"A European--at the _dâk-bungalow_--dead, did you say?"

His words tumbled over each other; he gripped Macfarlane's shoulder and
shook it with fierce impatience.

"So I heard. I don't know any details. How should I? Merryon, are you
mad?" Macfarlane put up a quick hand to free himself, for the grip was
painful. "He wasn't a friend of yours, I suppose? He wouldn't have been
putting up there if he had been."

"No, no; not--a friend." The words came jerkily. Merryon was breathing
in great spasms that shook him from head to foot. "Not--a friend!" he
said again, and stopped, gazing before him with eyes curiously
contracted as the eyes of one striving to discern something a long way
off.

Macfarlane slipped a hand under his elbow. "Look here," he said, "you
must have a rest. You can be spared for a bit now. Walk back with me to
the hospital, and we will see how things are going there."

His hand closed urgently. He began to draw him away.

Merryon's eyes came back as it were out of space, and gave him a quick
side-glance that was like the turn of a rapier. "I must go down to the
_dâk-bungalow_," he said, with decision.

Swift protest rose to the doctor's lips, but it died there. He tightened
his hold instead, and went with him.

The colonel looked round sharply at their approach, looked--and swore