at I sought to
wrest from his hand a knife. We clutched each other savagely, and
wrestled there on the edge of the pond. Weights seemed to hang upon my
limbs, but I felt the stronger of the two. Gradually I knew I was
mastering him--then all was blank.

* * * * *

A sound of voices. A flash of light. A feeling of freedom, and I was
awake!

Where?

Still by Drearwater Pond. No phantoms, no shadow, nothing unreal, save
the memory of that which I have but dimly described. That was but as a
terrible nightmare--an awful dream.

Where was Kaffar?

I could not tell. Certainly he was not near; but two other forms stood
by me, one bearing a lantern.

"Is it you, Justin?" said a voice.

"It is I, Tom," I said, looking vacantly around.

"And where is Kaffar?" said another voice, which I recognized as
Voltaire's.

"Kaffar? I--I do not know."

"But you have been together."

"Have we?" I said vacantly.

"You know you have. What is that in your hand?"

I had scarcely known what I had been saying or doing up to this time,
but as he spoke I looked at my hand.

In the light of the moon I saw a knife red with blood, and my hand, too,
was also discoloured.

"What does this mean?" cried Voltaire.

"I do not know. I am dazed--bewildered."

"But that is Kaffar's knife. I know he had it this very evening. Where
is Kaffar now?"

"Is it true?" I remember saying. "Have we been together?" "That's his
knife, at any rate. And what is this?"

Voltaire picked up something from the ground and looked at it.
"Kaffar's," he said. "Look, Mr. Blake; do you recognize this?"

I looked and saw a finely-worked neckcloth, on which was written in
Arabic characters the words "Aba Wady Kaffar." It had every appearance
of being soiled by severe wrenching, and on it were spots of blood.

My faculties were rapidly returning to me, yet I stood as one in a
dream.

"You say, Mr. Justin Blake, that you do not know where Kaffar is, yet
you hold in your hand his knife, which is red with blood. Here is his
scarf, which has evidently been strained, and on it are spots of blood,
while all around are marks indicating a struggle. I say you do know what
this means, and you must tell us."

I reeled under this terrible shock. What had I done? Could it be that I
had murdered this man? Had I? Had I?

"I do not know what it means," I said. "I think I am ill."

"Men usually are when they have done what you have," he sa