The girl and I exchanged glances, and after a hearty laugh at the frightened spectacle we all three presented, we again parted, and I returned to my room.
What was the meaning of that inexplicable apparition of the hand? Why had the dying man warned me of it?
I could quite see Asta’s reluctance to tell her father what she had seen, knowing well how he—plain, matter-of-fact man—would laugh at her and declare that she had been dreaming.
But it was no dream. I myself had seen the Thing with my own eyes, while my own cheek only a few hours before had borne witness to its actual existence.
I saw how horrified she was at its reappearance, and what a terrible impression it had produced upon her already overwrought nerves. I knew that she would not again retire that night—and indeed, feeling that some unknown evil was present, I slipped on my clothes and spent the remainder of the night in an armchair, reading a French novel.
Dawn came at last, and as soon as the sun rose I descended, and went out for a long, invigorating walk beside the Rhone.
On my return I met Asta strolling alone under the trees in the Place near the hotel, and referred to the weird incident of the night.
“Ah, Mr Kemball, please do not recall it!” she implored. “It is too horrible! I—I can’t make out what it can be—except that it is a sign to us of impending evil.”
“A sign to us both,” I said. “But whom are we to fear?”
“Perhaps that woman.”