"How—can—I—tell—you—? I do not think you understand. I do not even know if it is what I think it is. I cannot reason it out to myself. The power of reasoning has left me. I had no other knowledge than my reasoning. I do not know. Now, I do not know where I am—or—what—I—am—"
The maddened urge of Kurz's words struck him.
"You're here, old Otto;" he said it reassuringly. "Here with me. In my room. In England. You're with me, Otto!"
"Yes—with—you." And then beneath his breath he whispered: "Where—are—you—?"
He caught the smothered insistence of that last sentence. He smiled, forcing his lips to smile.
"Standing right in front of you, old man. Waiting for you to say what you came to—"
Kurz interrupted him.
"I—had—to come. I felt that I must come. I—came, Charlie. I got myself here, Charlie."
"Quite right, Otto."
"I want you to know first that I thought of you. That I was, as you say you were, afraid I might in some way injure you. I want to tell you that first."