and arms before us. As he drew towards the end one piled up, one

tingled in one's teeth. The last gesture, I have said, was to swing

the arms out wide open, with the face held up. And when at last he

swung out to this closing gesture I ceased even to breathe. It was

ridiculous, of course, but you know that ghost-story feeling. It was

after dinner, in a queer, old shadowy house. Would he, after all--?



There he stood for one stupendous moment, with his arms open and his

upturned face, assured and bright, in the glare of the hanging lamp.

We hung through that moment as if it were an age, and then came from

all of us something that was half a sigh of infinite relief and half a

reassuring "NO!" For visibly--he wasn't going. It was all nonsense.

He had told an idle story, and carried it almost to conviction, that

was all! . . . And then in that moment the face of Clayton, changed.



It changed. It changed as a lit house changes when its lights are

suddenly extinguished. His eyes were suddenly eyes that were fixed,

his smile was frozen on his lips, and he stood there still. He stood

there, very gently swaying.



That moment, too, was an age. And then, you know, chairs were scraping,

things were falling, and we were all moving. His knees seemed to give,

and he fell forward, and Evans rose and caught him in his arms. . . .



It stunned us all. For a minute I suppose no one said a coherent

thing. We believed it, yet could not believe it. . . . I came out

of a muddled stupefaction to find myself kneeling beside him,

and his vest and shirt were torn open, and Sanderson's hand lay

on his heart. . . .



Well--the simple fact before us could very well wait our convenience;

there was no hurry for us to comprehend. It lay there for an hour;

it lies athwart my memory, black and amazing still, to this day.

Clayton had, indeed, passed into the world that lies so near to

and so far from our own, and he had gone thither by the only road

that mortal man may take. But whether he did indeed pass there

by that poor ghost's incantation, or whether he was stricken suddenly

by apoplexy in the midst of an idle tale--as the coroner's jury would

have us believe--is no matter for my judging; it is just one of those

inexplicable riddles that must remain unsolved until the final solution

of all things shall come. All I certainly know is that, in the very

moment, in the very instant, of concluding those passes, he changed,

and staggered, and fell down before us--dead!





7. JIMMY GOGGLES THE GOD



"It isn't every one who's been a god," said the sunburnt man. "But

it's happened to me. Among other things."





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