His eyes deepened. There flashed into them the old, mad humour, the old vitality, the old passion for beauty. The look faded, leaving his eyes "like flames that are quenched." Marie shivered, covered her face with her hands, and ran out. "There was no blood in him," she told me. "He was like a spirit--a ghost. So meagre! So wan! Waxen hands. Yellow flesh. And those eyes, in which, _monsieur_, the flame was quenched!" And this is the end of the curious story.... Waram went to Biskra and from there to the village where Grimshaw lived. Grimshaw saw him in the street one evening and followed him to the hotel. He lingered outside until Waram had registered at the _bureau_ and had gone to his room. Then he went in and sent word that "Pierre Pilleux was below and ready to see Doctor Waram." He waited in the "garden" at the back of the hotel. No one was about. A cat slept on the wall. Overhead the arch of the sky was flooded with orange light. Dust lay on the leaves of the potted plants and bushes. It was breathless, hot, quiet. He thought: "Waram has come because Dagmar is dead. Or the public has found me out!" Waram came immediately. He stood in the doorway a moment, staring at the grotesque figure which faced him. He made a terrified gesture, as if he would shut out what he saw. Then he came into the garden, steadying himself by holding on to the backs of the little iron garden chairs. The poet saw that Waram had not changed so very much--a little gray hair in that thick, black mop, a few wrinkles, a rather stodgy look about the waist. No more. He was still Waram, neat, self-satisfied, essentially English.... Grimshaw strangled a feeling of aversion and said quietly: "Well, Waram. How d'you do? I call myself Pilleux now." Waram ignored his hand. Leaning heavily on one of the chairs, he stared with a passionate intentness. "Grimshaw?" he said at last. "Why, yes," Grimshaw answered. "Didn't you know?" Waram licked his lips. In a whisper he said: "I killed you in Switzerland six years ago. Killed you, you understand." Grimshaw touched his breast with both hands. "You lie. "Here I am." "You are dead." "Dead?" "Before God, I swear it." "Dead?" Grimshaw felt once more the on-rushing flood of darkness. His thoughts flashed back over the years. The "wall." His suffering. The dog. The song in the field. The Negro. The door that opened. The stars. His own flesh, fading into spirit, into shadows.... "Dead?" he demanded again. Waram's eyes wavered. He laughed unsteadily and looked behind him. "Strange," he said. "I thought I saw----" He turned and went quickly across the garden into the hotel. Grimshaw called once, in a loud voice: "Waram!" But the doctor did not even turn his head. Grimshaw followed him, overtook him, touched his shoulder. Waram paid no attention. Going to the _bureau_ he said to the proprietor: "You told me that a Monsieur Pilleux wished to see me." "_Oui, monsieur_. He was waiting for you in the garden."