‘You have not heard anything—no knock?’ ‘No, ma’am, no knock.’ ‘The door is open if you should call.’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘The girl’s scared out of her wits,’ said Sheila returning to her audience. ‘I’ve told you all that miserable Ferguson story—a piece of calm, callous presence of mind I should never have dreamed my husband capable of. And the curious thing is—at least, it is no longer curious in the light of the ghastly facts I am only waiting for Mr Bethany to tell you—from the very first she instinctively detested the very mention of his name.’ ‘I believe, you know,’ said Mr Craik with some decision, ‘that servants must have the same wonderful instinct as dogs and children; they are natural, _intuitive_ judges of character.’ ‘Yes,’ said Sheila gravely, ‘and it’s only through that that I got to hear of the—the mysterious friend in the little pony-carriage. Ada’s magnificently loyal—I will say that.’ ‘I don’t want to suggest anything, Mrs Lawford,’ began Mr Craik rather hurriedly, ‘but wouldn’t it perhaps be wiser not to wait for Mr Bethany? It is not at all unusual for him to be kept a considerable time in the vestry after service, and to-day is the Feast of St Michael’s and all Angels, you know. Mightn’t your husband be—er—coming back, don’t you think?’ ‘Craik’s right, Mrs Lawford; it’s not a bit of good waiting. Bethany would stick there till midnight if any old woman’s spiritual state could keep her going so long. Here we all are, and at any moment we may be interrupted. Mind you, I promise nothing—only that there shall be no scene. But here I am, and if he does come knocking and ringing and lunging out in the disgusting manner he—well, all I ask is permission to speak for _you_. ‘Pon my soul, to think what you must have gone through! It isn’t the place for ladies just now—honestly it ain’t.’ ‘Besides, supposing the romantic lady of the pony-carriage has friends? Are _you_ a pugilist, Mr Craik?’ ‘I hope I could give some little account of myself, Mrs Lovat; but you need have no anxiety about that.’ ‘There, Mr Danton. So as there is not the least cause for anxiety even if poor Arthur _should_ return to his earthly home, may we share your dreadful story at once, Sheila; and then, perhaps, hear Mr Bethany’s exposition of it when he _does_ arrive? We are amply guarded.’ ‘Honestly, you know, you are a bit of a sceptic, Mrs Lovat,’ pleaded Danton playfully. ‘I’ve _seen_ him.’ ‘And seeing is disbelieving, I suppose. Now then, Sheila.’ ‘I don’t think there’s the least chance of Arthur returning to-night,’ said Sheila solemnly. ‘I am perfectly well aware it’s best to be as cheerful as one can—and as resolved; but I think, Bettie, when even you know the whole horrible secret, you won’t think Mr Danton was—was horrified for nothing. The ghastly, the awful truth is that my husband—there is no other word for it—is—possessed!’ ‘“Possessed,” Sheila! What in the name of all the creeps is that?’