I called "Geraldine!" She halted. I went up to her.
"My darling, what are you doing in the garden at this hour? The grass is wet, and you are thinly clad."
"Who are you?" she asked in a hard whisper.
"Your husband—Arthur."
"Let me feel you."
I took her hand and led her to the house. She did not speak until we had gained the library. By the light of the candle I saw that her eyes were dilated, her face quite bloodless, her lips thin, white and rigid.
"Great God, Geraldine! Speak! What is the matter with you?" I cried.
"Let me get to bed—I am weary, weary," she answered.
I closed the window and accompanied her to our bedroom. She moaned like one under the influence of a narcotic. Her face was almost deformed by the harshness of its expression. Her fingers worked incessantly, like those of an infant in a sick slumber.
"Were you walking in your sleep Geraldine?" I asked.