“Have you anything to complain of?” “Only that I am here,” I replied. “I had nothing to do with your coming here,” he retorted. “You came uninvited, of your own accord, or by accident. I trust I have been a courteous host, but I have not tried to pretend that you are welcome. I am endeavoring to arrange that your departure shall not entail upon me any inconvenience or any danger of disadvantageous consequences. Believe me, I am doing all I can to expedite your return to your normal haunts. Meantime you’ll have to be patient.” I was most impatient and very nearly frantic at finding myself, no matter how I struggled inwardly, totally unable so much as to refer or allude to what lay heaviest on my mind. We exchanged vaguely generalized sentences for awhile and he left as abruptly as before, left me quivering with consternation, dreading that my inability to broach the subject on which I was eager to beard him was a premonition of my total enthrallment to Pembroke’s influence. As the days passed I became habituated to stoning that uncanny gander, chasing him into the basin of the fountain and having him hiss at me from behind one of the gratings; I became indifferent to the glimpses I caught of Mother Bevan hovering in the middle distance. I had a good appetite for my meals: in fact, the food set before me at my abode would have awakened the most finicky dyspeptic to zest and relish, even to voracity; while the dinners to which I was invited were delectable. But from night to night I slept less and less, until I was near insomnia. And, from day to day, I found it more and more difficult to absorb myself in reading, to keep my mind on what I read; even to read at all. Again I waylaid Radnor. I described to him my progressively worsening discomfort and distress. “I am now,” I said, “or soon shall be, not merely in need of your help, but beyond any help from you or anybody. If you don’t do something for me I’ll go crazy, I’ll do something desperate, I’ll commit suicide.” “I have been pondering,” he said, “how to help you, and I have almost hit upon a method. Your condition does not yet justify my giving you anything to make you sleep. As yet I do not want to give you any sort of drug, not even the simplest sedative. Honestly try to get to sleep to-night. Before to-morrow I think I’ll hit upon an entirely suitable prescription, salutary for you and yet avoiding any appearance, any hint, of my antagonizing Pembroke.” I did try to sleep that night, but I was still wide awake long after midnight. So tossing and turning on my comfortable bed, I heard outside in the moonless darkness some one whistling a tune. As the sound came nearer I made sure it was Radnor. Also I recognized the tune. It was that of “The Ballad of Nell Flaherty’s Drake.” The tune brought to my mind the words of the song’s refrain: