“What have you got to say for yourself?” said Jack, sternly. “I asked you if you had gone mad. What are you doing here with a candle, and behaving like a lunatic?”
Stephen made a mighty effort for composure, and a ghastly smile struggled to his face.
“My dear Jack, how you startled me!” he gasped. “I was never so frightened in my—my life!”
“So it appeared,” said Jack, with strong disgust in his voice. “Pick up the candle—there it is.”
And he pointed with his foot. But Stephen was by no means anxious for a light.
“Never mind the candle,” he said. “You are quite right—I must have seemed out of my mind. I—I am very much upset, my dear Jack.”
“Are you hurt?” inquired Jack, but with no great show of concern.
“No, no!” gasped Stephen; “don’t distress yourself, my dear Jack—don’t, I beg of you. It was my fault, entirely. The—the fact is that I——”
He paused, for Jack had got the candle, lit it, and held it up so that the light fell upon Stephen’s face.
“Now,” he said, his tone plainly intimating that he would prefer to see Stephen’s face while he made his explanation.