"So must I," Olva said, coming forward from his corner. Craven flung him a frightened glance and then passed stumbling out of the door.
Olva caught him up at the bottom of the dark stairs. He put a hand on Craven's trembling arm and held him there.
"I want to talk to you, Craven. Come up to my room."
Craven tried to wrench his arm away. "No, I'm tired. I want to go to bed."
"You haven't been near me for weeks. Why?"
"Oh, nothing—let me go. I'll come up another time."
"No, I must talk to you—now. Come." Olva's voice was stern—his face white and hard.
"No—I won't."
"You must. I won't keep you long. I have something to tell you."
Craven suddenly ceased to struggle. He gazed straight into Olva's eyes, and the look that he gave him was the strangest thing—something of terror, something of anger, a great wonder, and even—strangest of all!—a struggling affection.