"Excuse me, Petrie!" he broke in. "Don't put it down to the sun!"
And he put out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

I was too surprised to speak.

"No doubt you will think me mad," he continued, and, dimly,
I could see him at the window, peering out into the road,
"but before you are many hours older you will know that I
have good reason to be cautious. Ah, nothing suspicious!
Perhaps I am first this time." And, stepping back to the
writing-table he relighted the lamp.

"Mysterious enough for you?" he laughed, and glanced at my unfinished MS.
"A story, eh? From which I gather that the district is beastly healthy--
what, Petrie? Well, I can put some material in your way that, if sheer
uncanny mystery is a marketable commodity, ought to make you independent
of influenza and broken legs and shattered nerves and all the rest."

I surveyed him doubtfully, but there was nothing in his appearance
to justify me in supposing him to suffer from delusions. His eyes
were too bright, certainly, and a hardness now had crept over his face.
I got out the whisky and siphon, saying:

"You have taken your leave early?"

"I am not on leave," he replied, and slowly filled his pipe.
"I am on duty."

"On duty!" I exclaimed. "What, are you moved to London or something?"