too, had he pretended they were not his when I
had remarked about them at first? Then, again, in his personal attendant
there was a bizarre quality which had impressed me profoundly.
These circumstances threw a haze of mystery round the man. They laid
hold of my imagination, and hampered my tongue.

Towards midnight our talk of London died away, and we stood
side by side leaning over the bulwarks and staring dreamily
over the silent, starlit sea, each pursuing his own thoughts.
It was the atmosphere for sentiment, and I began upon my gratitude.

"If I may say it," said I, after a time, "you have saved my life."

"Chance," he answered. "Just chance."

"I prefer to make my thanks to the accessible agent."

"Thank no one. You had the need, and I had the knowledge;
and I injected and fed you much as I might have collected a specimen.
I was bored and wanted something to do. If I'd been jaded that day,
or hadn't liked your face, well--it's a curious question where you would
have been now!"

This damped my mood a little. "At any rate," I began.

"It's a chance, I tell you," he interrupted, "as everything is in
a man's life. Only the asses won't see it! Why am I here now,
an outcast from civilisation, instead of being a happy man enjoying
all the pleasures of London? Simply because eleven years ago--I
lost my head for ten minutes on a foggy night."

He stopped. "Yes?" said I.

"That's all."

We relapsed into silence. Presently he laughed.
"There's something in this starlight that loosens one's tongue.
I'm an ass, and yet somehow I would like to tell you."

"Whatever you tell me, you may rely upon my keeping to myself--if
that's it."

He was on the point of beginning, and then shook his head, doubtfully.

"Don't," said I. "It is all the same to me. After all, it is better
to keep your secret. There's nothing gained but a little relief
if I respect your confidence. If I don't--well?"

He grunted undecidedly. I felt I had him at a disadvantage, had caught
him in the mood of indiscretion; and to tell the truth I was not curious
to learn what might have driven a young medical student out of London.
I have an imagination. I shrugged my shoulders and turned away.
Over the taffrail leant a silent black figure, watching the stars.
It was Montgomery's strange attendant. It looked over its shoulder
quickly with my movement, then looked away again.

It may seem a little thing to you, perhaps, but it ca