Neil's unhappy state of mind had taken him out into the cold. The quiet thoughts of the morning had given way to perfect torture, and he could in no way account for the change. So far, indeed, as his nerves were concerned, he never could account for anything in connection with them any more than could the physicians whom he had consulted. He was the prey of a highly neurotic temperament which tortured his life, and he had a vivid imagination which made him exaggerate the slightest worries into catastrophes. An hour's brisk walking over the crisp snow brought him to a solitary place far from every human habitation. The village had vanished, and Neil found himself in the centre--as it seemed--of a lonely white world arched over by a blue sky. All around the landscape was buried in drifts of snow, which, dazzling white in the sunlight, were painful to look upon. He walked along some disused roads, guiding himself by the hedges which ran along the sides. Shortly the sky began to cloud over rapidly, to assume a leaden aspect; and finally down came the snow. He turned his face homewards, anxious to get back before the night came on. But as the snow fell thicker he grew bewildered, and began to take the situation seriously. Suddenly, as he trudged along, a building loomed up before him through the fallen flakes; it stood where four roads met, and he guessed at once that it was an old turnpike house. On a nearer approach he saw that it was empty; the windows were broken, the door was half open, and it was fenced in by a jungle of bushes like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. "At any rate it will be a shelter," he thought; "and when the storm clears off I can get home. Only three o'clock," he added, looking at his watch. "I'll rest a bit." He broke his way through the drifts which were piled up before the door, and stumbled in. The moment his foot touched the threshold a vague feeling of fear seized upon him; the place was quite empty, thick with dust and festooned with cobwebs. There was not a stick of furniture; yet it seemed to him that there should have been a bare deal table, two deal chairs, and a fire in the grate. "Had he ever been here before?" he asked himself. But he could find no answer to the question. Finally, shaking off the feeling of depression which the influence of this house had brought upon him, he lay down on the bare boards and tried to sleep away the time. In this way, by the degree of some mysterious Power, the man was brought back to the room where his father had been murdered twelve or thirteen years before. And he was ignorant of the terrible truth. The snow continued to fall steadily, but there was no wind. The absolute quiet was soothing to the tired man, and after a time his eyes closed. For a while he slept peacefully as a child then his face grew dark, his teeth and hands clenched themselves, and he groaned in agony. He dreamt--and this was the manner of his dream: