His voice dropped and his eyelids closed.
Lankester advanced from the fire. He saw Marsham was not really awake, and he dreaded to rouse him completely, lest it should only be to the consciousness of pain. He stooped over him gently, and spoke his name.
"Yes," said Marsham, murmuring, without opening his eyes. "There's no need for you to rub it in. I behaved like a beast, and Barrington--"
The voice became inarticulate again. The prostration and pallor of the speaker, the feebleness of the tone--nothing could have been more pitiful. An idea rushed upon Lankester. He again bent over the bed.
"Don't think of it any more," he said. "It's forgotten!"
A slight and ghastly smile showed on Marsham's lip as he lay with closed eyes. "Forgotten! No, by Jove!" Then, after an uneasy movement, he said, in a stronger and irritable voice, which seemed to come from another region of consciousness:
"It would have been better to have burned the paper. One can't get away from the thing. It--it disturbs me--"
"What paper?" said Lankester, close to the dreamer's ear.
"The Herald," said Marsham, impatiently.
"Where is it?"