I tried to finish in a little sketch I had made in my notebook when I was in my room, but my hand shook, and I was constrained to lay my pencil aside. Then I took up an Egyptian grammar, but could not fix my mind on study. The hotel was very still. Everyone had gone to bed at an early hour that night, disinclined for conversation. No one was moving. There was a lamp in the passage; it was partly turned down. Jameson's room was next to mine. I heard him stir as he undressed, and talk to himself. Then he was quiet. I wound up my watch, and emptying my pocket, put my purse under the pillow. I was not in the least heavy with sleep. If I did go to bed I should not be able to close my eyes. But then--if I sat up I could do nothing. I was about leisurely to undress, when I heard a sharp cry, or exclamation of mingled pain and alarm, from the adjoining room. In another moment there was a rap at my door. I opened, and Jameson came in. He was in his night-shirt, and looking agitated and frightened. "Look here, old fellow," said he in a shaking voice, "there is Musty in my room. He has been hiding there, and just as I dropped asleep he ran that knife of yours into my throat." "My knife?" "Yes--that pruning-knife you gave him, you know. Look here--I must have the place sewn up. Do go for a doctor, there's a good chap." "Where is the place?" "Here on my right gill." Jameson turned his head to the left, and I raised the lamp. There was no wound of any sort there. I told him so. "Oh, yes! That's fine--I tell you I felt his knife go in." "Nonsense, you were dreaming." "Dreaming! Not I. I saw Musty as distinctly as I now see you." "This is a delusion, Jameson," I replied. "The poor fellow is dead." "Oh, that's very fine," said Jameson. "It is not the first of April, and I don't believe the yarns that you've been spinning. You tried to make believe he was dead, but I know he is not. He has got into my room, and he made a dig at my throat with your pruning-knife." "I'll go into your room with you." "Do so. But he's gone by this time. Trust him to cut and run." I followed Jameson, and looked about. There was no trace of anyone beside himself having been in the room. Moreover, there was no place but the nut-wood wardrobe in the bedroom in which anyone could have secreted himself. I opened this and showed that it was empty. After a while I pacified Jameson, and induced him to go to bed again, and then I left his room. I did not now attempt to court sleep. I wrote letters with a hand not the steadiest, and did my accounts. As the hour approached midnight I was again startled by a cry from the adjoining room, and in another moment Jameson was at my door. "That blooming fellow Musty is in my room still," said he. "He has been at my throat again." "Nonsense," I said. "You are labouring under hallucinations. You locked your door."