"You thought I 'd scream for help, I suppose," suggested Margaret.
"No," he replied slowly. "But I often wondered whether, when the time came, you 'd go to your room or stay and lend a hand. Not that you wouldn't be quite right to stand out, for it 's a foul business, all this, and there 's nothing pretty in it. Still, taking sides is a sign of life in one's body—and I 'm glad."
"That's all right, then," said Margaret. "And it 's enough about me for the present, too. You said that some day it won't be possible any more to talk him down. Did you mean—some day soon?"
"Goodness knows," said Ford. He leaned back and turned his head to look over the back of the couch at Mr. Samson. "Samson," he called.
"Yes; what?"
"That was bad, eh! What's the meaning of it?"
Mr. Samson blew out his breath windily and uncrossed his thin legs. "Don't care to go into it before Miss Harding," he said pointedly.
"Oh, bother," exclaimed Margaret. "Don't you think I want to know too?"
"Well, then," said Mr. Samson, with careful deliberation, "since you ask me, I 'd say it was a touch of the horrors casting its shadow before. He doesn't exactly see things, y' know, but that 's what 's coming. Next thing he knows, he 'll see snakes or cuttle-fish or rats all round the room and he 'll—he 'll gibber. Sorry, Miss Harding, but you wanted to know."
"But—but—" Margaret stared aghast at the feeble, urbane old man asprawl in the wicker chair, who spoke with genial authority on these matters of shadowy horror. "But how can you possibly know all this?"