‘I can’t tell you what I think now,’ said he, ’because you would call me a madman; but you must stay with me for the next few days, if you can.  I want you to watch Fleete, but don’t tell me what you think till I have made up my mind.’

‘But I am dining out to-night,’ I said.  ‘So am I,’ said Strickland, ’and so is Fleete.  At least if he doesn’t change his mind.’

We walked about the garden smoking, but saying nothing—­because we were friends, and talking spoils good tobacco—­till our pipes were out.  Then we went to wake up Fleete.  He was wide awake and fidgeting about his room.

‘I say, I want some more chops,’ he said.  ‘Can I get them?’

We laughed and said, ’Go and change.  The ponies will be round in a minute.’

‘All right,’ said Fleete.  I’ll go when I get the chops—­underdone ones, mind.’

He seemed to be quite in earnest.  It was four o’clock, and we had had breakfast at one; still, for a long time, he demanded those underdone chops.  Then he changed into riding clothes and went out into the verandah.  His pony—­the mare had not been caught—­would not let him come near.  All three horses were unmanageable—–­mad with fear—–­and finally Fleete said that he would stay at home and get something to eat.  Strickland and I rode out wondering.  As we passed the temple of Hanuman, the Silver Man came out and mewed at us.

‘He is not one of the regular priests of the temple,’ said Strickland.  ‘I think I should peculiarly like to lay my hands on him.’

There was no spring in our gallop on the racecourse that evening.  The horses were stale, and moved as though they had been ridden out.

‘The fright after breakfast has been too much for them,’ said Strickland.

That was the only remark he made through the remainder of the ride.  Once or twice I think he swore to himself; but that did not count.

We came back in the dark at seven o’clock, and saw that there were no lights in the bungalow.  ‘Careless ruffians my servants are!’ said Strickland.

My horse reared at something on the carriage drive, and Fleete stood up under its nose.

‘What are you doing, grovelling about the garden?’ said Strickland.

But both horses bolted and nearly threw us.  We dismounted by the stables and returned to Fleete, who was on his hands and knees under the orange-bushes.

‘What the devil’s wrong with you?’ said Strickland.

‘Nothing, nothing in the world,’ said Fleete, speaking very quickly and thickly.  ’I’ve been gardening-botanising you know.  The smell of the earth is delightful.  I think I’m going for a walk-a long walk-all night.’

Then I saw that there was something excessively out of order somewhere, and I said to Strickland, ‘I am not dining out.’

‘Bless you!’ said Strickland.  ’Here, Fleete, get up.  You’ll catch fever there.  Come in to dinner and let’s have the lamps lit.  We ’ll all dine at home.’