"You see," continued the delirious man, "I am as rich as Midas. Why should _I_ want to cheat you! Don't talk to me of what you would do for my wife's sake! Keep your favours, curse you!" With a contemptuous smile, Major Fayne threw his head back upon the pallet. Then came another change; the look of stark horror which Moreen had seen once before crept into the grey face; and her husband raised himself in bed, glaring wildly into the shadows beyond the lamp. "You are a spirit!" The words came in a thrilling, eerie whisper. "Oh God! I understand. Yes! I came away from Harringay's bungalow. My wife was asleep and I sat drinking until I had emptied the whisky decanter." He bent forward as if listening. "Yes, I went back. I went back to reason with him. No! as God is my witness I did not plan it! I went back to reason with him." Again the uncanny attitude was resumed. Then: "I stepped in through the verandah, and there he sat with Moreen's photograph in his hand. Listen to me--_Listen!_" There was an agony of entreaty in his voice; it rose to a thin scream--"My wife's photograph! Do you hear me? Do you understand? _Moreen's_ photograph--and as I stood behind him, he raised it to his lips--he----" Major Fayne stopped abruptly, as if checked by a spoken word; and with wildly beating heart Moreen found herself listening for the phantom voice. She could hear the breathing of the natives clustered behind her; but no other sound save a distant howling in the jungle was audible, until her husband began again: "I struck him down--from behind, yes, from behind. His blood poured over the picture. You understand I was mad. If you are just--and is not this called the Valley of the Just?--you cannot condemn me. Why did I fly? I was not in my right mind; I had--been drinking, as I told you; I was mad. If I was not mad I should never have fled, never have drawn suspicion--on myself." He fell back as if exhausted, then once more struggled upright and began to peer about him. When he spoke again, his voice, though weak, was more like his own. "Moreen!" he said--"where the devil are you? why can't you give me a drink?" Suddenly, he seemed to perceive her, and he drew his brows together in the old, ugly frown. "Curse you!" he said. "I have found you out! I am a rich man now, and when I have gone to England, see what Jack Harringay will do for you. I will paint London red! I have looted the old temple, and they are after me, they----" The words merged into a frightful scream. Major Fayne threw up his hands and fell back insensible upon the bed. "Mem Sahib! Mem Sahib, you must be brave!" It was Ramsa Lal who spoke; he supported Moreen with his arm. "There is a spell upon this place. No medicine, nothing, can save him. There is only one thing----" Moreen controlled herself by one of those giant efforts of which she was capable. "Tell me," she whispered--"what must we do?"