For the flicker of a passing second, West could have sworn that he heard the whisper of wind in the leaves of the fruit-laden tree, that he saw the leaves tremble in the wind, that he smelled the fragrance of little flowers that bloomed along the path. "Well, Mr. West?" Nevin asked, triumphantly. "Why," said West, ears still cocked for the sound of wind in leaves again. "Why, it almost seems as if one could step over and walk straight down that path." Nevin sucked in his breath with a sound that was neither gasp nor sigh, but somewhere in between. Down at the end of the table, Cartwright was choking on his wine, chuckling laughter bubbling out between his lips despite all his efforts to keep it bottled up. "Nevin," asked West, "have you ever thought of making another painting?" "Perhaps," said Nevin. "Why do you ask?" West smiled. Through his brain words were drumming, words that he remembered, words a man had whispered just before he died. "I was just thinking," said West, "of what might happen if you should paint the wrong place sometime." "By Lord," yelled Cartwright, "he's got you there, Nevin. The exact words I've been telling you." Nevin started to rise from the table, and even as he did the rustling whisper of music filled the room. Music that relaxed Nevin's hands from their grip upon the table's edge, music that swept the sudden chill from between West's shoulderblades. Music that told of keen-toothed space and the blaze of stars. Music that had the whisper of rockets and the quietness of the void and the somber arches of eternal night. Rosie was singing. * * * * * West sat on the edge of his bed and knew that he had been lucky to break away before there could be more questions asked. So far, he was certain, he'd answered those they asked without arousing too much suspicion, but the longer a thing like that went on the more likely a man was to make some slight mistake. Now he would have time to think, time to try to untangle and put together some of the facts as they now appeared. One of the minor monstrosities that infested the place climbed the bedpost and perched upon it, wrapping its long tail about it many times. It chittered at West and West looked at it and shuddered, wondering if it were making a face at him or if it really looked that way. These slithery, chittering things ... he'd heard of them somewhere before. He knew that. He'd even seen pictures of them at some time. Some other time and place, very long ago. Things like Annabelle and the creature Cartwright had dumped off the chair and the little satanic being that perched upon the bedstead. That was funny, the thing Nevin had said about them ... _they keep sneaking through_ ... not sneaking in, but through. Nothing added up. Not even Nevin and Cartwright. For there was about them some subtle tinge of character not human in its texture.