“Anything else troubling you?” he asked.
Defoe insisted there really was nothing at all beside his work that was affecting him. So the doctor gave the usual diagnosis: Too much nerve tension, not enough sleep, not the proper kinds of food. He ended by advising more rest and quiet.
“And avoid excitement, too,” he warned. “That old heart palpitation might crop up again, you know.”
It was all very well for the doctor to advise more rest and more sleep, but how was a man to sleep beneath a Damocles sword of mystery, of weird forebodings?
It was three weeks before Defoe felt that he was succeeding in obeying the doctor’s instructions, partly, at least. Then—.
It happened late one night. Defoe lay in bed, his back to the lighted electric lamp on the table: he had fallen asleep, reading. Suddenly he stirred at a touch on his shoulder.
“That you, Manuel?” he asked, drowsily. “All right, put out the li—”
“No, it is not Manuel—and don’t bother to turn around, Defoe!” this last sharply, as Defoe made a movement to arise in bed.
“You again!” Defoe exclaimed. “What—how did you get in?”
“That’s my problem, not yours,” said the Voice. “I merely dropped in again to inquire if you had thought any more of doing what I suggested.”