shirt sleeves on a chair which he had
taken pains to place in the very middle of the floor. I repressed an
absurd impulse to walk round him as though he had been some sort of
exhibit. His hands were spread over his knees and he looked perfectly
insensible. I don't mean strange, or ghastly, or wooden, but just
insensible--like an exhibit. And that effect persisted even after he
raised his black suspicious eyes to my face. He lowered them almost at
once. It was very mechanical. I gave him up and became rather concerned
about myself. My thought was that I had better get out of that before
any more queer notions came into my head. So I only remained long enough
to tell him that the woman of the house was bringing down some bedding
and that I hoped that he would have a good night's rest. And directly I
spoke it struck me that this was the most extraordinary speech that ever
was addressed to a figure of that sort. He, however, did not seem
startled by it or moved in any way. He simply said:

"Thank you."

In the darkest part of the long passage outside I met Therese with her
arms full of pillows and blankets.

CHAPTER V

Coming out of the bright light of the studio I didn't make out Therese
very distinctly. She, however, having groped in dark cupboards, must
have had her pupils sufficiently dilated to have seen that I had my hat
on my head. This has its importance because after what I had said to her
upstairs it must have convinced her that I was going out on some midnight
business. I passed her without a word and heard behind me the door of
the studio close with an unexpected crash. It strikes me now that under
the circumstances I might have without shame gone back to listen at the
keyhole. But truth to say the association of events was not so clear in
my mind as it may be to the reader of this story. Neither were the exact
connections of persons present to my mind. And, besides, one doesn't
listen at a keyhole but in pursuance of some plan; unless one is
afflicted by a vulgar and fatuous curiosity. But that vice is not in my
character. As to plan, I had none. I moved along the passage between
the dead wall and the black-and-white marble elevation of the staircase
with hushed footsteps, as though there had been a mortally sick person
somewhere in the house. And the only person that could have answered to
that description was Senor Ortega. I moved on, stealthy, absorbed,
undecided; asking mys