hand that he had seen before, laid hold of the blind, drawing it back. In a minute he would see …
He was awake—still quivering with the horror, the unutterable loathing of the Thing that had looked out at him from the window of the House.
It was a Thing utterly and wholly horrible, a Thing so vile and loathsome that the mere remembrance of it made him feel sick. And he knew that the most unutterably and horribly vile thing about it was its presence in that House—the House of Beauty.
For where that Thing abode was horror—horror that rose up and slew the peace and the serenity which were the birthright of the House. The beauty, the wonderful immortal beauty of the House was destroyed for ever, for within its holy consecrated walls there dwelt the Shadow of an Unclean Thing!
If ever again he should dream of the House, Segrave knew he would awake at once with a start of terror, lest from its white beauty that Thing might suddenly look out at him.
The following evening, when he left the office, he went straight to the Wettermans’ house. He must see Allegra Kerr. Maisie would tell him where she was to be found.
He never noticed the eager light that flashed into Maisie’s eyes as he was shown in, and she jumped up to greet him. He stammered out his request at once, with her hand still in his.
‘Miss Kerr. I met her yesterday, but I don’t know where she’s staying.’
He did not feel Maisie’s hand grow limp in his as she withdrew it. The sudden coldness of her voice told him nothing.
‘Allegra is here—staying with us. But I’m afraid you can’t see her.’
‘But—’
‘You see, her mother died this morning. We’ve just had the news.’
‘Oh!’ He was taken aback.
‘It is all very sad,’ said Maisie. She hesitated just a minute, then went on. ‘You see, she died in—well, practically an asylum. There’s insanity in the family. The grandfather shot himself, and one of Allegra’s aunts is a hopeless imbecile, and another drowned herself.’
John Segrave made an inarticulate sound.
‘I thought I ought to tell you,’ said Maisie virtuously. ‘We’re such friends, aren’t we? And of course Allegra is very attractive. Lots of people have asked her to marry them, but naturally she won’t marry at all—she couldn’t, could she?’
‘She’s all right,’ said Segrave. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her.’
His voice sounded hoarse and unnatural in his own ears.
‘One never knows, her mother was quite all right when she was young. And she wasn’t just—peculiar, you know. She was quite raving mad. It’s a dreadful thing—insanity.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s a most awful Thing.’
He knew now what it was that had looked at him from the window of the House.
Maisie was still talking on. He interrupted her brusquely.
‘I really came to say goodbye—and to thank you for all your kindness.’
‘You’re not—going away?’
There was alarm in her voice.
He smiled sideways at her—a crooked smile, pathetic and attractive.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘To Africa.’
‘Africa!’
Maisie echoed the word blankly. Before she could pull herself together he had shaken her by the hand and gone. She was left standing there, her hands clenched by her sides, an angry spot of colour in each cheek.
Below, on the doorstep, John Segrave came face to face with Allegra coming in from the street. She was in black, her face white and lifeless. She took one glance at him then drew him into a small morning room.
‘Maisie told you,’ she said. ‘You know?’
He nodded.
‘But what does it matter? You’re all right. It—it leaves some people out.’
She looked at him sombrely, mournfully.
‘You are all right,’ he repeated.
‘I don’t know,’ she almost whispered it. ‘I don’t know. I told you—about my dreams. And when I play—when I’m at the piano—those others come and take hold of my hands.’
He was staring at her—paralysed. For one instant, as she spoke, something looked out from her eyes. It was gone in a flash—but he knew it. It was the Thing that had looked out from the House.
She caught his momentary recoil.
‘You see,’ she whispered. ‘You see—but I wish Maisie hadn’t told you. It takes everything from you.’
‘Everything?’
‘Yes. There won’t even be the dreams left. For now—you’ll never dare to dream of the House again.’
The West African sun poured down, and the heat was intense.
John Segrave continued to moan.
‘I can’t find it. I can’t find it.’
The little English doctor with the red head and the tremendous jaw, scowled down upon his patient in that bullying manner which he had made his own.
‘He’s always saying that. What does he mean?’
‘He speaks, I think, of a house, monsieur.’ The soft-voiced Sister of Charity from the Roman Catholic Mission spoke with her gentle detachment, as she too looked down on the stricken man.
‘A house, eh? Well, he’s got to get it out of his head, or we shan’t pull him through. It’s on his mind. Segrave! Segrave!’
The wandering attention was fixed. The eyes rested with recognition on the doctor’s face.
‘Look here, you’re going to pull through. I’m going to pull you through. But you’ve got to stop worrying about this house. It can’t run away, you know. So don’t bother about looking for it now.’
‘All right.’ He seemed obedient. ‘I suppose it can’t very well run away if it’s never been there at all.’
‘Of course not!’ The doctor laughed his cheery laugh. ‘Now you’ll be all right in no time.’ And with a boisterous bluntness of manner he took his departure.
Segrave lay thinking. The fever had abated for the moment, and he could think clearly and lucidly. He must find that House.
For ten years he had dreaded finding it—the thought that he might come upon it unawares had been his greatest terror. And then, he remembered, when his fears were quite lulled
