UNCANNY STORIES [Illustration: “A terrified bird flew out of the hedge ...”] UNCANNY STORIES by May Sinclair Author of “Anne Severn and the Fieldings,” etc. Illustrations by Jean de Bosschère London: Hutchinson & Co. Paternoster Row ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS Where their Fire is not Quenched The Token The Flaw in the Crystal The Nature of the Evidence If the Dead Knew The Victim The Finding of the Absolute ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS A terrified bird flew out of the hedge ... Then, suddenly the room began to come apart ... ... each held there by the other’s fear ... moving slowly, like figures in some monstrous and appalling dance “I’ve told you not to touch my things” ... her face was turned to Donald ... He stepped forward, opening his arms And she wondered whether really she would find him well “I saw the Powells at the station” Milly opened a door on the left “No place ever will be strange when It’s there” ... he stood for a moment in the open doorway ... ... stretching out her arms to keep him back ... drew itself after him along the floor ... her whole body listened ... The apparition maintained itself with difficulty Then all of a sudden she had burst out crying ... Steven waited with his hand on the tap ... It stood close against the window, looking in ... the figure became clear and solid ... “_Now_ he’s coming alive—” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ UNCANNY STORIES WHERE THEIR FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED There was nobody in the orchard. Harriott Leigh went out, carefully, through the iron gate into the field. She had made the latch slip into its notch without a sound. The path slanted widely up the field from the orchard gate to the stile under the elder tree. George Waring waited for her there. Years afterwards, when she thought of George Waring she smelt the sweet, hot, wine-scent of the elder flowers. Years afterwards, when she smelt elder flowers she saw George Waring, with his beautiful, gentle face, like a poet’s or a musician’s, his black-blue eyes, and sleek, olive-brown hair. He was a naval lieutenant. Yesterday he had asked her to marry him and she had consented. But her father hadn’t, and she had come to tell him that and say good-bye before he left her. His ship was to sail the next day. He was eager and excited. He couldn’t believe that anything could stop their happiness, that anything he didn’t want to happen could happen. “Well?” he said. “He’s a perfect beast, George. He won’t let us. He says we’re too young.” “I was twenty last August,” he said, aggrieved.