effect. As MacIan and Turnbull walked steadily but slowly towards
the entrance hall of the institution, they could see that most,
or at least many, of the patients had already gathered there as
well as the staff of doctors and the whole regiment of keepers and
assistants. But when they entered the lamp-lit hall, and the high
iron door was clashed to and locked behind them, yet a new
amazement leapt into their eyes, and the stalwart Turnbull almost
fell. For he saw a sight which was indeed, as MacIan had
said--either the Day of Judgement or a dream.

Within a few feet of him at one corner of the square of standing
people stood the girl he had known in Jersey, Madeleine Durand.
She looked straight at him with a steady smile which lit up the
scene of darkness and unreason like the light of some honest
fireside. Her square face and throat were thrown back, as her
habit was, and there was something almost sleepy in the geniality
of her eyes. He saw her first, and for a few seconds saw her
only; then the outer edge of his eyesight took in all the other
staring faces, and he saw all the faces he had ever seen for
weeks and months past. There was the Tolstoyan in Jaeger flannel,
with the yellow beard that went backward and the foolish nose and
eyes that went forward, with the curiosity of a crank. He was
talking eagerly to Mr. Gordon, the corpulent Jew shopkeeper whom
they had once gagged in his own shop. There was the tipsy old
Hertfordshire rustic; he was talking energetically to himself.
There was not only Mr. Vane the magistrate, but the clerk of Mr.
Vane, the magistrate. There was not only Miss Drake of the
motor-car, but also Miss Drake's chauffeur. Nothing wild or
unfamiliar could have produced upon Turnbull such a nightmare
impression as that ring of familiar faces. Yet he had one