This lying here became intolerable; he was growing more acutely awake every moment, and every moment grew more aware of the reality of Maud's presence. Was it some warning, did some occult sense whisper to him that she was in imminent danger of some kind, and that, as at the hour of death, her soul sought his so vehemently that it produced this confirmed belief in her actual presence? And next moment he had jumped out of bed, and put on a few hasty clothes, in order to go to her cabin and see that she was all right. Yet at the door he hesitated, feeling he could not face her. He would betray himself, his eyes would betray him, so that he could not meet hers; or his mouth would betray him, so that he could give but stuttered answers, and she would guess what he had been doing. But anxiety for her overmastered this, and he went and tapped at her door. She answered at once, and he went in. Though it was so late, she was still fully dressed, and seated on a chair by her berth, her face radiant with happiness. "Not in bed yet?" he said. "No; I was too happy to go to bed." Then, as she looked at him, she paused. "What is the matter, Thurso?" she said. "What have you come to me for?" He could not meet her eye, just as he had feared, but looked away. "I couldn't sleep," he said. "I kept thinking you were in the room. I came to see if you were all right." She gave a long sigh, and shook her head. "Oh, Thurso, you've been taking laudanum again," she said. "But, anyhow, anyhow, you came to tell me, did you not?" He looked back fiercely at her, knowing that he was going to stammer, and furious at himself. "I--I haven't," he said. "Wh--what do you mean? I----" And then his voice failed him; his lips stuttered, trying to say something, but no sound came. She seemed not to have heard his denial. "No wonder you thought I was in your cabin," she said. "All my soul was there. Oh, Thurso, don't despair, there's a good fellow!" Then something seemed to break within him. He could not go on telling lies to her. Perhaps it was because he was tired, and could not summon up the energy to protest; perhaps it was that for very shame he could not. It was simpler, too, to tell the truth. He cared so little. "No, it is hopeless," he said. "I am tired of trying and failing. As soon as my strength came back to me a little to-day the craving came back. I brought a bottle of the stuff with me. Oh yes, I told you I hadn't; I lied--I lied gorgeously; you never suspected it. All the time we were talking this afternoon I wanted only one thing--to get away to my cabin. I didn't care what I said to you in order to secure that. Now I suppose you'll want me to give up the rest of the stuff. Well, I can't. I don't want anything in the world except it. And it's no use your thinking that I can ever get better. I have given up all hope. You had better do the same."