“Queer, isn’t it?” Ross inquired, sarcastically. “If not peculiar!”

Eddy glanced at him, and then sat down and lit a cigarette.

“I’ll say it’s queer!” he observed.

“Especially as I’d left the door locked when I went out.”

Again Eddy glanced at him.

“Did you—what did they say—over at the house?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much!”

He observed, with satisfaction, that this answer alarmed Eddy.

“Well, lissen here,” he said. “Who did you tell? Old Jones?”

“I don’t remember,” Ross declared.

“But—” Eddy began, and stopped.

“I’m going to turn in now,” said Ross. “Afraid you’ll have to put up with the chair again tonight.”

He crossed the room to the couch and lay down there. He was only partly undressed, and he put his shoes beside him, and his overcoat across his feet, because, in this nightmare existence, he had to be prepared for every impossible emergency.

“But I’ll get some sleep anyhow!” he thought, defiantly.

He stretched out, with a sigh of relief, and closed his eyes, when an almost inaudible sound, like the faintest echo of his own sigh, made him glance up again. He saw that Eddy had buried his face in his hands, and sat there, his slight shoulders hunched, his young head bent, in an attitude of misery and dejection.

And Ross was sorry for him. All through his confused and heavy dreams that night ran a little thread of pity, of regret and pain, which he could not understand. Only, he felt that in this adventure there was more than the tragedy of death.

When he opened his eyes again, the room was filled with a strange, pale light, unfamiliar to him. Dawn? It was more like 

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