There was something almost pathetic in his voice. It moved me to ask, as we went down the steps, and along the row of houses to the sea-front— “Have you been sleeping badly, then?” “Pretty badly. I say, what’s brought Vernon over so soon?” The question was sharply suspicious. “He didn’t tell me,” I answered. “Then you don’t know?” We turned to the left and walked along the parade towards the cliff. No one was about in the cold and gusty night. Now and then a light flashed out across the sea, swept it in a half circle, and vanished in the darkness. “Oh, I’m not in all Vernon’s secrets,” I said. Directly I had spoken I regretted my choice of words. “Secrets!” he said. “I only mean that Vernon’s not specially given to making confidences. If he has any particular reason for coming to England at this time of year, he hasn’t told it to me. But why should he have any special reason?” Deeming shrugged his shoulders. “Where is he going to stay in town?” he asked. “At Claridge’s, I believe; at any rate, for a time.” “Then he means to make a long stay?” His voice still sounded intensely suspicious. Suddenly I felt as if I could not stand all this subterfuge, as if I must brush away from me the spider’s web of mutual distrust in which my two friends were entangling me with each other. “My dear fellow!” I exclaimed. “You really make me feel as if I were under cross-examination. I begin to wish I had never introduced you and Vernon to each other.” Deeming stopped dead, and looked at me. “Perhaps it would have been better,” he said. “Much better.” “You think so, too? Why?” “Can’t you see that Vernon hates me?” he said, with violence. “What earthly reason can he have for hating you?” “Some men don’t ask for reasons. There is something about me which is antipathetic to Vernon, and he’s a strange fellow. You think him gentle, I know. But I—well, I believe that underneath his apparent gentleness hides the soul of a fanatic, a black fanatic.” We were still standing face to face. Now I looked into his eyes and said: “I’m going to be very rude to you.” “Go on. I’ll bear it.” “I am perfectly certain you are suffering from nervous exhaustion. You have all the symptoms. You are horribly pale and shaky, and full of irritability and suspicion, ready to entertain any dark idea that may present itself to you, unable to see things in a clear light of reason.” “And you, Luttrell; do you know what you are?” “I!” “Yes. I’m going to be rude to you. You are either a self-deceiver or a—well, something one doesn’t care to call a man. You know quite well, in your heart, that Vernon has come over so soon because—because⸺” Suddenly he hesitated, faltered, broke off. I seemed to hear the whimper of a dog near us in the night. “I’ve had enough of the wind,” he said. “I’m going in.” And we went back to the hotel without another word.