checked the days, he numbered the hours, he counted the minutes rigorously lest one escape.  One did escape, and he turned back to catch it, and pursued it far away from the stone doorway and the dull twilight, and even the sound of the bell, off into a land where there were many hills and valleys, among which the fugitive Minute hid elusively.  And he pursued the Minute, calling upon it to come to him, and the name by which he called it was Mary.  Then he saw that the square of the window had become yellow with the sun, and that through it he could hear plainly the voices of the Leslies talking in high tones.

His brain was very clear, more so than usual, and he not only received many impressions, and ordered them with ease and despatch, but his very senses seemed more than ordinarily acute.  He could distinguish even by day, when the night stillness had withdrawn its favouring conditions, the borings of the sawdust insects in the logs of the cabin.  Only he was very tired.  His hands seemed a long distance away, as though it would require an extraordinary effort of the will to lift them.  So he lay quiet and listened.

The conversation, of which he was the eavesdropper, was carried on by fits and starts.  First a sentence would be delivered by one of the Leslies; then would ensue a pause as though for a reply, inaudible to any but the interlocutors themselves; then another sentence; and so on, like a man at a telephone.  After a moment’s puzzling over it, Bennington understood that Jim Leslie was talking to one of the prisoners down the shaft.

“You have the true sporting spirit, sir,” cried the voice of Jeems.  “I honour you for it.  But so philosophical a resignation, while it inclines our souls to know more of you personally, nevertheless renders you much less interesting in such a juncture as the present.  I would like to hear from Mr. Davidson.”

Pause.

“That was a performance, Mr. Davidson, which I can not entirely commend.  It is fluent, to be sure, but it lacks variety.  A true artist would have interspersed those finer shades and gradations of meaning which go to express the numerous and clashing emotions which must necessarily agitate your venerable bosom.  You surely mean more than damn. Damn is expressive and forceful, because capable of being enunciated at one explosive effort of the breath, but it is monotonous when too freely employed.  To be sure, you might with some justice reply that you had qualified said adjective strongly—­but the qualification was trite though blasphemous.  And you limited it very nicely—­but the limitation to myself is unjust, as it overlooks my brother’s equitable claims to notice.”

Pause.

“I beg pardon!  Kindly repeat!”

Pause.

“Delicious!  Mr. Davidson, you have redeemed yourself.  Bertie, did you hear Mr. Davidson’s last remark?”

“No!” replied another voice.  “Couldn’t be bothered.  What was it?”