“Delaney looked at the postmark; it was stamped 11.30 p.m. Could Davidson have been on the way to the pillar-box, when he (Delaney) had seen his phantasm? If that were so, then, undoubtedly, it was a case of unconscious projection. Markham, whilst thinking of him (Delaney) in connection with the invitation to Llanginney, had unconsciously separated his immaterial from his material body and projected it. Delaney had read one or two works on psychic phenomena, and understood from them that spirit projection was not only quite feasible but far from uncommon. However, he could not accept Davidson’s invitation. He had not the money. Go to Llanginney, indeed! Why, Davidson might as well have asked him to travel to Petrograd. And yet—the pool, that white road, those shaking pine-trees, that lurking invisible something. Could he resist? For a solid hour he battled with himself, battled till the sweat rose to his brow and poured down his throat and chest. Then he decided. To join Davidson was utterly out of the question. He had neither the time, money, nor inclination. Like the majority of writers, Davidson was a creature of impulse—erratic and irresponsible. He, Philip Delaney, was different. He was a materialist, wholly practical and level-headed. He never acted on the spur of the moment, never chased wild geese. In a very superior frame of mind he sat down and wrote to Davidson, expressing his extreme regret at not being able to accept his invitation. Then he got up, breathed a sigh of relief, and, clapping on his hat, went off to business.
“All that day, however, whilst he was brooding over figures in his office, and listening to the ceaseless babble at the ‘Change, his mind reverted to the pool. It was that black piece of water, always that water, and Davidson in his red tie, always that particular red tie, struggling in it. At last he could stand it no longer. He felt that even if he had to sell his wife, and house, and children, he must yield to this attraction—this damnable attraction—and go!
“Darting out of his office, shortly after luncheon, he hurried to the railway station and took the first train home. In less than half an hour he had made all the necessary arrangements for a brief absence, packed his valise and secured a hansom. (All this happened long before the advent of taxis.)
“The train was an express to Chester, but the rest of the journey was slow, and it was nine o’clock before he found himself on the single platform of Llangelly, the nearest station to Llanginney.
“Delaney enquired as to how he was to reach his destination, and was informed by the solitary porter that, if he wished to get there, he must walk.
“‘There ain’t no vehicles for hire in this part of the country,’ the porter said. ‘Everyone that comes here has to use their feet. You can’t mistake the road. You’ve only to keep straight on—and you are bound to arrive there.’
“Delaney smiled grimly. He felt as little like walking as he had ever done in his life, and, besides his gladstone, he had a raincoat and umbrella.
“Fortunately the night was fine, and ere he had covered his first half-mile, the moon broke out from behind a cloud and illuminated the entire landscape. For the next mile or two the road was fairly flat, and then it gradually began to rise, the scenery becoming wilder and wilder. Every now and then he paused, and, throwing back his head, drank in deep breaths of the heather-scented air. Delicious! What a change from London! He calculated he must have done about three-quarters of the distance, when he arrived at a turning—the entrance to a lane—a lane that at once made him shudder. He paused opposite the turning, and tried to find some explanation for his fear.
“It was certainly very lonely, and the white patches of moonlight on the footpath and hedgerows suggested much; but, after all, it was only suggestion—suggestion which a few sunbeams would at once dissipate. He was standing within the shadow of a clump of firs facing the lane, and looking intently ahead of him, when, at a distance of some fifty or so yards, the figure of a man in a mackintosh slowly emerged from a gap in the hedge.