’At any rate, my dream about you comes true, Jeffson.  It is clear that Peters is out of the running now.’

I shrugged.

‘I now formally invite you to join the expedition,’ said Clark:  ’do you consent?’

I shrugged again.

‘Well, if that means consent,’ he said, ’let me remind you that you have only eight days, and all the world to do in them.’

This conversation occurred in the dining-room of Peters’ house:  and as we passed through the door, I saw Clodagh gliding down the passage outside—­rapidly—­away from us.

Not a word I said to her that day about Clark’s invitation.  Yet I asked myself repeatedly:  Did she not know of it?  Had she not listened, and heard?

However that was, about midnight, to my great surprise, Peters opened his eyes, and smiled.  By noon the next day, his fine vitality, which so fitted him for an Arctic expedition, had re-asserted itself.  He was then leaning on an elbow, talking to Wilson, and except his pallor, and strong stomach-pains, there was now hardly a trace of his late approach to death.  For the pains I prescribed some quarter-grain tablets of sulphate of morphia, and went away.

Now, David Wilson and I never greatly loved each other, and that very day he brought about a painful situation as between Peters and me, by telling Peters that I had taken his place in the expedition.  Peters, a touchy fellow, at once dictated a letter of protest to Clark; and Clark sent Peters’ letter to me, marked with a big note of interrogation in blue pencil.

Now, all Peters’ preparations were made, mine not; and he had six days in which to recover himself.  I therefore wrote to Clark, saying that the changed circumstances of course annulled my acceptance of his offer, though I had already incurred the inconvenience of negotiating with a locum tenens.

This decided it:  Peters was to go, I stay.  The fifth day before the departure dawned.  It was a Friday, the 15th June.  Peters was now in an arm-chair.  He was cheerful, but with a fevered pulse, and still the stomach-pains.  I was giving him three quarter-grains of morphia a day.  That Friday night, at 11 P.M., I visited him, and found Clodagh there, talking to him.  Peters was smoking a cigar.

‘Ah,’ Clodagh said, ’I was waiting for you, Adam.  I didn’t know whether I was to inject anything to-night.  Is it Yes or No?’

‘What do you think, Peters?’ I said:  ‘any more pains?’

‘Well, perhaps you had better give us another quarter,’ he answered:  ‘there’s still some trouble in the tummy off and on.’

’A quarter-grain, then, Clodagh, ’I said.

As she opened the syringe-box, she remarked with a pout: 

‘Our patient has been naughty!  He has taken some more atropine.’

I became angry at once.

‘Peters,’ I cried, ’you know you have no right to be doing things like that without consulting me!  Do that once more, and I swear I have nothing further to do with you!’