A faint smile came over the young man’s face, and he walked back to his chair.
“I thought it was one of those fiends,” he said, with a shudder.
The doctor coupled the admission with the mention of the brandy, but he was not satisfied as to the symptoms, though, seeing his visitor’s exhaustion, he went to his closet and took out a spirit decanter, with tumblers, poured a little into one glass, and was about to add water to it from the little bright kettle singing on the hob, when the young man snatched at the glass, and tossed off the brandy at a gulp; but even as he was in the act of setting down the glass, he started and stared wildly round towards the door.
“Hist!” he whispered.
“Pooh! there is nothing, my dear sir,” said the doctor: “why, any one would think you were being hunted by the police.”
“Hunted? Yes,” cried the young man thrusting the glass from him, and leaning across and seizing the doctor’s wrist, “hunted—always hunted; but there were no police, doctor; why were they not near to protect me?”
“Ah, yes,” said the doctor, to humour his patient, as with keen interest he watched every change in his mien. “They are generally absent when wanted. So you have been hunted, eh?”
“Hunted! Yes; like some miserable hare by the hounds. They are on my scent now. Night and day, doctor, night and day, till they have nearly driven me mad.”
“Mad? Nonsense! Your brain is as sound as mine.”
“Yes, now; but they will drive me mad. Night and day, I tell you—night and day, I have not dared to sleep,” continued the young man wildly; “no, I have not dared to sleep, for fear that I should not wake again.”