"I said something to Heath at breakfast about having had a bad night,
and he got up at once and left the table. After that nothing happened
until last night. I had been out all day, and came home dog-tired. I
turned in early and left Heath reading a theological book in the
veranda. I said, I remember, 'I'm absolutely beat, Padré; I have had
enough to-day to give me nine or ten hours without stirring,' and he
looked up and said, 'Don't complain of that, Atkins; there are worse
things than sound sleep.' It struck me then that he hadn't known what it
was for weeks, he looked so gaunt and thin, and I thought again of that
other night that we had neither of us spoken about."

"Heath never explained anything?"

"No, I never asked him to."

"What happened then?" Hartley's voice was hardly above a whisper, and he
leaned close to Atkins to listen.

"I slept for hours, fairly hogged it until it must have been two or
three in the morning, judging by the light, and then I awoke suddenly,
the way one wakes when there is some noise that is different to usual
noises, and after a moment or two I heard the sound of voices, and I got
out of bed and went very quietly into the veranda. Heath's lamp was
burning, his room is at the far end from mine, and I stood there,
shivering like a leaf out of sheer jumps. I had a regular 'night attack'
feeling over me. I heard a chair pushed back, and I heard Heath say in a
low voice 'If you come here again, or if you dog me again, I'll hand you
over to the police,' and the man laughed. I can't describe his laugh;
it was the most damnable thing I ever listened to, and I thought of