“Well, anyway, I can now, so you needn’t shout,” she replied. And again his gray eyes, with the queer, grayish phosphorescent gleam in them, lingered malignantly on her face. “Don’t look at me,” she said calmly. “I know all about everything.” He burst into a pouf of malicious laughter. “Why, what’s the matter!” he said curiously. “What have you been doing?” “I don’t quite know. Why? Are you going to call me to account?” “Did you hear that laughing?” “Oh, yes. And many more things. And saw things, too.” “Have you seen the paper?” “No. Don’t shout, I can hear.” “There’s been a great storm, blew out the windows and doors of the church outside here, and pretty well wrecked the place.” “I saw it. A leaf of the church Bible blew right in my face—from the Book of Job.” She gave a low laugh. “But what else did you see?” he cried loudly. “I saw _him_.” “Who?” “Ah, that I can’t say.” “But what was he like?” “That I can’t tell you. I don’t really know.” “But you must know. Did your policeman see him, too?” “No, I don’t suppose he did. My policeman!” And she went off into a long ripple of laughter. “He is by no means mine. But I _must_ go downstairs and see him.” “It’s certainly made you very strange.” Marchbanks said. “You’ve got no _soul_, you know.” “Oh, thank goodness for that!” she cried. “My policeman has one. I’m sure. My _policeman_!” And she went off again into a long peal of laughter, the canaries pealing shrill accompaniment. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “Having no soul. I never had one really. It was always fobbed off on me. Soul was the only thing there was between you and me. Thank goodness it’s gone. Haven’t you lost yours? The one that seemed to worry you, like a decayed tooth?” “But what are you _talking_ about?” he cried. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s all so extraordinary. But look here, I _must_ go down and see my policeman. He’s downstairs in the sitting room. You’d better come with me.” They went down together. The policeman, in his waistcoat and shirt sleeves, was lying on the sofa, with a very long face. “Look here!” said Miss James to him. “Is it true you’re lame?” “It is true. That’s why I’m here. I can’t walk,” said the fair-haired young man as tears came to his eyes. “But how did it happen? You weren’t lame last night,” she said. “I don’t know how it happened—but when I woke up and tried to stand up, I couldn’t do it.” The tears ran down his distressed face. “How very extraordinary!” she said. “What can we do about it?” “Which foot is it?” asked Marchbanks. “Let us have a look at it.” “I don’t like to,” said the poor devil. “You’d better,” said Miss James. He slowly pulled off his stocking, and showed his white left foot curiously clubbed, like the weird paw of some animal. When he looked at it himself, he sobbed. And as he sobbed, the girl heard again the low, exulting laughter. But she paid no heed to it, gazing curiously at the weeping young policeman.