"No, that's quite all right. I have all I want for the present, if you wouldn't mind doing this other for me. Thanks, old fellow." "Is it to Cambridge Circus that you're going to-night when you leave Julia?" I asked. "Yes. There are one or two small things I want, and also a few things I think I'd better destroy." "Couldn't you," I said slowly and quite deliberately, "have taken her home and seen about your things to-morrow?" I felt the beginning of his perturbation. "It's so dashed awkward, George," he stammered. "I don't want to go in the daytime." "Couldn't you go to-morrow night and still take her home?" Again he muttered, his eyes on the ground. "Why waste a day?" "If, as you say, you want a change--supposing you were to go off somewhere for a bit--wouldn't you like somebody with you?" "No, George," he answered curtly. "You are going away?" "Yes," he admitted. "Immediately?" "Yes." "Where to?" "I don't know yet." "Would you let me come with you?" "No." "Would you, if it were possible, take Julia?" "No." "Might both of us come with you together?" "No." And, raising his voice, "No, I tell you, no!" he said. We had stopped by a rather shabby-looking thicket of rugosa roses near the diving-stage. The pink-flowered hedge hid us from the house. I spoke quietly, not to give my own agitation too much head. "Derry," I said, "you remember what you showed me with that flashlight that night in your rooms?" With marked reluctance he answered, "Yes I do." "I've been thinking about that. I've been thinking a lot about it. Of course it makes a considerable difference how far away you hold the lamp." "A hell of a difference," he muttered. "Do you always hold it at the same distance?" His whole mind seemed to wriggle. "I haven't, if you must know. But why drag all this up again? I offered to tell you before but you wouldn't listen." "I hadn't the reason then that I have now. Do you--move it about deliberately?" "I have to some extent. I told you that. I did by an effort of will when I came here for a day's rest." "A day's rest?... You're not going back to that book. You know that better than I do. That book's all past and done with. Something's happened since." I saw him turn pale. "What do you mean?" he asked almost inaudibly. "You came here on Friday midday. I've watched you carefully ever since. Let's--well, let's stick to terms of the flash-lamp. Except for a quarter of an hour or so at breakfast yesterday morning, when you talked about your book, you've had that lamp steadily rather close to the edge of the table. Isn't that so?" "I tell you a holiday's a holiday," he said faintly. "Let me go on. I want to know how close that lamp has been. The closer you hold it the more ecstatically you experience, you know. Very well. Now has there been a moment since yesterday when ... _you've held it as close as you could get it_?" I was in time to catch him as he swayed. He clutched at my shoulder. "George----"