Although my mind was a blank for a time, I am convinced I never lost consciousness of that room or of the business I had in hand. There was absolutely no sensation of waking, only another sudden desire to move.
Again I walked to the window, and as I came back I glanced in the direction of the glass. This time my own reflection did not startle me; not because I was ready for it, but because I did not see it.
I must have crossed the room at a different angle, or my eyes—
I went to the glass, and then I started. There was no reflection. I was not in the glass.
In a moment the knowledge that this room was haunted came to me in full force. There was the glass, plainer than I had seen it before, my eyes were not at fault. Indeed, as I stared into it, there was a dim outline of images in the glass, the furniture of the room, but of me no reflection at all. Was I bewitched? Surely I must be in my chair, sleeping, dreaming, for suddenly in the glass, moving as in a mist, there were shadows—a bed and a man lying on it, and bending over him was another man whose hands were twisting about his companion.
I tried to call out to stop him, then I drew back, and the next moment I was at the door, speaking to Burroughs in a whisper.
"What is it?" he asked, coming swiftly into the room.
"Look!" and I seized him by the arm and drew him to the looking-glass.
"Well, what is it?" he asked again.
His reflection and mine were looking out at us, one scared face, mine; one full of questioning, his.