World’s End

an immensely high stone wall, crenelated on the top, and over that he could catch a glimpse of the blue May sky. He understood now why the corridor was evidently uncarpeted; if by any means he should get out at the door, his steps would sound, and give the alarm at once. He sat down and tried to think; either the excitement, or the natural strength of his constitution was fast overcoming the poison. His head was clearer, and he could see distinctly, but his limbs were still feeble. What could he do?

At this moment the key again turned in the lock, and Davidson entered, bearing a tray with an appetising dinner.

“How do I know these things are not drugged also?” said Aymer.

“Drugged, sir? That’s always their delusion. Them’s good victuals. I’ll taste if you like.” And he did so.

While his head was turned, Aymer, weak as he was, made a rush at the door. The warder turned and seized him, and led him back to his chair like a child. Aymer, mad with passion, threatened him, and snatched at a knife upon the table.

“Ay, ay; steady, sir,” said the warder, quite coolly; “that’s no use, my waistcoat is padded on purpose. I’ve had him padded ever since Mr. Odo made a stab at me. Now, now, sir, do be quiet; you’re only a hurting yourself. Eat your dinner and get stronger, and maybe then you can have a wrestle with me.”

He glanced with a half smile at Aymer’s slight, panting figure, and then at his own sturdy proportions, winked, and withdrew.

As his steps died away in the passage, Aymer started to his feet in intense astonishment. He had heard his own name; he could not believe his senses⁠—was he really mad?

“Aymer Malet, Esq.”

The voice was low, but distinct. It might come from the doorway, the window, the wall, the ceiling. He was startled, but replied⁠—

“Yes; I am here.”

“Young man,” said the voice, very low, but quite audible, “take my advice: control your temper. If you stab a warder they will have a pretext to keep you here all your lifetime.”

“Ah,” said Aymer; “thank you, I understand. But who are you?⁠—who are you?”

“I am a young old man. Who are you?”

“I am a young man,” said Aymer, growing curious, and for the moment forgetting his position. “My name you know⁠—I can’t tell how. I come from World’s End.”

“Ah!” said the voice, sadly; “I had hoped you were sane.”

“So I am.”

“Why then say you came from the world’s end?”

“I did not. I said from World’s End; it is a place near Bury Wick.”

“You are sane then so far. I know that World’s End very well. I only tried you. I overheard your name when you were carried in. Now, answer me. Why are you here?”

“There, that is what I want to know.”

“If you do not know, you are not sane. Cannot you see the motive for your confinement?”

“Certainly I can. It is easy to see that.”

And Aymer briefly related the circumstances.

“And where is your Violet?”

“Doubtless at Belthrop, or spirited away⁠—perhaps abroad. Far enough from me, at all events.”

“Not so: she is in this very place.”

“I don’t believe it. They would keep her away.”

“I am sure of it. What should you do if you got out?”

“I should go straight to Belthrop⁠—or, stay, perhaps I should go to Mr. Broughton. He would protect me.”

“Broughton⁠—ah! he is a lawyer. I see you are sane. I must have a look at you. Turn your face towards the picture of the ‘Last Supper.’ ”

Wondering and yet curious, Aymer did as he was bid. On the wall above a sideboard was a large copy of Vinci’s “Last Supper.” In a few seconds the voice came again; and soon he found it came from the picture.

“I see you. I have read you. You have talent, perhaps genius; but your chin is weak. You know not how to fight men. You do not comprehend that men are beasts, and that it is necessary to be always fighting them. Still you are sane, you are young⁠—eat, and get strong⁠—you will do. Your name is familiar to me. Who was your father?”

Aymer told him. The voice replied⁠—“I knew him⁠—a clever man, and, excuse me, a fool. How came you to reside at World’s End?”

Aymer told him. “But who are you?” he said, eagerly. “Let me see you also.”

“Very well. Look at the dog under the table in the picture. Now.”

Aymer saw a slender white finger suddenly protruded through the body of the dog.

“But I only see your finger.”

“Well, that is me. Don’t you know that the hand is the man, and the claw is the beast? You can see by my finger that I have a hand.”

It was evident that the stranger was proud of his white hand and slender finger.

“Who on earth are you?” said Aymer, beginning to get excited. “If you do not answer me I will pull the picture down.”

“If you do, you will ruin us both.”

“Well, tell me who you are.”

“I am a prisoner like yourself. My name is, or was, for I am dead now, Fulk Lechester.”

“Fulk Lechester⁠—Lady Agnes’ cousin! Ah! I have heard of you,” said Aymer. “You were very clever, and you went⁠—well, I mean⁠—”

“Ha! ha! ha! I will convince you that I am as sane as yourself⁠—saner; for what a goose you were to be so easily trapped.”

“So I certainly was.”

“Would you like to get out? Of course. So should I. Let me see. First, I have seen you⁠—your physiognomy is good; next, I have read of your book, for I see the papers; thirdly, I knew your father, at least I knew all about his career; fourthly, you come from World’s End, and that is my neighbourhood; fifthly, you are young; sixthly, you are in love, which is a strong stimulus to exertion. Yes, you will do. Now eat your dinner; you must get strong.”

“I will not touch it till I see you. I will tear the picture down.”

“Oh, rash, headstrong! Lift