‘Who is this—individual whom you speak of as my—Oriental friend?’
‘Being your friend, you should know better than I do.’
‘What sort of man is he to look at?’
‘I did not say it was a man.’
‘But I presume it is a man.’
‘I did not say so.’
He seemed, for a moment, to hold his breath,—and he looked at me with eyes which were not friendly. Then, with a display of self-command which did him credit, he drew himself upright, with an air of dignity which well became him.
‘Atherton, consciously, or unconsciously, you are doing me a serious injustice. I do not know what conception it is which you have formed of me, or on what the conception is founded, but I protest that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I am as reputable, as honest, and as clean a man as you are.’
‘But you’re haunted.’
‘Haunted?’ He held himself erect, looking me straight in the face. Then a shiver went all over him; the muscles of his mouth twitched; and, in an instant, he was livid. He staggered against the table. ‘Yes, God knows it’s true,—I’m haunted.’