No living man knows what that week held for Hummil. An increase of the epidemic kept Spurstow in camp among the coolies, and all he could do was to telegraph to Mottram, bidding him go to the bungalow and sleep there. But Mottram was forty miles away from the nearest telegraph, and knew nothing of anything save the needs of the survey till he met, early on Sunday morning, Lowndes and Spurstow heading towards Hummil’s for the weekly gathering. ‘Hope the poor chap’s in a better temper,’ said the former, swinging himself off his horse at the door. ‘I suppose he isn’t up yet.’ ‘I’ll just have a look at him,’ said the doctor. ‘If he’s asleep there’s no need to wake him.’ And an instant later, by the tone of Spurstow’s voice calling upon them to enter, the men knew what had happened. There was no need to wake him. The punkah was still being pulled over the bed, but Hummil had departed this life at least three hours. The body lay on its back, hands clinched by the side, as Spurstow had seen it lying seven nights previously. In the staring eyes was written terror beyond the expression of any pen. Mottram, who had entered behind Lowndes, bent over the dead and touched the forehead lightly with his lips. ‘Oh, you lucky, lucky devil!’ he whispered. But Lowndes had seen the eyes, and withdrew shuddering to the other side of the room. ‘Poor chap! poor old chap! And the last time I met him I was angry. Spurstow, we should have watched him. Has he--?’ Deftly Spurstow continued his investigations, ending by a search round the room. ‘No, he hasn’t,’ he snapped. ‘There’s no trace of anything. Call the servants.’ They came, eight or ten of them, whispering and peering over each other’s shoulders. ‘When did your Sahib go to bed?’ said Spurstow. ‘At eleven or ten, we think,’ said Hummil’s personal servant. ‘He was well then? But how should you know?’ ‘He was not ill, as far as our comprehension extended. But he had slept very little for three nights. This I know, because I saw him walking much, and specially in the heart of the night.’ As Spurstow was arranging the sheet, a big straight-necked hunting-spur tumbled on the ground. The doctor groaned. The personal servant peeped at the body. ‘What do you think, Chuma?’ said Spurstow, catching the look on the dark face. ‘Heaven-born, in my poor opinion, this that was my master has descended into the Dark Places, and there has been caught because he was not able to escape with sufficient speed. We have the spur for evidence that he fought with Fear. Thus have I seen men of my race do with thorns when a spell was laid upon them to overtake them in their sleeping hours and they dared not sleep.’ ‘Chuma, you’re a mud-head. Go out and prepare seals to be set on the Sahib’s property.’