"Oh, that's very fine," said Jameson. "It is not the first of April, and I don't believe the yarns that you've been spinning. You tried to make believe he was dead, but I know he is not. He has got into my room, and he made a dig at my throat with your pruning-knife."
"I'll go into your room with you."
"Do so. But he's gone by this time. Trust him to cut and run."
I followed Jameson, and looked about. There was no trace of anyone beside himself having been in the room. Moreover, there was no place but the nut-wood wardrobe in the bedroom in which anyone could have secreted himself. I opened this and showed that it was empty.
After a while I pacified Jameson, and induced him to go to bed again, and then I left his room. I did not now attempt to court sleep. I wrote letters with a hand not the steadiest, and did my accounts.
As the hour approached midnight I was again startled by a cry from the adjoining room, and in another moment Jameson was at my door.
"That blooming fellow Musty is in my room still," said he. "He has been at my throat again."
"Nonsense," I said. "You are labouring under hallucinations. You locked your door."
"Oh, by Jove, yes—of course I did; but, hang it, in this hole, neither doors nor windows fit, and the locks are no good, and the bolts nowhere. He got in again somehow, and if I had not started up the moment I felt the knife, he'd have done for me. He would, by George. I wish I had a revolver."
I went into Jameson's room. Again he insisted on my looking at his throat.