Book Four The Other Man Chapter 22 The Lunatic

She had never been frightened of the dark--of the outdoor dark. At Long Barton she had never been afraid even to go past the church-yard in the dark night--the free night that had never held any terrors, only dreams.

But now: she quickened her pace, and--yes--footsteps came on behind her. And in front the long straight ribbon of the road unwound, gray now in the shadow. There seemed to be no road turning to right or left. She could not go on forever. She would have to turn, sometime--if not now, yet sometime--in this black darkness, and then she would meet this thing that trod so softly, so stealthily behind her.

Before she knew that she had ceased to walk, she was crouched in the black between two bushes. She had leapt as the deer leaps, and crouched, still as any deer.

Her dark blue linen gown was one with the forest shadows. She breathed noiselessly--her eyes were turned to the gray ribbon of road that had been behind her. She had heard. Now she would see.

She did see--something white and tall and straight. Oh, the relief of the tallness and straightness and whiteness! She had thought of something dwarfed and clumsy--dark, misshapen, slouching beast-like on two shapeless feet. Why were people afraid of tall white ghosts?

It passed. It was a man--in a white suit. Just an ordinary man. No, not ordinary. The ordinary man in France does not wear white. Nor in England, except for boating and tennis and-Flannels. Yes. The lunatic who boiled his brains in the sun!