“You don’t know!” Morrison faltered. “You don’t know!”
Then, for the first time, it occurred to Laverick that perhaps the financial crisis in their affairs was not the only thing which had reduced his late partner to this hopeless state. He looked at him narrowly.
“Where did you go last night,” he asked, “when you left me?”
“Nowhere,” Morrison gasped. “I came here.”
Laverick made a space for himself at the end of the bed, and sat down.
“Look here,” he said, “it’s no use sending for me unless you mean to tell me everything. Have you been getting yourself into any trouble apart from our affairs, or is there anything in connection with them which I don’t know?”
Again Morrison opened his lips, and again, for some reason or other, he remained speechless. Then a certain fear came also upon Laverick. There was something in Morrison’s state which was in itself terrifying.
“You had better tell me all about it,” Laverick persisted, “whatever it is. I will help you if I can.”
Morrison shook his head. There was a glass of water by his side. He thrust his finger into it and passed it across his lips. They were dry, almost cracking.
“Look here,” he said, “I’ve got a breakdown—that’s what’s the matter with me. My nerves were never good. I’m afraid of going mad. The anxiety of the last few weeks has been too much for me. I want to get out of the country quickly, and I don’t know how to manage it. I can’t think. Directly I try to think my head goes round.”