do, all things considered. You ought to be very thankful."

He dismissed the subject for more pressing matters, and he never noticed
the awful whiteness of Merryon's face or the deadly fixity of his look.

Macfarlane noticed both, coming up two hours later to report the death
of one of the officers at the bungalow.

"For Heaven's sake, man, have some brandy!" he said, proffering a flask
of his own. "You're looking pretty unhealthy. What is it? Feeling a bit
off, eh?"

He held Merryon's wrist while he drank the brandy, regarding him with a
troubled frown the while.

"What is the matter with you, man?" he said. "You're not frightening
yourself? You wouldn't be such a fool!"

Merryon did not answer. He was never voluble. To-day he seemed
tongue-tied.

Macfarlane continued with an uneasy effort to hide a certain doubt
stirring in his mind. "I hear there was a European died at the
_dâk-bungalow_ early this morning. I wanted to go round and see, but I
haven't been able. It's fairly widespread, but there's no sense in
getting scared. Halloa, Merryon!"

He broke off, staring. Merryon had given a great start. He looked like a
man stabbed suddenly from a dream to full consciousness.