Suddenly the truth dawned on him. It was the voice of madness or of delirium.