"You'd better let me come with you."
"You stay where you are."
Mackintosh shrugged his shoulders. He had given the man full warning. If he did not heed it that was his own lookout. Walker put on his hat and went out. Mackintosh began to read; but then he thought of something; perhaps it would be as well to have his own whereabouts quite clear. He crossed over to the kitchen and, inventing some pretext, talked for a few minutes with the cook. Then he got out the gramophone and put a record on it, but while it ground out its melancholy tune, some comic song of a London music-hall, his ear was strained for a sound away there in the night. At his elbow the record reeled out its loudness, the words were raucous, but notwithstanding he seemed to be surrounded by an unearthly silence. He heard the dull roar of the breakers against the reef. He heard the breeze sigh, far up, in the leaves of the coconut trees. How long would it be? It was awful.
He heard a hoarse laugh.
"Wonders will never cease. It's not often you play yourself a tune, Mac."
Walker stood at the window, red-faced, bluff and jovial.
"Well, you see I'm alive and kicking. What were you playing for?"
Walker came in.
"Nerves a bit dicky, eh? Playing a tune to keep your pecker up?"
"I was playing your requiem."