Supper came to an end. Hawkins brought in pipes and tobacco, and the two men sat before the fire. Awdrey, who had taken from two to three glasses of champagne, was beginning to feel a little drowsy, but Rumsey talked in his usual pleasant fashion. Awdrey replied by fits and starts; once he nodded and half fell asleep in his chair.
"You are sleepy," said Rumsey suddenly; "if you go to bed now you may have a really good night, which will do wonders for you—what do you say?"
"That I am quite agreeable," said Awdrey, rising as he spoke—"but is it not too early for you, doctor?"
"Not at all—an undisturbed night will be a treat to me."
"Well, then, I'll take you to your room."
They went upstairs together, and a moment later Rumsey found himself in the palatial chamber which had been prepared for him. He was not really sleepy and decided to sit up for a little. A fire burned in the grate, some books lay about—he drew his easy-chair forward and taking up a volume of light literature prepared to dip into it—he found that it was Stevenson's "Treasure Island," a book which he had not yet happened to read; the story interested him, and he read on for some time. Presently he closed the book, and laying his head against the cushion of the chair dropped fast asleep.
The events of the day made him dream; all his dreams were about his queer patient. He thought that he had followed Awdrey on to the Plain—that Awdrey's excitement grew worse and worse, until the last lingering doubt was solved, and the man was in very truth absolutely insane.
In the midst of his dream the doctor was awakened by a hand being laid on his shoulder—he started up suddenly—Awdrey, half-dressed and looking ghastly pale, stood before him.
"What is it?" said Rumsey. "Do you want anything?"
"I want you," said Awdrey. "Will you come with me?"