He shook his head and a slight blush came to his cheeks. The eyes under the bandaged brow, the smirk upon the clear-cut mouth. . . . "Beastly!" he said aloud, as if speaking of some one else--as indeed he really was, had he but realised it. Now he would sleep, to be fresh for the night. Bromide--always a good friend, though not so certain in its action as in the past--Ammonium Bromide should paralyse his racing brain to sleep. He dissolved five tablets in a little water and drank the mixture. When Mary came noiselessly into the room, three hours later, he was sleeping calmly. One arm was round the Dog Trust, who was sleeping too. Her husband looked strangely youthful and innocent. A faint smile hung about his lips and her whole heart went out to him as he slept. * * * * * It was after midnight. Deep peace brooded over the poet's household. Only he was awake. The dog slumbered in his kennel, the servants in their rooms, the Sweet Chatelaine of the Old House lay in tranquil sleep in her own chamber. . . . On a small oak table by Gilbert's bedside, three tall candles were burning in holders of silver. Upon it also was an open bottle of whiskey, the carafe of water from the washstand and a bedroom tumbler. The door was locked. Gilbert was sitting up in bed. Upon his raised knees a pad of white paper was resting. In his hand was a stylographic pen of red vulcanite, and a third of the page was covered with small delicate writing. His face was flushed but quite motionless. His whole body in its white pyjama suit was perfectly still. The only movement was that of the hand travelling over the page, the only sound that of the dull grinding of the stylus, as it went this way and that. There was something sinister about this automaton in the bed with its moving hand. And in our day there is always something a little fantastic and unreal about candlelight. . . . How absolutely still the night was! Not a breath of air stirred. The movements, the stir and tumult of the mind of the person so rigid in the bed were not heard. _What_ was it, _who_ was it, that was writing in the bed? Who can say? Was it Gilbert Lothian, the young and kindly-natured man who reverenced all things that were pure, beautiful and of good report? Or was it that dreadful other self, the Being created out of poison, that was laying sure and stealthy fingers upon the Soul, that "glorious Devil large of heart and brain"? Who can tell? The subtle knowledge of the great doctor could not have said, the holy love of the young matron could not have divined. These things are hidden yet, and still will be. The hump of the bed-clothes sank. The pad fell flat. The figure stretched out towards the table, there was the stealthy trickle of liquid, the gurgle of a body, drinking.