In this startling image of himself he recognised somebody he had to follow--the frightened guide of his dream.

He traversed endless galleries, no end of lofty halls, innumerable doors.
He lost himself utterly--he found his way again.

Room succeeded room.
At last the lamp went out, and he stumbled against some object which, when he stooped for it, he found to be very cold and heavy to lift.

The sickly white light of dawn showed him the head of a statue.

Its marble hair was done in the bold lines of a helmet, on its lips the chisel had left a faint smile, and it resembled Miss Moorsom.