"My knife?"
"Yes—that pruning-knife you gave him, you know. Look here—I must have the place sewn up. Do go for a doctor, there's a good chap."
"Where is the place?"
"Here on my right gill."
Jameson turned his head to the left, and I raised the lamp. There was no wound of any sort there.
I told him so.
"Oh, yes! That's fine—I tell you I felt his knife go in."
"Nonsense, you were dreaming."
"Dreaming! Not I. I saw Musty as distinctly as I now see you."
"This is a delusion, Jameson," I replied. "The poor fellow is dead."