“A. L.”
Twice did the visionary scene, passing behind the seer, recross his entranced eyes; and twice did the shadowy finger of the shining apparition in the tent door point, letter by letter, to the pictured page of the billet, which Jim was at that very moment perusing with his natural, and Reuel Briggs with his spiritual eyes. When both had concluded the reading, Jim put up his letter. The curtains of the tent slightly waved; a low, long sigh, like the night’s wind wail, passed over the cold, damp brow of the seer. A shudder, a blank. He looked out into the desert beyond. All was still. The stars were out for him, but the vision was gone.
Thus was explained to Reuel, by mesmeric forces, the fact that his letters had been withheld.
He had not once suspected Jim of perfidy. What did it mean? he asked himself. The letter was in Livingston’s handwriting! His head swam; he could not think. Over and over again he turned the problem and then, wishing that something more definite had been given him, retired, but not to sleep.
Try as he would to throw it off, the most minute act of Jim since entering his service persisted in coming before his inner vision. The night when he was attacked by the leopard and Jim’s tardiness in offering help, returned with great significance. What could he do but conclude that he was the victim of a conspiracy.
“There is no doubt about it,” was his last thought as he dropped into a light doze. How long he slept he could not tell, but he woke with a wild, shrill cry in his ears: “Reuel, Reuel, save me!”
Three times it was repeated, clear, distinct, and close beside his ear, a pause between the repetitions.
He roused his sleeping friend. “Charlie, Charlie! wake up and listen!”
Charlie, still half asleep, looked with blinking eyes at the candle with dazzled sight.
“Charlie, for the love of God wake up!”