Then he sat down and laughed—a horrible, shrill laugh. “I’m mad or dreaming.” “Perhaps both,” declared Vestasian. “The page is quite complete.” “Yes, yes,” he broke in eagerly. “It’s all right now. It’s quite clear. Here, get away and let me go on.” And he pushed us both back irritably. He went on again for some time, but at last down went the pen. He slammed his hand over the leaf and gave an excited whine. Then he lifted his hand ever so slightly and peered under it, just like a schoolboy who has caught a fly. “It’s gone again,” he shouted, jumping up. “And I don’t know what it is. It keeps going, and when it’s gone it isn’t there. And no one will take it as it is, nor read it, nor—nor anything.” “Oh, yes, they will, you’re a good writer,” said Vestasian. At this he burst out laughing again. “It’s that flame—that feeble, flickering light,” he cried harshly. “I believe it blots the sense out. Take it away, take it away.” “But you would be left in darkness.” He shivered. “No—no, leave it. Take it away—leave it. It’s always dark, whether or not. It’s always night—and I’m always dreaming the same unnatural dream.” He crept straight up to me cunningly and quietly. “Did you say there was nothing left out?” he whispered. “Yes.” Then he ran to the table and caught the papers up, and returning thrust them into my hand. “Take it, and tell them if they’ll get me out of here—I’ll—I’ll—” He burst into the most terrible sobs. “Say it’s there because I know it’s there,” he cried. “Tell them it’s there because you saw it.” But the papers were scarcely in my fingers than they were drawn out invisibly and replaced upon the table, and he himself was drawn towards it too. Suddenly, with a terrible effort, he stopped crying. “When I cry it burns a hole in the paper and spoils the sense—ha! ha! There it is again! Clean out! ha! ha!” Again he jumped up and began chasing the light about the room, but it flickered about unsteadily till suddenly it rose above the altar; and he, finding it beyond him, knelt down and cried again. We left him, and when we were outside, and the heavy, inhuman bolts drawn, Vestasian turned to me. “Genius,” he said, “why did you speak so thoughtlessly?” “I spoke from genuine conviction. He said there was part omitted on each page, and I saw nothing wanting.” “Did you not?” he asked meditatively. “No. Whatever was wanting lay with him. You yourself saw nothing amiss.” “I am privileged to lie—or rather to speak the truth on another principle.” “I see. But, if you know, what was this thing of which he spoke?” My companion did not answer for some time. Then he said,— “I leave it to you to find out. I like if possible to make people think—or rather Spirits. Mankind is deeply philosophical without—” Just then a bell began to toll. It was the most terribly drear sound I had ever heard. “Come this way,” Vestasian said. And he led me to a balcony by a short flight of steps.