"No, no, my child," he answered, hastily. "Go back to bed. And, Locke, please don't let us be disturbed."
He was about to say more, then decided not to do so, and turned back into the dining-room.
Again Brent carefully locked the door to the dining-room and rejoined Flint.
He had placed the candles on the table, not noticing in the half-light that the smoke from them was growing denser as they burned down.
The smoke drifted over as the draught carried it. Flint coughed and moved a bit, his hand at his throat.
Brent seized the pen again and was about to write, when the smoke from the candles drifted into his own face. He, too, coughed.
Uneasy, Brent glanced over at Flint. Flint laughed, a bit hysterically.
"What the devil's the matter?" demanded Brent, with lowered brows, a strange dryness in his throat.
Flint was now leaning forward on his elbows and laughing foolishly, stupidly. It was a queer laugh, and struck terror into Brent as he himself coughed and clutched involuntarily at his throat. Brent stared at Flint.
"What is it?" he repeated, anxiously. "Have you suddenly gone mad, man?"