face.

But soon I forgot about Pescini to marvel at the growing, oppressive
heat of the night. The chill that usually drops over the West coast in
the first hours of darkness, did not manifest itself to-night. It was
the kind of heat that brings a flush to the face and a ghastly crawling
to the brain, swelling the neck glands until the linen collar chokes
like strangling fingers, and heightens the temper clear to the
explosion-point. Van Hope and Pescini tore at their collars, seemingly
at first unaware as to the source of their discomfort.

In reality the heat wave had overspread us rather swiftly, and what was
its source and by what shiftings of the air currents it had been sent
to harry us was mostly beyond the wit of man to tell. The temperature
must have been close to a hundred in that big, coolly furnished room,
and the veranda outside seemed to offer no relief. The dim warmth from
the electric lights above, added to the sweltering heat of the air, was
wholly perceptible on the heated brain, and seemed to stretch the
over-taut nerves to the breaking-point.

"Isn't this the devil?" Van Hope exclaimed as I came out. "It wasn't
half so hot at sunset. For Heaven's sake let's have a drink."

"Whiskey'd only make us hotter, would it not?"

"The English don't think so--but they're full of weird ideas. Have that
big coon bring us some lemonade then--iced tea--anything. This is the
kind of night that sets men crazy."

Men who have spent July in India, when the humidity is on the land,
could appreciate such heat, but it passed ordinary understanding. It
harassed the brain and fevered the blood, and warned us all of lawless
demons that lived just under our skins. A man wouldn't be responsible,
to-night. The devil inside of him, recognizing a familiar temperature,
escaped his bonds and stood ready to take any advantage of openings.

It was a curious thing that there was no perceptible wind over the
lagoon. Perhaps the reason was that we invariably associate wind with
coolness, rather than any sort of a hushed movement of the air--and the
impulse that brushed up on the veranda to us was as warm as a child's
breath on the face. There was simply no whisper of sound on shore or sea
or forest. The curlews were stilled, the wild creatures were likely
lying motionless, trying to escape the heat, the little rustlings and
murmurings of stirring vegetation was gone from the gardens. But that
first silence, remarkable enough, se