“Victor,” she said in a low voice, “were you afraid to tell me that your man had been murdered?” After a moment: “You always know everything,” he said unsteadily. “When did you learn it?” “Just before Mr. Recklow told you.” “How did you learn it, Tressa?” “I looked into our apartment.” “When?” “While you were telephoning.” “You mean you looked into our rooms from _here_?” “Yes, clairvoyantly.” “What did you see?” “The Iaglamichi!” she said with a shudder. “Kai! The Toug of Djamouk is anointed at last!” “Is that the beast of a Mongol who did this murder?” “Djamouk and Prince Sanang planned it,” she said, trembling a little. “But that butchery was Yaddin’s work, I think. Kai! The work of Yaddined-Din, Tougtchi to Djamouk the Fox!” They stood confronting each other, the length of the sitting-room between them. And after the silence had lasted a full minute Cleves reddened and said: “I am going to sleep on the couch at the foot of your bed, Tressa.” His young wife reddened too. He said: “This affair has thoroughly scared me. I can’t let you sleep out of my sight.” “I am quite safe. And you would have an uncomfortable night,” she murmured. “Do you mind if I sleep on the couch, Tressa?” “No.” “Will you call me when you are ready?” “Yes.” She went into her bedroom and closed the door. When he was ready he slipped a pistol into the pocket of his dressing-gown, belted it over his pyjamas, and walked into the sitting-room. His wife called him presently, and he went in. Her night-lamp was burning and she extended her hand to extinguish it. “Could you sleep if it burns?” he asked bluntly. “Yes.” “Then let it burn. This business has got on my nerves,” he muttered. They looked at each other in an expressionless way. Both really understood how useless was this symbol of protection—this man the girl called husband;—how utterly useless his physical strength, and the pistol sagging in the pocket of his dressing-gown. Both understood that the only real protection to be looked for must come from her—from the gifted and guardian mind of this young girl who lay there looking at him from the pillows. “Good-night,” he said, flushing; “I’ll do my best. But only one of God’s envoys, like you, knows how to do battle with things that come out of hell.” After a moment’s silence she said in a colourless voice: “I wish you’d lie down on the bed.” “Had you rather I did?” “Yes.” So he went slowly to the bed, placed his pistol under the pillow, drew his dressing-gown around him, and lay down. After he had lain unstirring for half an hour: “Try to sleep, Tressa,” he said, without turning his head. “Can’t you seem to sleep, Victor?” she asked. And he heard her turn her head. “No.” “Shall I help you?” “Do you mean use hypnosis—the power of suggestion—on me?”