"I will not say that—no! For there seems to have been a time when we were all on the same plane—"
He paused, and there was a moment's tense silence. The little silvery chime of a clock in the saloon struck twelve.
"Good-night, Dr. Brayle!" I said.
He lifted his brooding eyes and looked at me.
"Good-night! If I have annoyed you by my scepticism in certain matters, you must make allowances for temperament and pardon me. I should be sorry if you bore me any ill-will—"
What a curious note of appeal there was in his voice! All at once it seemed to me that he was asking me to forgive him for that long-ago murder which I had seen reflected in a vision!—and my blood grew suddenly heated with an involuntary wave of deep resentment.
"Dr. Brayle," I said,—"pray do not trouble yourself to think any more about me. Our ways will always be apart, and we shall probably never see each other again. It really does not matter to you in the least what my feeling may be with regard to you,—it can have no influence on either your present or your future. Friendships cannot be commanded."
"You will not say," he interrupted me—"that you have no dislike of me?"
I hesitated—then spoke frankly.
"I will not,"—I answered—"because I cannot!"