The mouth was opening and shutting rapidly in an agony of appeal. It seemed as though a torrent of words must be pouring from it, though there was not a sound of human speech in the large warm room. Great tears rolled down the large pale cheeks, the brow was wrinkled with pain. The hands gesticulated and pointed, flickering rapidly hither and thither without sound. And continually, over and over again, the hands pointed to the gleaming silver case for cigarettes which Donald Megbie clasped tightly in his right hand. The silent agitated Thing, so close--ah, so close! was trying to tell Donald something. It was trying to say something about the cigarette-case, it was trying to tell Megbie something about Guy Rathbone. And what? What was this fearful message that the agonized Thing was so eager and so horribly impotent to deliver? Megbie's voice came to him. It sounded thin and muffled, just like the voice of a mechanical toy. What is it? What is it? What are you trying to say to me about poor Guy Rathbone? And then, as if it had seen that Megbie was trying to speak to it, but it could not hear his words, the figure of Eustace Charliewood wrung its hands, with a gesture which was inexpressibly dreadful, unutterably painful to see. Megbie started up. He stepped forward. "Oh, don't, don't!" he said. As he spoke he dropped the cigarette-case, which, up to the present he had clutched in a hot wet hand. It fell with a clatter against the fender--that at any rate was a real noise! In a moment the mopping, mourning, weeping phantom was gone. The room was exactly as it had been before, still, warm, brilliantly-lit. And Donald Megbie stood upon the hearth-rug dazed and motionless, while a huge and icy hand seemed to creep round his heart and clutch it with lean, cold fingers. Donald Megbie stood perfectly motionless for nearly a minute. Then he knelt down and prayed fervently for help and guidance. At moments such as this men pray. Much comforted and refreshed he rose from his knees, and went to one of the windows that looked out over the Thames. He pulled aside the heavy green curtain, and saw that a clear colourless light immediately began to flow and flood into the room. It was not yet dawn, but that mysterious hour which immediately presages the dawn had come. The river was like a livid streak of pewter, the leafless plane-trees of the embankment seemed like delicate tracery of iron in the faint half-light. London was sleeping still. The writer felt very calm and quiet as he turned away from the window and moved towards his bedroom. The fire was nearly dead, but he saw the silver cigarette-case upon the rug and picked it up. He went to bed with the case under his pillow, and this is what he dreamed--