“That you guarantee your power of self-control if anything really horrible happens.  I mean—­that you are sure you won’t get too frightened.”

“Jim,” she said scornfully, “I’m not young, I know, nor are my nerves; but with you I should be afraid of nothing in the world!”

This, of course, settled it, for Shorthouse had no pretensions to being other than a very ordinary young man, and an appeal to his vanity was irresistible.  He agreed to go.

Instinctively, by a sort of sub-conscious preparation, he kept himself and his forces well in hand the whole evening, compelling an accumulative reserve of control by that nameless inward process of gradually putting all the emotions away and turning the key upon them—­a process difficult to describe, but wonderfully effective, as all men who have lived through severe trials of the inner man well understand.  Later, it stood him in good stead.

But it was not until half-past ten, when they stood in the hall, well in the glare of friendly lamps and still surrounded by comforting human influences, that he had to make the first call upon this store of collected strength.  For, once the door was closed, and he saw the deserted silent street stretching away white in the moonlight before them, it came to him clearly that the real test that night would be in dealing with two fears instead of one.  He would have to carry his aunt’s fear as well as his own.  And, as he glanced down at her sphinx-like countenance and realised that it might assume no pleasant aspect in a rush of real terror, he felt satisfied with only one thing in the whole adventure—­that he had confidence in his own will and power to stand against any shock that might come.

Slowly they walked along the empty streets of the town; a bright autumn moon silvered the roofs, casting deep shadows; there was no breath of wind; and the trees in the formal gardens by the sea-front watched them silently as they passed along.  To his aunt’s occasional remarks Shorthouse made no reply, realising that she was simply surrounding herself with mental buffers—­saying ordinary things to prevent herself thinking of extra-ordinary things.  Few windows showed lights, and from scarcely a single chimney came smoke or sparks.  Shorthouse had already begun to notice everything, even the smallest details.  Presently they stopped at the street corner and looked up at the name on the side of the house full in the moonlight, and with one accord, but without remark, turned into the square and crossed over to the side of it that lay in shadow.

“The number of the house is thirteen,” whispered a voice at his side; and neither of them made the obvious reference, but passed across the broad sheet of moonlight and began to march up the pavement in silence.

It was about half-way up the square that Shorthouse felt an arm slipped quietly but significantly into his own, and knew then that their adventure had begun in earnest, and that his companion was already yielding imperceptibly to the influences against them.  She needed support.