“You were very fortunate, then?”
“Yes,” was the drowsy reply. “Then began the curse of it. Couldn’t keep it—secret. Found out that it was dangerous. Ought to have banked, but they were—were so hard to get. ’Fraid of everybody. Felt—felt should be murdered. Nearly drove—drove me wild. Made secret—secret plans—escape—get home—old England. To bring—to bring—bag of diamonds—leather bag—worth a deal—bring home myself. Followed—followed me. Three men—part of gang out there—gamble and cheat men—at play. Always—always—on my track—hunted—at bay—sea—always watching—like tigers—Ah!”
He sprang up from his drowsy muttering state, in which he had been incoherently piercing together his imaginary or real adventures, and gazed wildly round.
“Who’s that?”
“It is only I—Doctor Chartley. Lie down again.”
“I thought they’d come, and I—I was telling them. Bag of diamonds. No. Nonsense! All rubbish! Poor man. Going home. ’Nough to pay his passage. All nonsense. No diamonds; no nothing.”
He had sunk back once more, and went on muttering as he dropped asleep.
The doctor sat watching him, and then rose and tapped the fire together, picking up a few fresh pieces of coal to augment the blaze, which seemed to send some of the fog out of the room.
“Wild dissipation—gambling with Nature for treasure,” said the doctor softly. “Imagination, poor wretch!”
The doctor bent down over his patient, who was now sleeping deeply, but had tossed the ulster aside, so that it was gliding down.