THE THRESHOLD OF FEAR
"Even in sleep?"
"Yes, even in sleep. He was in the mental state which suggestionists call autohypnosis. In plain words he was the victim of a fixed idea."
■ "I understand his fear better now," I said, after a pause. "Those missing days are really very curious. Can you account for them, Grey?"
"I cannot say. Of course it is possible that the Inca witch-doctor may have thrown him into a hypnotic sleep, or administered some powerful narcotic drug which would have the same effect."
"But would a witch-doctor be likely to understand hypnotism?"
Grey shrugged his shoulders.
"Who is to say? Braid is supposed to have been the first investigator, but it is possible it may have been practised in the ancient civilization of the Incas thousands of years ago. But leaving hypnotism out of it, it is quite certain that many of the priests and witch-doctors of aboriginal races have a complete knowledge of the influence of imagination upon the human mind.
"We are, every one of us, far more the slaves of our imagination than is commonly supposed. And imagination in the case of the great majority of the human race still remains a very crude and primitive thing.
"And now, Haldham, we must really go. The dawn is showing through the window."
As he bent over the table to turn out the lamp I asked him a final question.
"I suppose it is inconceivable that Edward Chesworth actually was dead during those four days?" I said.
"That also is possible—in imagination at least," he responded with his slow, luminous smile, and with that I had to be content.
•••
I parted from Grey later at Penzance, and went back to St. Bree across the moors. As I walked I thought over all Grey had told me in the dead man's house the night before. That story was taking me back to Charmingdene to set the minds of Edward Chesworth and his sister at rest; and I exulted in the thought of seeing her again. A vision of her as I had seen her two afternoons before came to me just then. The wistfulness of her attitude, her last glance as she turned away in the grey solitude of the moors. . . . All that was in the past. Her brother was saved, her own peace of mind restored. It was my mission to tell her, and her alone. It was she who had trusted me. With her brother and uncle I was not concerned; they could hear the story—or as much of it as she chose to tell—from her lips. After telling her, I would be free to go to London and my own affairs. To what purpose should I go to Charmingdene again? And yet.
The day was grey and chill, but grew slowly brighter as I walked. The air was still, and a faint sun shone fitfully in a paling sky. The upward sweep of the road brought me to the open heather which lay between St. Bree and Charmingdene. I saw the hamlet in the distance; the inn, the granite cross, and the quaint stone buildings of the little street. With a surer knowledge of my surroundings now, I took my way over the hills.
The afternoon was declining when I reached that remembered turn of the path where the valley spread out beneath. Across the moorland I saw the loose pinnacles of The Oysters, and the great holed stones on the intervening slopes. And there, by one of them, stood Eleanor.
I stopped, and looked at her. She was by the kissing stone where we had parted two days before, her head turned slightly in the direction of the invisible sea. I could see the clear outline of her profile, the sheen of dark hair beneath her hat. I was conscious of my deep love for her then. But I went forward slowly, and with hesitating steps.
I was close to her before she turned and saw me. Her eyes met mine with a smile as I approached.
"I have been waiting," she murmured. "I thought you would come." ■ ■ ■
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