I glanced up at him. Was it the reflection of the candle he held, or did he look paler than usual? "And," I added suddenly, "did you _feel_ nothing?" He hesitated. "It--it was chilly, certainly," he said. "I fancy I must have dosed a little, for I did feel pretty cold once or twice." "Ah, indeed!" thought I to myself. "And how about Tim?" Phil smiled, but not very successfully. "Well," he said, "I must confess Tim did not altogether like it. He started snarling, then he growled, and finished up with whining in a decidedly unhappy way. He's rather upset--poor old chap!" And then I saw that the dog was beside him--rubbing up close to Philip's legs--a very dejected, reproachful Tim--all the starch taken out of him. "Good-night, Phil," I said, turning round on my pillow. "I'm glad you are satisfied. To-morrow morning you must tell me which of your theories holds most water. Good-night, and many thanks." He was going to say more, but my manner for the moment stopped him, and he went off. Poor old Phil! We had it out the next morning. He and I alone. He was _not_ satisfied. Far from it. In the bottom of his heart I believe it was a strange yearning for a breath of human companionship, for the sound of a human voice, that had made him look in on me the night before. _For he had felt the cold passing him._ But he was very plucky. "I'll sit up again to-night, Leila," he said. "Not to-night," I objected. "This sort of adventure requires one to be at one's best. If you take my advice you will go to bed early and have a good stretch of sleep, so that you will be quite fresh by to-morrow. There will be a moon for some nights still." "Why do you keep harping on the moon?" said Phil rather crossly, for him. "Because--I have some idea that it is only in the moonlight that--that anything is to be _seen_." "Bosh!" said my brother politely--he was certainly rather discomposed--"we are talking at cross-purposes. You are satisfied----" "Far from satisfied," I interpolated. "Well, convinced, whatever you like to call it--that the whole thing is supernatural, whereas I am equally sure it is a trick; a clever trick I allow, though I haven't yet got at the motive of it." "You need your nerves to be at their best to discover a trick of this kind, if a trick it be," I said quietly. Philip had left his seat, and walked up and down the room; his way of doing so gave me a feeling that he wanted to walk off some unusual consciousness of irritability. I felt half provoked and half sorry for him. At that moment--we were alone in the drawing-room--the door opened, and Miss Larpent came in. "I cannot find Sophy," she said, peering about through her rather short-sighted eyes, which, nevertheless, see a great deal sometimes; "do you know where she is?" "I saw her setting off somewhere with Nugent," said Philip, stopping his quarter-deck exercise for a moment.