He shivered.
“No—no, leave it. Take it away—leave it. It’s always dark, whether or not. It’s always night—and I’m always dreaming the same unnatural dream.”
He crept straight up to me cunningly and quietly.
“Did you say there was nothing left out?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
Then he ran to the table and caught the papers up, and returning thrust them into my hand.
“Take it, and tell them if they’ll get me out of here—I’ll—I’ll—”
He burst into the most terrible sobs.
“Say it’s there because I know it’s there,” he cried. “Tell them it’s there because you saw it.”
But the papers were scarcely in my fingers than they were drawn out invisibly and replaced upon the table, and he himself was drawn towards it too.