'He didn't,' said Wish; 'he couldn't. Or you'd have gone there too.'
'That's precisely it,' I said, finding my elusive idea put into words for me.
'That is precisely it,' said Clayton, with thoughtful eyes upon the fire.
For just a little while there was silence.
'And at last he did it?' said Sanderson.
'At last he did it. I had to keep him up to it hard, but he did it at last—rather suddenly. He despaired, we had a scene, and then he got up abruptly and asked me to go through the whole performance, slowly, so that he might see. "I believe," he said, "if I could see I should spot what was wrong at once." And he did. "I know," he said. "What do you know? said I. "I know," he repeated. Then he said, peevishly, "I can't do it if you look at me—I really can't; it's been that, partly, all along. I'm such a nervous fellow that you put me out." Well, we had a bit of an argument. Naturally I wanted to see; but he was as obstinate as a mule, and suddenly I had come over as tired as a dog—he tired me out. "All right," I said, "I won't look at you," and turned towards the mirror, on the wardrobe, by the bed.
'He started off very fast. I tried to follow him by looking in the looking-glass, to see just what it was had hung. Round went his arms and hands, so, and so, and so, and then with a rush came to the last gesture off all—you stand erect and open out your arms—and so, don't you know, he stood. And then he didn't! He didn't! He wasn't! I wheeled round from the looking-glass to him. There was nothing! I was alone with the flaring candles and a staggering mind. What had happened? Had anything happened? Had I been dreaming? . . . And then, with an absurd note of finality about it, the clock upon the landing
