Waram came immediately.  He stood in the doorway a moment, staring at the grotesque figure which faced him.  He made a terrified gesture, as if he would shut out what he saw.  Then he came into the garden, steadying himself by holding on to the backs of the little iron garden chairs.  The poet saw that Waram had not changed so very much—­a little gray hair in that thick, black mop, a few wrinkles, a rather stodgy look about the waist.  No more.  He was still Waram, neat, self-satisfied, essentially English....  Grimshaw strangled a feeling of aversion and said quietly:  “Well, Waram.  How d’you do?  I call myself Pilleux now.”

Waram ignored his hand.  Leaning heavily on one of the chairs, he stared with a passionate intentness.  “Grimshaw?” he said at last.

“Why, yes,” Grimshaw answered.  “Didn’t you know?”

Waram licked his lips.  In a whisper he said:  “I killed you in Switzerland six years ago.  Killed you, you understand.”

Grimshaw touched his breast with both hands.  “You lie.

“Here I am.”

“You are dead.”

“Dead?”

“Before God, I swear it.”

“Dead?”

Grimshaw felt once more the on-rushing flood of darkness.  His thoughts flashed back over the years.  The “wall.”  His suffering.  The dog.  The song in the field.  The Negro.  The door that opened.  The stars.  His own flesh, fading into spirit, into shadows....

“Dead?” he demanded again.

Waram’s eyes wavered.  He laughed unsteadily and looked behind him.  “Strange,” he said.  “I thought I saw——­” He turned and went quickly across the garden into the hotel.  Grimshaw called once, in a loud voice:  “Waram!” But the doctor did not even turn his head.  Grimshaw followed him, overtook him, touched his shoulder.  Waram paid no attention.  Going to the bureau he said to the proprietor:  “You told me that a Monsieur Pilleux wished to see me.”

“Oui, monsieur.  He was waiting for you in the garden.”

“He is not there now.”

“But just a moment ago——­”

“I am here,” Grimshaw interrupted.

The proprietor brushed past Waram and peered into the garden.  It was twilight out there now.  The cat still slept on the wall.  Dust on the leaves.  Stillness....

“I’m sorry, monsieur.  He seems to have disappeared.”

Doctor Waram straightened his shoulders.  “Ah,” he said.  “Disappeared.  Exactly.”  And passing Grimshaw without a glance he went upstairs.

Grimshaw spoke to the proprietor.  But the little man bent over the desk, and began to write in an account book.  His pen went on scratching, inscribing large, flourishing numbers in a neat column....

Grimshaw shrugged and went into the street.  The crowds paid no attention to him—­but then, they never had.  A dog sniffed at his heels, whined, and thrust a cold nose into his hand.

He went to his house.  “I’ll ask Marie,” he thought....  She was sitting before a mirror, her hands clasped under her chin, smiling at herself....  She had put a flower in her hair.  Her lips were parted.  She smiled at some secret thought.  Grimshaw watched her a moment; then with a leap of his heart he touched her shoulder.  And she did not turn, did not move....