Repeatedly the thought came to him that it was all a dream like his recollection of the murder trial out of which he had awakened the night of the Voice’s first visit. But always against the theory of the dream he placed his remembrance of the feel of the automatic revolver; and, too, the fact that he had talked with Manuel and with the Voice at the same time argued against the dream explanation.
Left, then, was conscience—that is, if the visits of the Voice were simply hallucinations of a distracted mind. But why should conscience wait for twelve years to haunt and harass him?
The more he pondered it all, the greater became the dread of another visit from the Voice. The greater grew his fear, too, of losing his reason, as he sought to analyze the situation from every conceivable standpoint. With every new bit of theorizing, Defoe felt himself giving way more and more to melancholia such as he knew is frequently but the prelude to insanity. Was it possible, he wondered, for a man’s conscience to drive him to imbecility?
Defoe finally accepted the inevitable.
“Manuel,” he ordered, the second morning after the bedroom encounter with the Voice, “pack my things. We’re going away.”
“Away, senor? Where?”
Defoe’s brain groped vainly for an instant, then seized upon the only chance.
“The sea—a sea voyage. My nerves....”
Manuel busied himself among Defoe’s clothes. “Do you need many things, senor? Do you go far away—Europe, perhaps?”
“No, no. Just down the coast—Old Point Comfort, I guess. Yes, that’s it. A week or so of rest. Just my steamer trunk and a suitcase will do.”