«So that's that!» said Enid.

«However,» he continued, «I can admit that there are occasional excuses for misunderstandings upon the point.» He sank his voice, and his great grey eyes looked sadly up into vacancy. « I have known cases where the coldest intellect – even my own intellect – might, for a moment have been shaken.»

Malone scented copy.

«Yes, sir?»

Challenger hesitated. He seemed to be struggling with himself. He wished to speak, and yet speech was painful. Then, with an abrupt, impatient gesture, he plunged into his story:

«I never told you, Enid. It was too . . . too intimate. Perhaps too absurd. I was ashamed to have been so shaken. But it shows how even the best balanced may be caught unawares.»

«Yes, sir?»

«It was after my wife's death. You knew her, Malone You can guess what it meant to me. It was the night after the cremation . . . horrible, Malone, horrible! I saw the dear little body slide down, down . . . and then the glare of flame and the door clanged to.» His great body shook and he passed his big, hairy hand over his eyes.

«I don't know why I tell you this; the talk seemed to lead up to it. It may be a warning to you. That night – the night after the cremation – I sat up in the hall. She was there,» he nodded at Enid. «She had fallen asleep in a chair, poor girl. You know the house at Rotherfield, Malone. It was in the big hall. I sat by the fireplace, the room all draped in shadow, and my mind draped In shadow also. I should have sent her to bed, but she was lying back in her chair and I did not wish to wake her. It may have been one in the morning – I remember the moon shining through the stained-glass window. I sat and I brooded. Then suddenly there came a noise.»

«Yes, sir?»

«It was low at first just a ticking.