"Well, perhaps I did mind a little more than I care to admit," Thresk confessed. "At all events, I felt relieved at his death. What a fool I was!" And he stopped for a moment as though he wondered now that his mind was so clear, at the delusion which had beset him.
"I thought that it was all over with Channing. Oh, what a fool I was! Even after he came back and would sidle up to my bedside in his old fawning style, I couldn't bring myself to take him seriously, and I was only amused."
"He came to your bedside!" exclaimed Glynn.
"Yes," replied Thresk, and he laughed at the recollection. "He came with his humble smirk, and pottered about the room as if he were my nurse. I put out my tongue at him, and told him he was dead and done for, and that he had better not meddle with the bottles on my table. Yes, he amused me. What a fool I was! I thought no one else saw him. That was my first mistake. I thought he was helpless.... That was my second."
Thresk got up from his chair, and, standing over the fireplace, knocked the ash off his cigar.
"Do you remember a great Danish boar-hound I used to have?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Glynn, puzzled by the sudden change of subject. "But what has the boar-hound to do with your story?"
"A good deal," said Thresk. "I was very fond of that dog."
"The dog was fond of you," said Glynn.
"Yes. Remember that!" Thresk cried suddenly. "For it's true." Then he relapsed again into a quiet, level voice.