was wearier even than his body. He tried in vain to catch up the
thread of his thoughts. He only knew for certain that so far as
his first hope and motives had gone his errand had proved
entirely futile. 'How could I possibly fall asleep with that
fellow talking there?' he had said to himself angrily; yet knew
in his heart that their talk had driven every other idea out of
his mind. He had not yet even glanced into the glass. His every
thought was vainly wandering round and round the one curious hint
that had drifted in, but which he had not yet been able to put
into words.

Supposing, though, that he had really fallen into a deep sleep,
with none to watch or spy--what then? However ridiculous that
idea, it was not more ridiculous, more incredible than the actual
fact. If he had remained there, he might, it was just possible
that he would by now, have actually awakened just his own
familiar every-day self again. And the thought of that--though he
hardly realised its full import--actually did send him on tip-toe
for a glance that more or less effectually set the question at
rest. And there looked out at him, it seemed, the same dark
sallow face that had so much appalled him only two nights ago--
expressionless, cadaverous, with shadowy hollows beneath the
glittering eyes. And even as he watched it, its lips, of their
own volition, drew together and questioned him--'Whose?'

He was not to be given much leisure, however, for fantastic
reveries like this. As he leaned his head on his hands, gladly
conscious that he could not possibly bear this incessant strain
for long, Sheila opened the door. He started up.