“Horace—Horace, old fellow, are you mad?”
There was a loud rustling, a faint rattling sound, as North staggered to the side of the room and sank upon the couch. Then came a scratching noise, the flash of a match, and the tiny wax light emitting a bluish flame threw up the pale, smooth face of Cousin Thompson, whose eyes were dilated with fear.
He hurried to the chimney-piece, and lit one of the candles in a bronze stand.
“Why, Horace, old fellow, what are you about?” he cried, trembling. “Thank goodness, it is you.”
North muttered some words inaudibly, afraid to trust himself to speak, and covered his face with his hands.
“Why, what’s the matter, old fellow?” said Thompson, laughing. “Oh, I see; you’ve been shut up so long, you can’t bear the light. How ridiculous, isn’t it?”
North remained silent.
“I heard a noise, and knowing you were ill, felt it my duty to come down. I could tell that some one was prowling about, and backed in here with my fist ready doubled to strike, but you were too quick for me. I’m glad I spoke.”
Still no answer.
“By Jove! what a joke! You took me for a burglar; I took you for one. What a blessing that we were not armed!”