* * * * * But Grif, though he lay so still, was acutely conscious. That is, he became conscious from hour to hour; and sometimes when he opened his eyes it seemed to be daylight, and again it seemed to be night. For he had slid into a queer kind of world where time no longer existed, a world in which he heard voices and saw faces that he knew; but those faces were so oddly mixed up with others he did _not_ know, that he at last let them drift by him without question, merely watching in patience the endless procession, now bright, now dim. More than anybody else Mr. Bradley was with him, and often when he went away his shadow remained behind. It crouched in a corner near the door: it was waiting, Grif knew, for him to fall asleep. * * * * * He opened his eyes in the dark. A great peacefulness had descended upon everything, and the quiet wrapped him round like the stillness of a pond. A thin ray of light shone across the room and lit up the two white china dogs that stood upon the chimney-piece. Pouncer got up once to bark at them, but as they took no notice he went back to his bed. In the silence Grif could hear very distinctly the ticking of the tall clock in the landing. He began to count the ticks, and had reached fifty-three, when he was surprised by a quick little bark that certainly wasn’t Pouncer’s. This bark had a stealthy sound; it was really a whispered bark; and Grif couldn’t imagine where it had come from. Then it sounded again, and this time he saw distinctly the tail of the right-hand china dog wag. Grif had never even noticed that it _had_ a tail before, so closely did it keep it tucked into its body. At the same moment the other china dog got up, stretched out its paws, lowered its back, and yawned. “Are you sure he’s asleep?” “Yes, can’t you see he is? He’s been asleep for hours――for days――for months.” “I suppose we can talk, then? It’s very difficult to get saying a word with him always in the room. I wonder why they put him here?” “I wonder how long he’s going to stay?” Just then the deep voice of Pouncer joined in. “What have you got to talk about anyway――stuck up there on a spare bedroom chimney-piece from one year’s end to another?” “We’ve plenty to talk about; but you wouldn’t understand; you oughtn’t to be here at all. We know more than anybody except Pan and Syrinx.” “The question is what _do_ you know?” growled Pouncer. Grif was never to learn, for, as he moved, the room suddenly became silent once more. He got out of bed, but somehow found it curiously difficult to walk. Pouncer looked up at him with dark eyes liquid with sleep, as he staggered to the chimney-piece and lifted down one of the dogs. It was perfectly stiff and solid, yet he fancied he could detect a faint, rapidly fading warmth in it. There was a crash, and everything turned to darkness.... * * * * *