But I had only to close my eyes to see again that lighted window and the shadows on the blind. It seemed even clearer to me than it had been in the dream. I could see every detail of the struggle, and I opened my eyes abruptly so that I might escape the end. There was something supernatural about it; I had never dreamed a dream like that before--a dream which, waking, I could rehearse at pleasure. Perhaps it was not wholly a vision; perhaps it had some foundation in reality, some telepathic origin. I had read of such things, sceptically; but some of the phenomena of thought transference had, I knew, been accepted, reluctantly enough, even by the scientific world. Was it not possible that Marcia Lawrence had been lured to the Kingdon cottage or taken there against her will? Who could say how that old injury done the Endicotts would flower and fruit? Who could say what hatred, what desire for vengeance, rankled in the hearts of the Kingdons? I remembered how the face of the maid had darkened with malice, how her eyes had blazed with infernal joy, as she stood there in the door of the library, thinking herself unseen. Her sister I knew nothing of, but if they resembled each other as sisters usually do, I could well believe them capable of any cruelty. Was it not possible that Marcia Lawrence was in their hands? Was it not possible that my dream possessed a basis of reality? I had been thinking of her all the evening; I had gone to sleep with the problem of her disappearance still on my mind; I had been studying her photograph--I was, in a word, in spiritual touch with her, responsive to any suggestion emanating from her--we were tuned to the same pitch. Such, I fancied, was the explanation of the phenomena which a telepathist would give. She had sent that cry into the night, and I, being en rapport with her, had heard it--had witnessed the tragedy which called it forth. Perhaps the struggle was not yet ended; perhaps, even at this moment---- I sprang to my feet, hurried into my clothes, caught up my hat, opened my door and ran noiselessly down the stair. I would solve this problem to-night, if it could be solved. I had been wrong in turning away from the Kingdon cottage the evening before; I should, at least, have made an effort to discover if Marcia Lawrence were really there. But it had not occurred to me then that she could be in any danger. I had thought too much of what Curtiss would wish me to do; too little of what the necessities of the case required. Well, I would not make that mistake a second time.