"I don't believe it could be accomplished in New York," he said, with great gravity. "And that's a pretty safe conclusion to come to, is it not?"
She dropped her eyes, silent for a moment, resting her delicate chin on the palm of her hand. Then she lifted her eyes to him calmly, and the direct beauty of her gaze disturbed him.
"No, it is not a safe conclusion to come to. Listen to me. Last night they gave a dance at the Willow Brook Hunt. It was nearly two o'clock this morning when I left the club-house and started home across the lawn with my mother and the maid —"
"But how on earth could—" he began, then begged her pardon and waited.
She continued, serenely: "The night was warm and lovely, and it was clear starlight. When I entered my room I sent the maid away and sat down by the open window. The scent of the flowers and the beauty of the night made me restless; I went down-stairs, unbolted the door, and slipped out through the garden to the pergola. My hammock hung there, and I lay down in it, looking out at the stars."
She drew the ring from her finger, holding it out for him to see.
"The starlight caught the gems on the Sign of Venus," she said, under her breath; "that was the beginning. And then—I don't know why—as I lay there idly turning the ring on my finger, I found myself saying, 'I must go to New York: I must leave my body here asleep in the hammock and go to my own room in Fifty-eighth Street.'"
A curious little chill passed over Hetherford.
"I said it again and again—I don't know why. I remember the ring glittered; I remember it grew brighter and brighter. And then—and then! I found myself up-stairs in the dark, groping over the dresser for the matches."
Again that faint chill touched Hetherford.
"I was stupefied for a moment," she said, tremulously; "then I suspected what I had done, and it frightened me. And when I lighted the candle, and saw it was truly my own room—and when I caught sight of my own face in the mirror—terror seized me;—it was like a glimpse of something taken unawares. For, do you know that although in the glass I saw my own face, the face was not looking back at me." She dropped her head, crushing the ring in both hands. "The reflected face was far lovelier than mine; and it was mine, I think, yet it was not looking at me, and it moved when I did not move. I wonder—I wonder—"
The tension was too much. "If that be so," he said, steadying his voice,—"if you saw a face in your mirror, the face was your own." He made an impatient gesture, rising to his feet at the same moment. "All that you have told me can be explained," he said.
"How can it? At this very moment I am asleep in my hammock."
"We will deal with that later," he said, smiling down at her. "Where is there a looking-glass?"
"There is one in the hallway." She rose, slipping the ring on her finger, and led the way to where an oval gilt mirror hung partly covered with dust-cloths.
He cast aside the coverings. "Now look into the glass," he said, gayly.
She raised her head and faced the mirror for an instant.
"Come here," she whispered; and he stepped behind her, looking over her shoulder.
In the glass, as though reflected, he saw her face, but the face was in profile!
A shiver passed over him from head to foot.
"Did I not tell you?" she whispered. "Look! See, the other face is moving, while I am still!"
"There's something wrong about the glass, of course," he muttered—"it's defective."
"But who is that in the glass?"
"It is you—your profile. I don't exactly understand. Good Lord! It's turning away from us!"
She shrank against the wall, wide-eyed, breathing rapidly.
"There is no use in our being frightened," he said, scarcely knowing what he uttered. "This is Fifty-eighth Street, New York, 1903." He shook his shoulders, squaring them, and forced a smile. "Don't be frightened; there's an explanation for all this. You are not
