Sybil tried not to look at the worried faces of her host and hostess as she crossed their hall. She glared at the grandfather clock. The minute hand was nearly on the 12, and trembling.

She threw open the front door. There was no Sam there, and no one galloping down the road.

The clock struck the hour. She heard someone step quietly beside her.

“Would you like me to read to the young man, madam?” said Willikins. “Perhaps a man’s voice would—”

“No, I’ll go up,” said Sybil quietly. “You wait here for my husband. He won’t be long,” she added firmly.

“Yes, madam.”

“He’ll probably be quite rushed.”

“I shall usher him up without delay, madam.”

“He will be here, you know!”

“Yes, madam.”

“He will walk through walls!”

Sybil climbed the stairs as the chimes ended. The clock was a wrong clock. Of course it was!

Young Sam had been installed in the old nursery of the house, a rather somber place full of grays and browns. There was a truly frightening rocking horse, all teeth and mad glass eyes.

The boy was standing up in his cot. He was smiling, but the smile faded into puzzlement as Sybil pulled up a chair and sat down next to him.

“Daddy has asked Mummy to read to you tonight, Sam,” she announced brightly. “Won’t that be fun!”

Her heart did not sink. It could not. It was already as low as any heart could go. But it curled up and whimpered as she watched the little boy stare at her, at the door, at her again, and then throw back his head and scream.