It took my breath away.  Had his predecessors, former occupants of this house, also preached damnation of all the world but their own exclusive sect?  Was this the explanation of her obscure talk of “layers,” each striving against the other for domination?  And if men are spirits, and these spirits survive, could strong Thought thus determine their condition even afterwards?

So many questions flooded into me that I selected no one of them, but stared in uncomfortable silence, bewildered, out of my depth, and acutely, painfully distressed.  There was so odd a mixture of possible truth and incredible, unacceptable explanation in it all; so much confirmed, yet so much left darker than before.  What she said did, indeed, offer a quasi-interpretation of my own series of abominable sensations—­strife, agony, pity, hate, escape—­but so far-fetched that only the deep conviction in her voice and attitude made it tolerable for a second even.  I found myself in a curious state of mind.  I could neither think clearly nor say a word to refute her amazing statements, whispered there beside me in the shivering hours of the early morning with only a wall between ourselves and—­Mabel.  Close behind her words I remember this singular thing, however—­that an atmosphere as of the Inquisition seemed to rise and stir about the room, beating awful wings of black above my head.

Abruptly, then, a moment’s common sense returned to me.  I faced her.

“And the Noise?” I said aloud, more firmly, “the roar of the closing doors?  We have all heard that!  Is that subjective too?”

Frances looked sideways about her in a queer fashion that made my flesh creep again.  I spoke brusquely, almost angrily.  I repeated the question, and waited with anxiety for her reply.

“What noise?” she asked, with the frank expression of an innocent child.  “What closing doors?”

But her face turned from grey to white, and I saw that drops of perspiration glistened on her forehead.  She caught at the back of a chair to steady herself, then glanced about her again with that sidelong look that made my blood run cold.  I understood suddenly then.  She did not take in what I said.  I knew now.  She was listening—­for something else.

And the discovery revived in me a far stronger emotion than any mere desire for immediate explanation.  Not only did I not insist upon an answer, but I was actually terrified lest she would answer.  More, I felt in me a terror lest I should be moved to describe my own experiences below-stairs, thus increasing their reality and so the reality of all.  She might even explain them too!

Still listening intently, she raised her head and looked me in the eyes.  Her lips opened to speak.  The words came to me from a great distance, it seemed, and her voice had a sound like a stone that drops into a deep well, its fate though hidden, known.

“We are in it with her, too, Bill.  We are in it with her.  Our interpretations vary—­because we are—­in parts of it only.  Mabel is in it—­all.”