“Good morning, sir.  Many thanks, sir....  Yes, Mr. Envill, the stuff shall be at your stables by one P.M. sharp.  I’m making it my pride to obey all orders punctually, whether big or small.”

Thus he got on comfortably enough during the daylight waking hours.  But the fear that had gone out of the days had made its home in the night.  Sleep was now its stronghold.

His dreams were terrible.  They were like immense highly-colored fabrics reeling off the vast gray thought-loom—­that dreadful thought machine that worked as well when the workshop was darkened as when all the lamps were burning.  Their pattern displayed infinite variety of detail, but a constant similarity in the main design.

They began by his being happy and light-hearted, that is, he was innocent; and then gradually the horrible fact returned to his memory.  Recently, or a long time ago, he had killed a man.  That was always the end of the dream; his lightness and gaiety of spirits vanished, and he felt again the load that he was eternally forced to carry on his conscience.

The details of one form in which the dream worked itself out were repeated hundreds of times.  There was a strange man who at first made himself extremely agreeable, and yet in spite of all his amiability Dale did not like him.  Nevertheless there was some mysterious necessity to keep friends with him, even to kow-tow to him.  And Dale gradually felt sure that he and this man had met before, and that the man knew it, but for some sinister purpose concealed his knowledge.  They went about together in gay and lively scenes, and the man grew more and more hateful to Dale—­becoming insolent, making disparaging remarks, sneering openly; and laughing when Dale only tittered in a nervous way and swallowed all insults.  And Dale could not do otherwise, because he was afraid of the man.

And finally this false friend disclosed his true hostile character in some strikingly painful manner.

For instance, the man would make Dale take off his boots for him in some public place.  They were together in a place like the lounge of some grand music-hall; the electric light shone brilliantly, a band played at a distance, the gaily dressed crowd gathered round them—­young London swells with white waistcoats, pretty painted women, old men and young girls, and all of them watching, all contemptuously amused, all grinning because they understood that, though so big and strong, he was at heart a pitiful sort of poltroon, and that his companion was showing him up publicly.  “Yes, you shall take my boots off for me.  That’s all you’re fit for.”  And in spite of his anguish of resentment, Dale dared not refuse.  The man had moved to a divan, he reclined upon his back, lifted his feet; and Dale, pretending to laugh it off as a bit of fun, took him by the heels.

Then he uttered a terrified cry—­because he saw it was Barradine, dead, battered, with glassy staring eyes.  All the people rushed away screaming, the lights went out, the music ceased:  Dale was alone, at dusk, in a rocky wilderness, still dragging the dead man by the heels.