“I don’t know.”
“Find out. Don’t sleep very well, do you?”
“Not specially.”
“What do you do at night when you can’t sleep? Work?”
“No.”
“Well?”
“Think.”
The doctor uttered a non-professional monosyllable. “What will you do,” he propounded, waving his arm back along the trail toward the Van Arsdale camp, “when this little game of yours is played out?”
“God knows!” said Banneker. It suddenly struck him that life would be blank, empty of interest or purpose, when Camilla Van Arsdale died, when there was no longer the absorbing necessity to preserve, intact and impregnable, the fortress of love and lies wherewith he had surrounded her.
“When this chapter is finished,” said the other, “you come down to Angelica City with me. Perhaps we’ll go on a little camping trip together. I want to talk to you.”