“Well, you did startle me, I confess,” said I. He lay down again, and I did likewise, and slept without interruption until morning. I thought no more of the incident of the previous night, although I could not help noticing that my companion’s face looked rather haggard.
Our second night in the cell passed, for me, very quietly, and Ryan said nothing to suggest that it was otherwise with him. The third night the incident of the first night was repeated. Ryan started up, shouting:
“Did you see it? Did you see it?”
I jumped from my bed and struck a light. The cell was, of course, empty, the door fast closed.
“I am afraid you are ill, comrade,” said I, and as I went towards him I could see the perspiration in large beads on his forehead, and he was trembling like a scared child.
“Yes, yes, I must be getting ill, I suppose—but you saw nothing?” he added eagerly.
“Of course I saw nothing,” I replied. “What was there to see?”
“And—and you saw nothing on the wall there?” He pointed his hand towards one of the walls of the cell.
“Nothing. Wake up, man. You are still dreaming.”
He shuddered like one feeling a sudden chill, and then he said: