“Haven’t you done enough to make you sleep?” Weston asked.
Grenfell laughed softly.
“I haven’t closed my eyes. I can’t keep them off the range in front of us.”
Weston looked up and saw a huge black rampart cutting sharp and clear against the blueness of the night.
“Don’t tell me that you recognize it,” he said.
“Three nicks,” replied Grenfell. “After the third one, a rounded peak. I can’t tell whether I remember it from another time, but that description came to me as if I’d used it, and I think I must have done so. Anyway, you can see them yonder.”
He broke off for a moment, and when he went on again his manner was deprecatory.
“Since sunrise I’ve been troubled with a haunting sense of the familiar, though when I found the lake with Verneille we marched through no brûlée.”
“That’s years ago, and this brûlée is probably not more than twelve months old—I mean as a brûlée,” said Weston, impatiently, for the strain of the long march was telling on him. “Anyway, you’ve been half-recognizing places ever since we started on this search, and I’d rather you didn’t make half sure of anything else. In fact, I can’t stand much more of it.”
Grenfell, who showed no sign of resentment, laughed again.