Had the gifts been in vain? Had the secret been exposed? Was it they who had whispered in Marcia Lawrence's ear the story which had broken the marriage, caused her flight, ruined her future? Was that their revenge for some old injury? Had they waited till the last moment to make it more complete, more crushing? But if they, indeed, had so avenged themselves, would she have fled to them for refuge? Would she not rather have fled from them with loathing?
I felt that I was entangling myself in a web of my own weaving. I put the problem from me, but it pursued me even past sleep's portals. I dreamed that I was staring over the hedge at the Kingdon cottage, at a lighted window. Three women were in the room, as I could see from the shadows thrown upon the blind. They were walking up and down, seemingly in great excitement. I fancied that I could hear the sound of voices, but I could distinguish no words. Then suddenly, two of the women sprang upon the third. She struggled desperately, but their hands were at her throat, choking her life away. She turned toward me, the curtain seemed to lift, and I beheld the agonised face of Marcia Lawrence.
I tried to leap the hedge, but could not stir. Some power beyond me seemed to hold me fast; some mighty weight bound me to the spot. A moment longer the struggle lasted, while I stood staring; I felt her eyes on mine, I knew that she had seen me. She held out an imploring hand; then, when I made no sign in answer, despair swept across her face, she seemed to realise her helplessness, and collapsed into the arms of her assailants with a scream so shrill, so terrible that it startled me awake.
CHAPTER X
The Mysterious Light
It was some moments before I could think clearly, so real and vivid had that vision been. I threw out my arms to assure myself that I was still in bed; I could scarcely believe that I was not really shivering behind the hedge, staring across at that lighted window and the dreadful drama it revealed. I was bathed in perspiration and yet felt chilled to the very marrow.
Indeed, my teeth were chattering as I groped my way to the light, turned it on, and looked at my watch. It was nearly one o'clock. The night was clear and pleasant, with a faint breeze stirring. There was no moon, but the stars were shining so brightly that one looked for it instinctively.
I knew it was no use to return to bed until my nerves were quieter; and, indeed, that vision had banished all desire for sleep; so I filled my pipe, lighted it, drew up a chair and sat down by the open window. The street below was deserted; and for an instant I found myself wondering that it was not thronged with people, roused by the scream which had awakened me. Then I remembered that there had been no scream, that I had simply dreamed it.
But I had only to close my eyes to see again that lighted window and the shadows on the blind. It seemed even clearer to me than it had been in the dream. I could see every detail of the struggle, and I opened my eyes abruptly so that I might escape the end. There was something supernatural about it; I had never dreamed a dream like that before—a dream which, waking, I could rehearse at pleasure. Perhaps it was not wholly a vision; perhaps it had some foundation in reality, some telepathic origin. I had read of such things, sceptically; but some of the phenomena of thought transference had, I knew, been accepted, reluctantly enough, even by the scientific world.