The stillness lengthened.  The match went out, the cigarette was put down unlit.  The man was certainly very still.  Isbister took up the portfolio, opened it, put it down, hesitated, seemed about to speak.  “Perhaps,” he whispered doubtfully.  Presently he glanced at the door and back to the figure.  Then he stole on tiptoe out of the room, glancing at his companion after each elaborate pace.

He closed the door noiselessly.  The house door was standing open, and he went out beyond the porch, and stood where the monkshood rose at the corner of the garden bed.  From this point he could see the stranger through the open window, still and dim, sitting head on hand.  He had not moved.

A number of children going along the road stopped and regarded the artist curiously.  A boatman exchanged civilities with him.  He felt that possibly his circumspect attitude and position looked peculiar and unaccountable.  Smoking, perhaps, might seem more natural.  He drew pipe and pouch from his pocket, filled the pipe slowly.

“I wonder,” ... he said, with a scarcely perceptible loss of complacency.  “At any rate one must give him a chance.”  He struck a match in the virile way, and proceeded to light his pipe.

He heard his landlady behind him, coming with his lamp lit from the kitchen.  He turned, gesticulating with his pipe, and stopped her at the door of his sitting-room.  He had some difficulty in explaining the situation in whispers, for she did not know he had a visitor.  She retreated again with the lamp, still a little mystified to judge from her manner, and he resumed his hovering at the corner of the porch, flushed and less at his ease.

Long after he had smoked out his pipe, and when the bats were abroad, curiosity dominated his complex hesitations, and he stole back into his darkling sitting-room.  He paused in the doorway.  The stranger was still in the same attitude, dark against the window.  Save for the singing of some sailors aboard one of the little slate-carrying ships in the harbour the evening was very still.  Outside, the spikes of monkshood and delphinium stood erect and motionless against the shadow of the hillside.  Something flashed into Isbister’s mind; he started, and leaning over the table, listened.  An unpleasant suspicion grew stronger; became conviction.  Astonishment seized him and became—­dread!

No sound of breathing came from the seated figure!

He crept slowly and noiselessly round the table, pausing twice to listen.  At last he could lay his hand on the back of the armchair.  He bent down until the two heads were ear to ear.

Then he bent still lower to look up at his visitor’s face.  He started violently and uttered an exclamation.  The eyes were void spaces of white.

He looked again and saw that they were open and with the pupils rolled under the lids.  He was afraid.  He took the man by the shoulder and shook him.  “Are you asleep?” he said, with his voice jumping, and again, “Are you asleep?”