‘Lessingham!—come, man, what’s wrong with you?’
Taking him by the shoulder, I shook him with some vigour. My touch had on him the effect of seeming to wake him out of a dream, of restoring him to consciousness as against the nightmare horrors with which he was struggling. He gazed up at me with that look of cunning on his face which one associates with abject terror.
‘Atherton?—Is it you?—It’s all right,—quite right.—I’m well,—very well.’
As he spoke, he slowly drew himself up, till he was standing erect.
‘Then, in that case, all I can say is that you have a queer way of being very well.’
He put his hand up to his mouth, as if to hide the trembling of his lips.
‘It’s the pressure of overwork,—I’ve had one or two attacks like this,—but it’s nothing, only—a local lesion.’
I observed him keenly; to my thinking there was something about him which was very odd indeed.
‘Only a local lesion!—If you take my strongly-urged advice you’ll get a medical opinion without delay,—if you haven’t been wise enough to have done so already.’
‘I’ll go to-day;—at once; but I know it’s only mental overstrain.’