Of course I could scarcely pursue the subject after that--and, indeed, I did not intend to--so I began to tell her how I fancied I had seen a man on the cliff that afternoon, and how the creature slid over the sheer rock like a snake. To my amazement, she asked me to kindly discontinue the account of my adventures, in an icy tone, which left no room for protest. "It was only a sea-otter," I tried to explain, thinking perhaps she did not care for snake stories. But the explanation did not appear to interest her, and I was mortified to observe that my impression upon her was anything but pleasant. "She doesn't seem to like me and my stories," thought I, "but she is too young, perhaps, to appreciate them." So I forgave her--for she was even prettier than I had thought her at first--and I took my leave, saying that Mr. Halyard would doubtless direct me to my room. Halyard was in his library, cleaning a revolver, when I entered. "Your room is next to mine," he said; "pleasant dreams, and kindly refrain from snoring." "May I venture an absurd hope that you will do the same!" I replied, politely. That maddened him, so I hastily withdrew. I had been asleep for at least two hours when a movement by my bedside and a light in my eyes awakened me. I sat bolt upright in bed, blinking at Halyard, who, clad in a dressing-gown and wearing a night-cap, had wheeled himself into my room with one hand, while with the other he solemnly waved a candle over my head. "I'm so cursed lonely," he said--"come, there's a good fellow--talk to me in your own original, impudent way." I objected strenuously, but he looked so worn and thin, so lonely and bad-tempered, so lovelessly grotesque, that I got out of bed and passed a spongeful of cold water over my head. Then I returned to bed and propped the pillows up for a back-rest, ready to quarrel with him if it might bring some little pleasure into his morbid existence. "No," he said, amiably, "I'm too worried to quarrel, but I'm much obliged for your kindly offer. I want to tell you something." "What?" I asked, suspiciously. "I want to ask you if you ever saw a man with gills like a fish?" "Gills?" I repeated. "Yes, gills! Did you?" "No," I replied, angrily, "and neither did you." "No, I never did," he said, in a curiously placid voice, "but there's a man with gills like a fish who lives in the ocean out there. Oh, you needn't look that way--nobody ever thinks of doubting my word, and I tell you that there's a man--or a thing that looks like a man--as big as you are, too--all slate-colored--with nasty red gills like a fish!--and I've a witness to prove what I say!" "Who?" I asked, sarcastically. "The witness? My nurse." "Oh! She saw a slate-colored man with gills?"