To his astonishment it had had no effect.

She had felt as if she were going mad--the effect, so he had told her afterwards, of the awful shock she had had.
To-night she wondered with a kind of terror whether that terrible sleeplessness which had ended by making her feel almost lightheaded was coming back.
She turned away from the window, and, getting into bed again, tried to compose her limbs into absolute repose, as the doctor had advised her to do.

And then, just as she was mercifully going to sleep, there floated in, through the open window, a variant on a doggerel song she had last heard in Egypt:-- "The angels sing-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling, They've got the goods for me.
The bells of hell ring ting-a-ling-a-ling For you, as you shall see." Enid Crofton sat up in bed.

She felt suddenly afraid--horribly, desperately afraid.

As is often the case with those who have drifted away from any form of religion, she was very superstitious, and terrified of evil omens.