“No, because nobody’s ever told me. It’s exactly what I want to find out,” said the other genially.
“And you expect Wade—?”
“Why, I gathered from our good Doctor that it’s his trade. Doesn’t he explain—interpret?”
“In his own domain—which is Pellerinism.”
Winterman gazed out musingly upon the moon-touched dusk of waters. “And what is Pellerinism?” he asked.
Bernald sprang to his feet with a cry. “Ah, I don’t know—but you’re Pellerin!”
They stood for a minute facing each other, among the uncertain swaying shadows of the room, with the sea breathing through it as something immense and inarticulate breathed through young Bernald’s thoughts; then Winterman threw up his arms with a humorous gesture.
“Don’t shoot!” he said.
IV
DAWN found them there, and the risen sun laid its beams on the rough floor of the bungalow, before either of the men was conscious of the passage of time. Bernald, vaguely trying to define his own state in retrospect, could only phrase it: “I floated ... floated. ...”