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As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe

for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend

of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and

peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and

unkempt, staring out at me.

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of

reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what

o'clock is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Of what day?"

"Of Friday, June 19th."

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What

d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his

arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting

this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"