Peter stood in the centre of the dark deserted floor， notlistening but waiting for the idea of his brother’s whereaboutsto enter his brain. But Francis crouched with fingers on hisears， eyes uselessly closed， mind numbed against impressions，and only a sense of strain could cross the gap of dark. Thena voice called “Coming”， and as though his brother’s selfpossessionhad been shattered by the sudden cry， Peter Mortonjumped with his fear. But it was not his own fear. What in hisbrother was a burning panic was in him an altruistic emotionthat left the reason unimpaired. “Where， if I were Francis，should I hide？” And because he was， if not Francis himself，at least a mirror to him， the answer was immediate. “Betweenthe oak bookcase on the left of the study door， and the leathersettee.” Between the twins there could be no jargon oftelepathy. They had been together in the womb， and they couldnot be parted.
Peter Morton tiptoed towards Francis’s hiding-place.
Occasionally a board rattled， and because he feared to be caughtby one of the soft questers through the dark， he bent and untiedhis laces. A tag struck the floor and the metallic sound set ahost of cautious feet moving in his direction. But by that timehe was in his stockings and would have laughed inwardly atthe pursuit had not the noise of someone stumbling on hisabandoned shoes made his heart trip. No more boards revealedPeter Morton’s progress.
On stockinged feet he moved silently and unerringlytowards his object. Instinct told him he was near the wall， and，extending a hand， he laid the fingers across his brother’s face.
Francis did not cry out， but the leap of his own heartrevealed to Peter a proportion of Francis’s terror. “It’s allright，” he whispered， feeling down the squatting figure untilhe captured a clenched hand. “It’s only me. I’ll stay with you.”
And grasping the other tightly， he listened to the cascade ofwhispers his utterance had caused to fall. A hand touchedthe book-case close to Peter’s head and he was aware ofhow Francis’s fear continued in spite of his presence. It wasless intense， more bearable， he hoped， but it remained. Heknew that it was his brother’s fear and not his own that heexperienced. The dark to him was only an absence of light； thegroping hand that of a familiar child. Patiently he waited to befound.
He did not speak again， for between Francis and himself wasthe most intimate communion. By way of joined hands thoughtcould flow more swiftly than lips could shape themselvesround words. He could experience the whole progress of hisbrother’s emotion， from the leap of panic at the unexpectedcontact to the steady pulse of fear， which now went on and onwith the regularity of a heart-beat. Peter Morton thought withintensity， “I am here. You needn’t be afraid. The lights will goon again soon. That rustle， that movement is nothing to fear.
Only Joyce， only Mabel Warren.” He bombarded the droopingform with thoughts of safety， but he was conscious that thefear continued. “They are beginning to whisper together. Theyare tired of looking for us. The lights will go on soon. We shallhave won. Don’t be afraid. That was someone on the stairs.
I believe it’s Mrs Henne-Falcon. Listen. They are feeling forthe lights.” Feet moving on a carpet， hands brushing a wall，a curtain pulled apart， a clicking handle， the opening of acupboard door. In the case above their heads a loose bookshifted under a touch. “Only Joyce， only Mabel Warren， onlyMrs Henne-Falcon，” a crescendo of reassuring thought beforethe chandelier burst， like a fruit-tree， into bloom.
The voice of the children rose shrilly into the radiance.
“Where’s Peter？” “Have you looked upstairs？” “Where’sFrancis？” but they were silenced again by Mrs Henne-Falcon’sscream. But she was not the first to notice Francis Morton’sstillness， where he had collapsed against the wall at the touchof his brother’s hand. Peter continued to hold the clenchedfingers in an arid and puzzled grief. It was not merely thathis brother was dead. His brain， too young to realize the fullparadox， wondered with an obscure self-pity why it was thatthe pulse of his brother’s fear went on and on， when Franciswas now where he had always been told there was no moreterror and no more—darkness.