But now that his opportunity had come Grif found it difficult to take advantage of it. Mr. Bradley asked him how he was, and they talked a little about the solo he was to sing in church next Sunday. Then Grif said abruptly, “You remember the boy you saw yesterday afternoon?” “That rascal! Yes, I remember him. I met him again as I was coming over here, and he took off his cap to me. Impudence I expect.” Grif saw that Mr. Bradley’s annoyance had passed. It was a pity that he himself should be about to revive it, but he knew there was no other way. “I want to tell you something about him. He―――― If he talks to you or writes to you or anything, don’t take any notice. He’s awfully decent really, but he likes――likes playing tricks.” This, after all, was as much as he found it possible to say. The warning produced no effect whatever upon Mr. Bradley, who appeared to have lost interest in Palmer, and who began at once to speak of something else. Then Grif told him about having walked in his sleep. Immediately he had done so he regretted it, for he felt, rather than saw, that it had rekindled in the organist a train of thought which Grif did not want to be rekindled. He was powerless to prevent it, however, and as he listened and watched, that strange fascination he had before experienced dropped again about him, like the floating threads of a web. In his weakness it was stronger than ever. He became conscious of it now as an almost physical atmosphere, which had crept into the room, darkening the air about him. Shut in here between four walls, he seemed even less able to escape from it than he had been outside. Through his open window he could see the sunlight, the green waving trees, a warm strip of blue sky; but slowly they receded from him, while something misty and intangible, something cold, baffling, and obscure, crept in between, like a vapour or a cloud. He was drifting back, he knew, into the haunted, tormented, visionary world of last night; and Mr. Bradley, with his soft silver hair, his thin mouth and bright eyes, terrified him. Behind the softness of his voice there seemed to lurk something greedy and inhuman, an immense vitality, a kind of feverish flame that lapped against Grif’s spirit and withdrew, and advanced again, a resistless, devouring force.... He shrank into himself and wished that somebody would come.