“You see,” continued the delirious man, “I am as rich as Midas. Why should I want to cheat you! Don’t talk to me of what you would do for my wife’s sake! Keep your favours, curse you!”
With a contemptuous smile, Major Fayne threw his head back upon the pallet. Then came another change; the look of stark horror which Moreen had seen once before crept into the grey face; and her husband raised himself in bed, glaring wildly into the shadows beyond the lamp.
“You are a spirit!” The words came in a thrilling, eerie whisper. “Oh God! I understand. Yes! I came away from Harringay’s bungalow. My wife was asleep and I sat drinking until I had emptied the whisky decanter.”
He bent forward as if listening.
“Yes, I went back. I went back to reason with him. No! as God is my witness I did not plan it! I went back to reason with him.”
Again the uncanny attitude was resumed. Then:
“I stepped in through the verandah, and there he sat with Moreen’s photograph in his hand. Listen to me—Listen!” There was an agony of entreaty in his voice; it rose to a thin scream—“My wife’s photograph! Do you hear me? Do you understand? Moreen’s photograph—and as I stood behind him, he raised it to his lips—he——”
Major Fayne stopped abruptly, as if checked by a spoken word; and with wildly beating heart Moreen found herself listening for the phantom voice. She could hear the breathing of the natives clustered behind her; but no other sound save a distant howling in the jungle was audible, until her husband began again:
“I struck him down—from behind, yes, from behind. His blood poured over the picture. You understand I was mad. If you are just—and is not this called the Valley of the Just?—you cannot condemn me. Why did I fly? I was not in my right mind; I had—been drinking, as I told you; I was mad. If I was not mad I should never have fled, never have drawn suspicion—on myself.”