"But you have," she replied. "Now I must know the rest."
He told her all that there was to tell. Reduced to the simple terms of narrative, the story sounded, even to him, thin and unconvincing. There was so little of fact and event, so much of suggestion and vague emotion. But his recollection was still vivid, and something of the queer terror which he had felt as he had lain in the darkness was expressed in his aspect and in the vibrations of his voice. So, at all events, he judged. For he had almost expected her to laugh at the solemnity of his manner, and yet Ina did not so much as smile. She listened without even astonishment, paying close heed to every word, now and then nodding her head in assent, but never interrupting. He was vaguely reminded of clients listening to his advice in some grave crisis of their affairs. But when he had finished she made no comment. She just sat still and rigid, gazing at him with baffling and inscrutable eyes.
Dorman Royle rose. "So it wasn't you, Ina, who returned last night?" he said.
"No," she answered, in a voice which was low, but now quite clear and steady. "I slept soundly last night--much more soundly than I usually do."
"That's strange," said Royle.
"I don't think so," Ina answered. "I think it follows. I was let alone. Yes, that's all of a piece with your story, don't you see?"
Dorman Royle sprang up, and at his abrupt movement his wife's face flashed into life and fear.
"What are you saying?" he cried, and she shrank as if she realised now what a dangerous phrase she had allowed her lips to utter.
"Nothing, nothing!" she exclaimed, and she set herself obstinately to her letter.
Royle looked at the clock.