something dangerous in the room, that at the first hint of a movement on my part would be provoked to pounce upon me.  There was not much in the room—­you know how these bedrooms are—­a sort of four-poster bedstead under a mosquito-net, two or three chairs, the table I was writing at, a bare floor.  A glass door opened on an upstairs verandah, and he stood with his face to it, having a hard time with all possible privacy.  Dusk fell; I lit a candle with the greatest economy of movement and as much prudence as though it were an illegal proceeding.  There is no doubt that he had a very hard time of it, and so had I, even to the point, I must own, of wishing him to the devil, or on Walpole Reef at least.  It occurred to me once or twice that, after all, Chester was, perhaps, the man to deal effectively with such a disaster.  That strange idealist had found a practical use for it at once—­unerringly, as it were.  It was enough to make one suspect that, maybe, he really could see the true aspect of things that appeared mysterious or utterly hopeless to less imaginative persons.  I wrote and wrote; I liquidated all the arrears of my correspondence, and then went on writing to people who had no reason whatever to expect from me a gossipy letter about nothing at all.  At times I stole a sidelong glance.  He was rooted to the spot, but convulsive shudders ran down his back; his shoulders would heave suddenly.  He was fighting, he was fighting—­mostly for his breath, as it seemed.  The massive shadows, cast all one way from the straight flame of the candle, seemed possessed of gloomy consciousness; the immobility of the furniture had to my furtive eye an air of attention.  I was becoming fanciful in the midst of my industrious scribbling; and though, when the scratching of my pen stopped for a moment, there was complete silence and stillness in the room, I suffered from that profound disturbance and confusion of thought which is caused by a violent and menacing uproar—­of a heavy gale at sea, for instance.  Some of you may know what I mean:  that mingled anxiety, distress, and irritation with a sort of craven feeling creeping in—­not pleasant to acknowledge, but which gives a quite special merit to one’s endurance.  I don’t claim any merit for standing the stress of Jim’s emotions; I could take refuge in the letters; I could have written to strangers if necessary.  Suddenly, as I was taking up a fresh sheet of notepaper, I heard a low sound, the first sound that, since we had been shut up together, had come to my ears in the dim stillness of the room.  I remained with my head down, with my hand arrested.  Those who have kept vigil by a sick-bed have heard such faint sounds in the stillness of the night watches, sounds wrung from a racked body, from a weary soul.  He pushed the glass door with such force that all the panes rang:  he stepped out, and I held my breath, straining my ears without knowing what else I expected to hear.  He was really taking too much to heart an empty formality which to Chester’s