"Whom?... You're not attending. The fellow I'm telling you about, who runs after me," he answered--answered perfectly plainly. I could see his head there on the pillow, black and white, and his eyes were closed. He made a slight movement with his arm, but that did not wake him. Then it came to me, with a sort of start, what was happening. I slipped half out of bed. Would he--would he?--answer another question?... I risked it, breathlessly: "Have you any idea who he is?" Well, that too he answered. "Who he is? The Runner?... Don't be silly. _Who else should it be?_" With every nerve in me tingling, I tried again. "What happens, then, when he catches you?" This time, I really don't know whether his words were an answer or not; they were these: "To hear him catching you up ... and then padding away ahead again! All right, all right ... but I guess it's weakening him a bit, too...." Without noticing it, I had got out of bed, and had advanced quite to the middle of the floor. "What did you say his name was?" I breathed. But that was a dead failure. He muttered brokenly for a moment, gave a deep troubled sigh, and then began to snore loudly and regularly. I made my way back to bed; but I assure you that before I did so I filled my basin with water, dipped my face into it, and then set the candlestick afloat in it, leaving the candle burning. I thought I'd like to have a light.... It had burned down by morning. Rooum, I remember, remarked on the silly practice of reading in bed. Well, it was a pretty kind of obsession for a man to have, wasn't it? Somebody running after him all the time, and then ... running on ahead? And, of course, on a broad pavement there would be plenty of room for this running gentleman to run round; but on an eight- or nine-inch kerb, such as that of the new road out Lewisham way ... but perhaps he was a jumping gentleman too, and could jump over a man's head. You'd think he'd have to get past some way, wouldn't you?... I remember vaguely wondering whether the name of that Runner was not Conscience; but Conscience isn't a matter of molecules and osmosis.... One thing, however, was clear; I'd got to tell Rooum what I'd learned: for you can't get hold of a fellow's secrets in ways like that. I lost no time about it. I told him, in fact, soon after we'd left the inn the next morning--told him how he'd answered in his sleep. And--what do you think of this?--he seemed to think I ought to have guessed it! _Guessed_ a monstrous thing like that! "You're less clever than I thought, with your books and that, if you didn't," he grunted. "But ... Good God, man!" "Queer, isn't it? But you don't know the queerest ..." He pondered for a moment, and then suddenly put his lips to my ear.