"And then we talk," she said. "But why should you talk like a virtuous maiden and I like a bad man?"
"I don't know," he said. "I know very little of hypnotism."
"Thomas Beverton," she said, with mock severity, "did you ever listen to a prayer from a helpless female in your power?"
"No," he answered, laughing. "No, I swear it. I've always done the praying myself."
"I suppose so," she rejoined, with a pout. Then, rising, she added: "If you are going to talk in your sleep, I'm going to listen, and I'll know all about your love affairs, remember that."
And with this truly feminine disposition of the question, she went to bed.
Beverton secured a broom from the kitchen and, reaching up, unhooked the carving-set and examined each piece carefully. The fork was a fork, the steel a steel, the knife a knife—simple in design and workmanship—such as could be found in any hardware store; but the knife possessed one slight peculiarity that his questioning eye noticed. Though it was ground in the conventional bowie-knife shape, yet the blade as a whole had more curve than is usual in carving-knives, while the long concave in the back of the blade, near the point, was very short and deep. A further exaggeration of these peculiarities would have given the blade the look of a Moorish scimitar; but, even so, would have carried no occult significance to Beverton's mind, and as it certainly did possess an unpleasant and material connection with the problem before him, he decided to remove it. Putting on his hat and overcoat, he took the three pieces out to the back yard and hurled them, one by one, over the fence into a deep snow-drift. Then he returned and, as was his custom, read until sleepy.
It was two hours later before the desired condition arrived, and laying down his book, he discovered that he had not bolted his untrusty wife in her room. He arose and looked in, only to see that her bed was empty. He called, but she did not answer, and, thoroughly awake now, he ran through the rooms of the house, but did not find her. As he reached the dining-room, however, to don his hat and coat, he saw her enter from the kitchen. She was in her nightdress, which was wet with clinging snow; in her eyes was the lightless stare of somnambulism, and in her hand the knife. In spite of his temperament, Beverton shivered as he watched her expressionless stare, then remembering his friend's instructions, pulled himself together, and said:
"Drop that knife. Drop it at once."
The knife clattered on the floor; he advanced, picked it up, and placed it on the sideboard. Then he faced her, calm and determined, resolved to solve the problem.