He stopped, for the undecipherable look had strengthened suddenly. He thought of a gaoler.
"Paul," he said quickly, "what's the matter? What's wrong with you?"
He drew back a pace or two and watched him.
"With me—nothing, Edward. Nothing at all." The tone was grave with anxiety, yet had this new authority in it.
A feeling of intolerable insecurity came upon him, a sensation as though he balanced on air, yet its cause, its origin, easily explained: the support of his colleague's mind was taken from him. Paul's attitude was clear as day to him. He was a gaoler.... He recalled again the recent detail, brightly significant—that Nurse Robbins had turned to Paul, rather than to himself.
"With—me, then—you think?" His voice hardly sounded like his own. He looked about him for support, found an arm-chair, sat down in it. "You're strange, Paul, very strange," he whispered. "What do you mean by 'there's something wrong with me'?"
Devonham's expression cleared slightly and a kindly, sympathetic smile appeared, then vanished. The grave look that Fillery disliked reappeared.
"What d'you mean, Paul Devonham?" came the repetition, in a louder, more challenging voice. "You're watching me—as though I were"—he laughed without a trace of mirth—"a patient." He leaned forward. "Paul, you've been watching me for a long time. Out with it, now. What is it?"
Devonham, who had kept silent, drew some papers from his pocket, a bundle of rolled sheets.
"Of course," he said gently, "I always watch you. For that's how I learn. I learn from you, Edward, more than from anybody I know."