Soon his head began to clear. He was assembling out of the maze of ache and buzzing in his ears and brain some sort of coherent idea of where he was and what had been happening.
“Now I know what it all means!” he burst forth presently. “You—you sneaking, cackling little conscience, get out of here! I’m going to cheat you if I have to become a drunkard or a dope fiend the rest of my life! I’m not going to let a conscience, or a voice or a chuckle, drive me to insanity—or to confessing—or to suicide!”
Defoe was steady enough now, supporting himself against the upper berth. His voice grew more strident.
“No, I’m not going to let my conscience get the best of me! You thought you could keep after me endlessly, but I’ll get rid of you. I’m never going to be bothered with you or your voice again! Never! Now get out of here! Get out of here, I say!”
The chuckle—a croaking, sepulchral chuckle it was now—answered him out of the darkness.
“You might tell me, before I go, if you know who really did kill the man Bland was convicted of murdering,” said the Voice. “I’m curious enough to wish to know his name.” And the Voice chuckled once more.
“Damn that cackle! I’ll tell you, if you choke off that infernal cackling! I’ll tell you—yes! I can tell you, because I did it! I committed that murder, you understand? I did it! Now cackle all you want to! And I convicted Bland of it! Cackle, you damned little shriveled conscience! Ho, ho, ho-ho-ho! I think it’s my turn—to—cackle—now!”
The words of the hysterical man rose to a maudlin scream that reverberated piercingly in the little stateroom.
“Now get out of here for good!” the raving Defoe shouted, recovering coherence of speech after a time. “Get out—before—I—”
A blinding glare of light came as Defoe reached for the door. The intruder had found the push button.