“ Get ⁠—out of the way!” he roared, and suddenly whipped out his revolver.

“Very well,” said I, and stood aside, half-minded to fall upon him as he put his hand upon the latch, but deterred by the thought of my useless arm. “You’ve made a beast of yourself⁠—to the beasts you may go.”

He flung the doorway open, and stood half facing me between the yellow lamplight and the pallid glare of the moon; his eye sockets were blotches of black under his stubbly eyebrows.

“You’re a solemn prig, Prendick, a silly ass! You’re always fearing and fancying. We’re on the edge of things. I’m bound to cut my throat tomorrow. I’m going to have a damned bank holiday tonight.” He turned and went out into the moonlight. “M’ling!” he cried; “M’ling, old friend!”