He looked like a man stabbed suddenly from a dream to full consciousness.
"A European--at the _dak-bungalow_--dead, did you say ?" His words tumbled over each other; he gripped Macfarlane's shoulder and shook it with fierce impatience.
"So I heard.

I don't know any details.

How should I?
Merryon, are you mad ?" Macfarlane put up a quick hand to free himself, for the grip was painful.

"He wasn't a friend of yours, I suppose?
He wouldn't have been putting up there if he had been." "No, no; not--a friend." The words came jerkily.

Merryon was breathing in great spasms that shook him from head to foot.