He crossed from Sussex into Surrey at Hackenden, then plunged through Ashplats Wood into the Wilderwick road. His footsteps were like shadows on the awful silence that filled the night. The stars were flashing from a coal-black sky--between the high hedges only a wisp of the great waste was visible with its dazzle of constellations. Nigel saw Cancer burning his lamps in the west, while straight above him hung the sign of Libra, brilliant, cold, unearthly. Surely the stars were larger and brighter to-night than was normal, than was good. He wished he was at Sparrow Hall. It could not be that he was frightened of the stars, and yet somehow they seemed part of an evil dream. Perhaps he would wake to find himself in his Notting Hill lodgings--perhaps his dream would go on for ever, eternal, malevolent, but still a dream--he would lie on in his bed at Notting Hill, and people would shake him and try to wake him, and, when they could not wake him, take him and bury him--and he would lie in the earth, deep, with a stone over him--but still with his awful dream of night and high hedges, terror and stars.... He had come to Sparrow Hall. He saw the tall, black chimney against a mass of stars--it seemed to be canting a little, perhaps that was part of the dream. There was a light in Len's room, and the next moment some one moved between it and the window. "Janey ..." called Nigel softly. His voice rose with the scents of the garden, in the hush of the night. The next minute there were footsteps on the stairs, then the door flew open, and Janey was in Nigel's arms. They clung together for several moments. The door had slammed in the draught, and the darkness crept softly round them like an embrace. The dream slipped from Nigel--his silly and hideous nightmare of stars. This quivering, tear-stained woman in his arms had brought him into the reality of sorrow. "Where is he?--what's happened?" he asked, still holding Janey. "He's upstairs in bed--he's very ill, Nigel." "But he's not dead?" "Not yet." "Is there any hope?" "Not much--he's got pneumonia. It's dreadful." "Has the doctor seen him?" "Yes--he's been gone only an hour. He said you were to be sent for at once. Oh, Nigel, Nigel, it's my fault!" "What d'you mean?" "I was wretched and selfish--he'd been queer all the afternoon, and I didn't notice it. I thought only of myself. Then he went out while I was asleep, and when he came back.... Oh, Nigel!... the doctor says he practically did for himself by going out then." Nigel did not understand, but his mind made no effort to grasp at details. "I'd better go at once," he said; "is he conscious?" "Yes--but he says funny things sometimes."