The flat, uneasy voice had a disquieting effect on Conrad.
“Are you all right, Tom?” he asked, trying to see O’Brien in the darkness.
“Of course I’m all right,” O’Brien snapped, and heaved himself out of his chair. “I guess that punk wants his bath now. It’s coming up for ten o’clock.”
“I’ll come with you,” Conrad said, still a little worried by O’Brien’s apparent edginess. “I want to make the rounds before I turn in.”
“Are you going out again?”
“Yes, about three, I guess.”
A flash of lightning lit up the verandah, and Conrad was startled to see how pale O’Brien looked.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Tom?”
“Hell, yes! Maybe the storm’s given me a headache, but there’s nothing the matter with me,” O’Brien said, and wiped his glistening face with his handkerchief. “I never did like thunderstorms.”
The crash of thunder that came while he was speaking shook the hunting lodge.