Here the power of the hand began to fail, and the writing was terminated by mere scrawls. The sleeper's eyes were now open, but not wide. They had a strange, glassy look in them, nor did she show any consciousness of Tims's presence. She dropped the pen, folded the paper in the same slow and tentative manner in which she had written upon it, and placed it in the directed envelope lying there. Then her face contracted, her fingers slackened, and she fell back again to the depths of the chair. "Milly!" cried Tims, almost involuntarily bending over her. "Milly!" Again there was a slight contraction of the face and of the whole body. At the moment that Tims uttered Milly's name, Ian was entering the room. His long legs brought him up to the chair in an instant, and he asked, without the usual salutation: "What's the matter? Has--has the change happened?" His voice unconsciously spoke dismay. Tims looked at him. "No, not exactly," she articulated, slowly; and, after a pause: "Poor old Milly's trying to come back, that's all." She paused again; then: "You look a bit worried, old man." He tossed back his head with a gesture he had kept from the days when the crest of raven-black hair had been wont to grow too long and encroach on his forehead. It was grizzled now, and much less intrusive. "I'm about tired out," he said, shortly. "Look here," she continued, "if you really want Milly back, just say so. She's kind of knocking at the door, and I believe I could let her in if I tried." He dropped wearily into a chair. "For Heaven's sake, Miss Timson, don't put the responsibility on me!" "I can't help it," returned Tims. "She's managed to get this through to me--" She handed Milly's scrawled message to Ian. He read it, then read it again and handed it back. "Strange, certainly." "Does it mean anything in particular?" He shrugged his shoulders almost impatiently and sighed. "Oh no! It's the poor child's usual cry when she's here. She's got it into her head that the self she doesn't know is frightfully wicked, and makes me miserable. I've tried over and over again to convince her, but it's all nonsense." He thought to himself: "She is coming back still full of this mortal, heart-rending jealousy, and we shall have more painful scenes." "Well, it's your business to say what I'm to do," insisted Tims. "I don't think she'd have troubled to write if she'd found she could get back altogether without my help; but the other one's grown a bit too strong for her. Do you want Milly back?" The remorseless Tims forced on Ian a plain question which in his own mind he habitually sought to evade. He leaned back and shaded his eyes with his hand. After a silence he spoke, low, as if with effort: