"You may heap what opprobrium you like on me, but I cannot deny the fact. I am full of cowardly terror. I cannot account for my sensations. The essence of my torture lies in the fact that I am unable to see the face of the man who committed the murder." "Oh, come, why should you see his face--you know who he was?" "That's just it, doctor. I wish to God I did know." Awdrey approached close to Dr. Rumsey, and stared into his eyes. His own eyes were queer and glittering. He seemed instinctively to feel that he had said too much, for he drew back a step, putting his hand again to his forehead and staring fixedly out into vacancy. "You believe that I am talking nonsense," he said, after a pause. "I believe that you are a sad victim to your own nervous fears. You need not go to bed unless you like. Dress yourself and sit here by the fire. You will very likely fall asleep in this arm-chair. I shall remain close to you." "You are really good to me, and I would thank you if I were capable of gratitude. Yes, I'll get into my clothes." Rumsey turned on the electric light, and Awdrey with trembling fingers dressed himself. When he came back to his easy-chair by the warm fire he said suddenly: "Give me a sheet of paper and a pencil, will you?" The doctor handed him a blank sheet from his own note-paper, and furnished him with a pencil. "Now I will sketch what I saw for you," he said. He drew with bold touches a broad sphere of light. In the centre was a picture, minute but faithful. At one time Awdrey had been fond of dabbling in art. He sketched a night scene now, with broad effects--a single bar of moonlight lit up everything with vivid distinctness. A man lay on the ground stretched out flat and motionless--another man bent over him in a queer attitude--he held a stick in his hand--he was tall and slender--there was a certain look about his figure! Awdrey dropped his pencil and stared furtively with eyes dilated with horror at his own production. Then he put his sketch face downward on the table, and turned a white and indescribably perplexed countenance to Dr. Rumsey. "What I have drawn is not worth looking at," he said, simulating a yawn as he spoke. "After all I cannot quite reproduce what I saw. I believe I shall doze off in this chair." "Do so," said the doctor. A few minutes later, when the patient was sound asleep, Dr. Rumsey lifted the paper on which Awdrey had made his sketch. He looked fixedly at the vividly worked-up picture. "The man whose back is alone visible has an unmistakable likeness to Awdrey," he muttered. "Poor fellow, what does this mean!--diseased nerves of course. The next thing he will say is that he committed the murder himself. He certainly needs immediate treatment. But what to do is the puzzle." CHAPTER XIV.