"Yes. The red laugh."
He sat down quite close to me and looking round began whispering rapidly, in a senile way, wagging his sharp, grey little beard.
"You are leaving soon, and I will tell you. Did you ever see a fight in an asylum? No? Well, I saw one. And they fought like sane people. You understand—like sane people." He significantly repeated the last phrase several times.
"Well, and what of that?" asked I, also in a whisper, full of terror.
"Nothing. Like sane people."
"The red laugh," said I.
"They were separated by water being poured over them."
I remembered the rain that had frightened us so, and got angry.
"You are mad, doctor!"