For fully thirty seconds Soames, with his back to the door, gazed at the man in the bed, and fought down the nausea which the air of the place had induced in him.

This sleeper was a man of middle age, thin to emaciation and having lank, dark hair.  His face was ghastly white, and he lay with his head thrown back and with his arms hanging out upon either side of the bunk, so that his listless hands rested upon the carpet.  It was a tragic face; a high, intellectual brow and finely chiseled features; but it presented an indescribable aspect of decay; it was as the face of some classic statue which has long lain buried in humid ruins.

Soames shook himself into activity, and ventured to approach the bed.  He moistened his dry lips and spoke: 

“Good morning, sir”—­the words sounded wildly, fantastically out of place.  “Shall I prepare your bath?”

The sleeper showed no signs of awakening.

Soames forced himself to touch one of the thrown-back shoulders.  He shook it gently.

The man on the bed raised his arms and dropped them back again into their original position, without opening his eyes.

“They... are hiding,” he murmured thickly... “in the... orange grove....  If the felucca sails... closer... they will"...

Soames, finding something very horrifying in the broken words, shook the sleeper more urgently.

“Wake up, sir!” he cried; “I am going to prepare your bath.”

“Don’t let them... escape,” murmured the man, slowly opening his eyes—­“I have not"...

He struggled upright, glaring madly at the intruder.  His light gray eyes had a glassiness as of long sickness, and his pupils, which were unnaturally dilated, began rapidly to contract; became almost invisible.  Then they expanded again—­and again contracted.

“Who—­the deuce are you?” he murmured, passing his hand across his unshaven face.

“My name is—­Lucas, sir,” said Soames, conscious that if he remained much longer in the place he should be physically sick.  “At your service—­shall I prepare the bath?”

“The bath?” said the man, sitting up more straightly—­“certainly, yes—­of course"...

He looked at Soames, with a light of growing sanity creeping into his eyes; a faint flush tinged the pallid face, and his loose mouth twitched sensitively.

“Then, Said,” he began, looking Soames up and down... “let me see, whom did you say you were?”

“Lucas, sir—­at your service.”

“Ah,” muttered the man, lowering his eyes in unmistakable shame—­“yes, yes, of course.  You are new here?”

“Yes, sir.  Shall I prepare your bath?”

“Yes, please.  This is Wednesday morning?”

“Wednesday morning, sir; yes.”

“Of course—­it is Wednesday.  You said your name was?”

“Lucas, sir,” reiterated Soames, and, crossing the fantastic apartment, he entered the bathroom beyond.