“Why do you do that?” he asked, “you can’t see the door, now.” “Let me help you in my own way,” she whispered. “I—I am very deeply disturbed, and very, very angry. I do not understand this new menace. Yezidee that I am, I do not understand what kind of danger threatens you through your loyalty to me.” She drew him forward, and he opened his mouth to remonstrate, to laugh; but as he turned, his foot touched the shroud, and an uncontrollable shiver passed over him. They went close together, across the dim room to the lounge, and seated themselves. Enough light from Madison Avenue made objects in the room barely discernible. Sounds from the street below became rarer as the hours wore away. The iron jar of trams, the rattle of vehicles, the harsh warning of taxicabs broke the stillness at longer and longer intervals, until, save only for that immense and ceaseless vibration of the monstrous iron city under the foggy stars, scarcely a sound stirred the silence. The half-hour had struck long ago on the bell of the little clock. Now the clear bell sounded three times. Cleves stirred on the lounge beside Tressa. Again and again he had thought that she was asleep for her head had fallen back against the cushions, and she lay very still. But always, when he leaned nearer to peer down at her, he saw her eyes open, and fixed intently upon the bolted door. His pistol, which still rested on his knee, was pointed across the room, toward the door. Once he reminded her in a whisper that she was unarmed and that it might be as well for her to go and get her pistol. But she murmured that she was sufficiently equipped; and, in spite of himself, he shivered as he glanced down at her frail and empty hands. It was some time between three and half-past, he judged, when a sudden movement of the girl brought him upright on his seat, quivering with excitement. “Mr. Cleves!” “Yes?” “The Sorcerers!” “Where? Outside the door?” “Oh, my God,” she murmured, “_they are after my mind again_! Their fingers are groping to seize my brain and get possession of it!” “What!” he stammered, horrified. “Here—in the dark,” she whispered—“and I feel their fingers caressing me—searching—moving stealthily to surprise and grasp my thoughts.... I know what they are doing.... I am resisting.... I am fighting—fighting!” She sat bolt upright with clenched hands at her breast, her face palely aglow in the dimness as though illumined by some vivid inward light—or, as he thought—from the azure blaze in her wide-open eyes. “Is—is this what you call—what you believe to be magic?” he asked unsteadily. “Is there some hostile psychic influence threatening you?” “Yes. I’m resisting. I’m fighting—fighting. They shall not trap me. They shall not harm you!... I know how to defend myself and you!... And _you_!” Suddenly she flung her left arm around his neck and the delicate clenched hand brushed his cheek.