The next instant she had thrown her dressing-gown over her shoulders and was running bare-footed across the landing and down the stairs. Midway across the big old hall she stopped dead, for on her had fallen, swiftly and terribly, that old horror of her small childhood, a sense of all-pervading blackness. It gripped her as forcibly as it had done in those far-off days. Again she was a small utterly helpless thing in its hideous clutch. The light streaming from under the sitting-room door accentuated the blackness, gleamed evilly, assumed a sinister and terrible importance. Almost she turned and fled—fled out of the door behind her into the storm-swept night, away to the clean air, to the darkness which was full of beauty and healing. Not this—this that stifled, and soiled, and buried. Away—anywhere—anyhow—from what was behind that flickering evil light, which made the hideous blackness visible as well as tangible. Almost, but not quite. That which the long years of patience and endurance had built into her, held. Dick Carey had called to her. What if he were in there, fighting, fighting against odds. For the world was full of this Evil let loose, the vibrations became palpable, engulfed her, beat her down. For a moment that seemed endless she fought for more than physical life. Then she moved forward again, and it was as in dreams when feet are leaden-weighted and we move them with an effort that seems past our strength. But she did not hesitate again. Steadily she opened the door. Dragging those leaden feet she went in and closed it behind her. A blast of hot air met her, insufferably hot. Some one had made up the fire again. Piled high with logs it burnt fiercely. The room was in disorder. In the far corner by the south window the little dogs lay cringing with terror, trembling, while before them Larry crouched, his white fangs bare, his lips lifted till the gums showed, his blazing eyes fixed on the figure in the centre of the room—the figure of Violet Riversley. Before her, piled on the floor, were various articles, books and papers, gathered together and heaped in the shape of a bonfire. At her feet lay the bronze lamp. In her right hand she held the wick, still alight. Curiously, the light from the blazing logs played on the long folds of her white gown. Almost it seemed as if she were clothed in flame.