"You—you know that it is I,"—the words were a hoarse, shaken whisper.
"I heard your first step on the stairs," Varge answered simply. "I heard you come up each stair. I heard you stumble once and feel along the wall. I heard you come down the hall on tiptoe. I know your step. I heard your hand shake like a frightened man's against the door."
"Sometimes"—the other seemed to shiver as he spoke—"you seem more than human."
"Why have you come to me in my room at this hour?" asked Varge again, rising now to a sitting posture in the bed. "What has happened? I will light a candle and you will tell me."
"No! In God's name no light"—Merton's words, low-breathed, came with frenzied quickness, quavering, dominant with terror. "No light; and, for mercy's sake, speak low. Speak very low. Wait! I am coming close to you where I can whisper."
Varge made no answer. His eyes were on that darker spot that, once by the door, now was moving across the room toward him. And then a hand, thrust out, groping, touched his shoulder—it was wet with cold moisture and shook as with the ague.
"Varge, you must help me," Merton burst out hysterically. "I am in danger, Varge—in awful danger, do you hear? You can save me. You are the only man, the only man, who can. For God's sake say you will! It can't mean anything to you—-there's nothing you can lose—you don't even know who you are—you haven't even so much as a name, except what we've always called you—Varge. You'll help me, Varge—
