In this strange and terrific dream of hers, Bonnie Doon is transformed into a citadel. She is in an upper room, and, gazing fearfully out of the window, she sees a mob of men surging round the pretty, old-fashioned, creeper-covered house standing so defenceless close to the road leading from Terriford village to Grendon. The assaulters are trying to force their way inside the house. She can hear the roar of triumph when one of them thinks he has obtained a foothold on the trellis work, and the murmur of disappointment and exasperation when one of them falls back.
She knows with a sure and dreadful knowledge that they are all trying to get at her, and she begins running from room to room trying to hide herself. But this only means a new horror—for into whatever room she runs there is always a window, and against that window she sees pressed menacing, grimacing faces.
And yet, even so, one part of her drugged brain tells her that this fearful adventure is only a dream—a dream induced by what Elsie told her about the three reporters whose faces were pressed against the kitchen window on the morning after the arrest of Harry Garlett. Her uncle had warned her that what had happened that morning would probably occur again and again....
At last, with a sobbing sensation of relief, she awakes and sits up in bed. What was it woke her? The sound, which seemed infinitely far away, of a window opening and shutting?
Again she lies down, and soon she has gone back to that strange land of dreams that has always played such a part in her life. But this time it is to a happy dreamland, and to her weary, bemused brain the knowledge brings with it a vague comfort. Anything is better than real life just now.
A dream-match has been struck close to her face, and a dream-man’s voice—a low, pleasant, caressing voice—exclaims soothingly:
“Don’t be frightened, little girl; it’s only a friend who wants to help you and your lover.”
A friend? A real friend who wants to help her and Harry? How wonderful! Even though she knows it is only a dream-friend, the kind deep voice brings comfort, and a measure of reassurance, to her oppressed heart. So she answers in a low, sleepy voice:
“How can you help us? I don’t think any one can help us.”
As she mutters the words the light flickers out, and she is again in darkness. But out of the darkness there again comes that drawling, caressing voice: