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 striking of a clock filled them each time with a mysterious apprehension. The lights in the village were put out little by little, and everybody slept. Susie had lighted the lamp, and they watched beside it. A cold shiver passed through her.

“I feel as though someone were lying dead in the room,” she said.

“Why does not Arthur come?”

They spoke inconsequently, and neither heeded what the other said. The window was open wide, but the air was difficult to breathe. And now the silence was so unusual that Susie grew strangely nervous. She tried to think of the noisy streets in Paris, the constant roar of traffic, and the shuffling of the crowd towards evening as the working people returned to their homes. She stood up.

“There’s no air to-night. Look at the trees. Not a leaf is moving.”

“Why does not Arthur come?” repeated the doctor.

“There’s no moon to-night. It will be very dark at Skene.”

“He’s walked all day. He should be here by now.”

Susie felt an extraordinary oppression, and she panted for breath. At last they heard a step on the road outside, and Arthur stood at the window.

“Are you ready to come?” he said.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

They joined him, bringing the few things that Dr. Porhoët had said were necessary, and they walked along the solitary road that led to Skene.