Late that night, however, after his broken leg was set, he was feverish and forgot his self-restraint.  He was lying flat on his bed, and he began to run his eyes round the room to see if the moth was still about.  He tried not to do this, but it was no good.  He soon caught sight of the thing resting close to his hand, by the night-light, on the green table-cloth.  The wings quivered.  With a sudden wave of anger he smote at it with his fist, and the nurse woke up with a shriek.  He had missed it.

“That moth!” he said; and then, “It was fancy.  Nothing!”

All the time he could see quite clearly the insect going round the cornice and darting across the room, and he could also see that the nurse saw nothing of it and looked at him strangely.  He must keep himself in hand.  He knew he was a lost man if he did not keep himself in hand.  But as the night waned the fever grew upon him, and the very dread he had of seeing the moth made him see it.  About five, just as the dawn was grey, he tried to get out of bed and catch it, though his leg was afire with pain.  The nurse had to struggle with him.

On account of this, they tied him down to the bed.  At this the moth grew bolder, and once he felt it settle in his hair.  Then, because he struck out violently with his arms, they tied these also.  At this the moth came and crawled over his face, and Hapley wept, swore, screamed, prayed for them to take it off him, unavailingly.

The doctor was a blockhead, a just-qualified general practitioner, and quite ignorant of mental science.  He simply said there was no moth.  Had he possessed the wit, he might still, perhaps, have saved Hapley from his fate by entering into his delusion, and covering his face with gauze, as he prayed might be done.  But, as I say, the doctor was a blockhead, and until the leg was healed Hapley was kept tied to his bed, and with the imaginary moth crawling over him.  It never left him while he was awake and it grew to a monster in his dreams.  While he was awake he longed for sleep, and from sleep he awoke screaming.

So now Hapley is spending the remainder of his days in a padded room, worried by a moth that no one else can see.  The asylum doctor calls it hallucination; but Hapley, when he is in his easier mood, and can talk, says it is the ghost of Pawkins, and consequently a unique specimen and well worth the trouble of catching.

  X.

  THE TREASURE IN THE FOREST.

The canoe was now approaching the land.  The bay opened out, and a gap in the white surf of the reef marked where the little river ran out to the sea; the thicker and deeper green of the virgin forest showed its course down the distant hill slope.  The forest here came close to the beach.  Far beyond, dim and almost cloudlike in texture, rose the mountains, like suddenly frozen waves.  The sea was still save for an almost imperceptible swell.  The sky blazed.

The man with the carved paddle stopped.  “It should be somewhere here,” he said.  He shipped the paddle and held his arms out straight before him.