The staircase was very gloomy and quiet as Guest ascended, and he paused on the landing on finding Stratton’s outer door shut, and after a few moments’ hesitation, turned off to the left, meaning to have a few words with Brettison about their friend’s state.

This door was also shut and he turned back, but feeling that, perhaps, after all, Brettison might be in, he knocked; waited; knocked again, and stood listening.

“Off somewhere again picking flowers,” muttered Guest. “Men begin by picking them as children, and some end their lives gathering the sweet, innocent looking things.”

He, however, gave one more double knock before turning away and going back to Stratton’s door.

Here he knocked gently, but there was no reply. He knocked again, feeling a sensation of nervousness come over him as he thought of the words of the porter’s wife; and, as there was no reply, he could not help a little self-congratulation at there being no admission.

But he frowned at his weakness directly.

“Absurd! Cowardice!” he muttered. “This is nothing like acting the friend.”

He knocked again, and, as there was still silence, he lifted the cover of the letter slit and placed his lips to the place.

“Here, Malcolm, old fellow, open this door,” he cried. “I’m sure you are there.”

A faint rustling sound within told him he was right, and directly after the door was opened.

“You, Percy!” said the hollow-faced, haggard man, staring at him, and giving way unwillingly as, forcing himself to act, Guest stepped forward and entered the room.

He repented the moment he was inside, for the room looked strange and gloomy through the window blind being drawn down, and there was a singularly wild, strained look in Stratton’s eyes, which never left him for a moment, suggestive of the truth of Mrs Brade’s words.

Stratton had hurriedly closed the outer door upon his friend’s entrance, but he had left the inner undone; and now stood holding it open as if for his visitor to go.

Guest felt ready to obey, but he again mastered his weakness and took a chair, knowing that if he was to perform a manly act and save his friend, he must be calm and firm. But in spite of himself, as he took his seat he gave a hasty glance round the room, thinking of its loneliness, and the extreme improbability of anyone hearing a cry for help.

“Why have you come back so soon?” said Stratton at last.

“The old reason. Sort of stupid, spaniel-like feeling for the man who kicks me.”

Stratton made a hasty gesture.

“Didn’t like to stop away long after your being so upset last night.”

Stratton shuddered, and his friend watched him curiously again.

“I’m much better now.”

“Glad of it, but your nerves are terribly unstrung; or you wouldn’t be ready to jump out of your skin at the sound of a rat.”

Stratton shuddered.

“I know you couldn’t help it.”

“No, but it’s going off now fast, and if I could be alone I should soon be right.”

“Doubt it. No good; you must put up with me for a bit.”

He tried to look laughingly in his companion’s eyes, but there was a strong feeling of dread at his heart as he felt that wild thoughts evidently existed in his friend’s brain, and that there was some terrible mischief hatching there.

“Look here, Mal,” he said, mastering his own shrinking by remembrance of how the strong-witted man could often master the brain unhinged; “my impression is that you want change. Suppose you and I take a run. What do you say to Switzerland, and start to-day?”

Stratton shuddered, and a curious, sneering smile dawned on his face.

“Why don’t you ask me to explain my conduct again?” he said fiercely.

“Because I have no right to. You are your own master, and are answerable to yourself.”

“I’ll tell you,” continued Stratton, without heeding his visitor’s words, “it is because you think I am mad.”

“Do I? Absurd!”

“Yes. That is why you are here.”

“I am not going to contradict you; but I will tell you why I am here. My old friend and companion suddenly turned queer, attacked with some illness, and I said to myself, ‘If I were to be bad like that I hope poor old Mal would come to me as I’m going to him.’”

A hoarse sound, like a suppressed sob, escaped from Stratton’s lips, and, by a rapid movement, he caught and wrung Guest’s hand. But the wild look never left his eyes, and at the end of a few seconds he cast the hand away.

“Oh, it’s true enough, old lad,” said Guest, smiling. “You know it, too. I want to do it for everybody’s sake.”

Stratton made a peculiar movement in the air with his extended hands.

“Come, come, don’t take it that way, old fellow,” cried Guest. “Sit down.”

Stratton hesitated, and seemed to be trying to resist, but his friend’s calm firm way mastered him.

“That’s better; now, then, let’s look matters plainly in the face, as doctor and patient if you like. You’re off the line, Mal. There’s no denying it. Overstrain. Well, it’s bad. Painful for you and everybody.”

A low moan escaped from Stratton.

“Bah! don’t groan over it, man. The human mind is a wonderful bit of machinery, and it gets out of order if you don’t take care. You haven’t taken enough care, and have broken down. Bad; but we’ve got to mend you and make you stronger than ever.”

Stratton shook his head, and his pallor was so ghastly, as he now sank back in his chair and closed his eyes, that Guest was startled, and sprang up and made for the closet where he knew from of old that the spirit-stand was kept.

But at the first movement in that direction Stratton leaped to his feet and intercepted him.

“Stop!” he cried. “I am not ill. Let me be, Guest. You can do me no good.”

“How do you know? I say I can,” cried the young man sharply, “and what’s more, I will. Now, come, lad, be reasonable. You’re out of gear, and you’re going to submit to me.”

“I am my own master, as you said, and I will not be spied over or interfered with.”

“Spied over” sounded bad—not like the words of a sane man.

“Bah! Who wants to spy over you?”

“Interfered with, then. Now go and leave me to myself.”

“I shall not,” said Guest doggedly.

“You will, sir. These are my rooms; your visit is ill timed; please to go, and wait till I ask you to visit me again.”

“Hah, that settles it, if there were any doubt before. That’s not my old schoolfellow talking. You are ill—mentally ill, lad—so give in.”

“Leave my rooms, sir!”

“If I do, it will be to bring others back with me who will insist upon your yielding to proper treatment.”

“Hah, you confess then? You think me mad.”

“I did not say mad; I told you what I know now to be a fact. Will you give in and let me treat you on sound, common-sense principles, or drive me away to come back with others?”

“You would not dare,” said Stratton, in a low, fierce whisper.

“But I do dare anything for your sake—there, I’ll speak out!—for Myra’s.”

A spasm convulsed Stratton’s face, and he ground his teeth as if in agony.

“I can’t help it, lad; I’m being cruel to be kind. Now, then, do you persist in sending me away!”

Stratton looked round in a furtive, frightened way, shuddered, and was silent.

“Then I am to go and send others who will treat you. I must tell you the truth, lad; they may insist upon your leaving here and taking up your abode somewhere in the country.”

Stratton started.

“No, no; not at a madhouse. You are not mad. Only suffering from a nervous fit. It would be to stay for a time at some doctor’s, and I think it would be the best thing. It would get you away from the dull, gloomy chambers, where you hardly ever see the sun. They are bad enough to upset anyone. Once more, which is it to be?”

G............