"No," said Rupert, "he'd shout if he was. I've never known him to
talk to himself before; I'm afraid he really is bad tonight; it's
a known sign of the brain going."
"Yes," I said sadly, and listened. Basil's voice certainly was
sounding above us, and not by any means in the rich and riotous
tones in which he had hailed us before. He was speaking quietly,
and laughing every now and then, up there among the leaves and
stars.
After a silence mingled with this murmur, Rupert Grant suddenly
said, "My God!" with a violent voice.
"What's the matter--are you hurt?" I cried, alarmed.
"No. Listen to Basil," said the other in a very strange voice.
"He's not talking to himself."
"Then he is talking to us," I cried.
"No," said Rupert simply, "he's talking to somebody else."
Great branches of the elm loaded with leaves swung about us in a
sudden burst of wind, but when it died down I could still hear
the conversational voice above. I could hear two voices.
Suddenly from aloft came Basil's boisterous hailing voice as
before: "Come up, you fellows. Here's Lieutenant Keith."
And a second afterwards came the half-American voice we had heard
in our chambers more than once. It called out:
"Happy to see you, gentlemen; pray come in."
Out of a hole in an enormous dark egg-shaped thing, pendent in
the branches like a wasps' nest, was protruding the pale face and
fierce moustache of the lieutenant, his teeth shining with that
slightly Southern air that belonged to him.
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