“No, you didn’t,” interrupted Julian. “Excuse me, I’m sure you didn’t. I often wake up and hear him prowling about.”
“Yes; but there’s a separate monster set apart for each of us. It’s Fate who arranges the programme, and, by stress of business, Fate postpones many contests so late that before they can take place the man has died. Those who die before their fight comes on are called rich men. To return, however, to my own monster: I was at last convinced that he was dead a thousand times——”
“How long have you had this conviction?” asked Julian.
“The absolute certainty that my monster has ceased to exist came to me this morning whilst I brushed my hair.”
“Ah,” said Julian; “and now, I suppose, you really will write to Miss Margaret——” He paused.
“Goodwin?”
“To Miss Margaret Goodwin,” he repeated.
“Look here, Julian,” I said irritably; “it’s no use your repeating every observation I make as though you were Massa Johnson on Margate Sands.”
“What’s the matter?”
I was silent for a moment. Then I confessed.