Marjorie sat down. "Of course, Mr. Megbie," she said, "you will think it very strange that I should come here alone; when I tell you why, you will think it stranger still. And I don't want any one to know that I have been here. I shall tell mother, of course, when I get back." Megbie bowed and said nothing. It was the most tactful thing to do. "I feel you will not misunderstand my motives," the girl went on, "when I explain myself. In certain cases, and among certain persons, conventions are bourgeois. We don't know each other very well, Mr. Megbie, though we have sometimes had some interesting talks together. But in a sense I know you better than you know me. You see, I have read your books and other writings. In common with the rest of the world I can gather something of your temper of mind, and of your outlook upon life." Megbie once more inclined his head. He wondered furiously what all this might mean. At the moment he was absolutely in the dark. He stretched out his hand towards a tin of cigarettes that stood on a bracket by the side of the fireplace, and then withdrew it suddenly, remembering who was present. "Oh, do smoke," she said, instantly interpreting the movement. "Now let me just tell you exactly why I am here, why I _had_ to come here. Of all the men I know, you are the most likely to understand. You have made a study of psychical affairs, of what the man in the street calls 'spooks'--you know about dreams." At that Megbie started forward, every muscle in his body becoming rigid and tense, his hands gripping the knobs of his chair arms. "Of course!" he said, in a voice that rippled with excitement. "Go on, please. I might have known your coming here this morning is all part of the wonderful and uncanny experiences I had last night. You've come about Guy Rathbone!" It was the girl's turn to start. Fear came creeping into eyes which were not wont to show fear, the proud mouth grew tremulous. Marjorie stretched out her hands--little hands in tan-coloured gloves. "Ah!" she cried, in a voice that had become shrill and full of pain, "then it is true! Things have happened to you too! Mr. Megbie, you and I have become entangled in some dark and dreadful thing. I dare not think what it may be. _But Guy is not dead._" Megbie answered her in the same words. "No," he said, "Guy Rathbone is not dead." His voice had sunk several tones. It tolled like a bell. "Miss Poole," he went on, "tell me, tell me at once what happened to you last night." With a great effort of control, Marjorie began her story. "It was very late when we got home last night after the party," she said. "I was in a curious state of nerves and excitement. I must touch upon a personal matter--this is no time for reticence or false shame. I had been with William Gouldesbrough. You know that we were at one time engaged--oh, this is horribly difficult for me to say, Mr. Megbie." "Go on, Miss Poole. I know, I know. But what does it matter in such a time as this?"