‘I’ve been sitting in the kitchen, ma’am, unable to move. I’m watched everywhere. The other evening I went into the drawing-room—I was alone in the house—and... I can’t describe it. It wasn’t dark; and yet it was all still and black, like the ruins after a fire. I don’t mean I saw it, only that it was like a scene. And then the watching—I am quite aware to some it may sound all fancy. But I’m not superstitious, never was. I only mean—that I can’t sit alone here. I daren’t. Else, I’m quite myself. So if so be you don’t want me any more; if I can’t be of any further use to you or to—to Mr. Lawford, I’d prefer to go home.’ ‘Very well, Ada; thank you. You can go out this way.’ The door was unchained and unbolted, and ‘Good-night’ said. And Sheila swept back in sombre pomp to her absorbed friends. ‘She’s quite a good creature at heart,’ she explained frankly, as if to disclaim any finesse, ‘and almost quixotically loyal. But what really did she mean, do you think? She is so obstinate. That maddening “some one”! How they do repeat themselves. It can’t be my husband; not Dr Ferguson, I mean. You don’t suppose—oh surely, not “some one” else!’ Again the dark silence of the house seemed to drift in on the little company. Mr Craik cleared his throat. ‘I failed to catch quite all that the maid said,’ he murmured apologetically; ‘but I certainly did gather it was to some kind of—of emanation she was referring. And the “ruin,” you know. I’m not a mystic; and yet do you know, that somehow seemed to me almost offensively suggestive of—of demonic influence. You don’t suppose, Mrs Lawford—and of course I wouldn’t for a moment venture on such a conjecture unsupported—but even if this restless spirit (let us call it) did succeed in making a footing, it might possibly be rather in the nature of a lodging than a permanent residence. Moreover we are, I think, bound to remember that probably in all spheres of existence like attracts like; even the Gadarene episode seems to suggest a possible _multiplication!_’ he peered largely. ‘You don’t suppose, Mrs Lawford...?’ ‘I think Mr Craik doesn’t quite relish having to break the news, Sheila dear,’ explained Mrs Lovat soothingly, ‘that perhaps Sabathier’s _out_. Which really is quite a heavenly suggestion, for in that case your husband would be in, wouldn’t he? Just our old stolid Arthur again, you know. And next Mr Craik is suggesting, and it certainly does seem rather fascinating, that poor Ada’s got mixed up with the Frenchman’s friends, or perhaps, even, with one of the seventy-two Princes Royal. I know women can’t, or mustn’t reason, Mr Danton, but you do, I hope, just catch the drift?’ Danton started. ‘I wasn’t really listening to the girl,’ he explained nonchalantly, shrugging his black shoulders and pursing up his eyes. ‘Personally, Mrs Lovat, I’d pack the baggage off to-night, box and all. But it’s not my business.’