Laboring under an abnormal excitement, he showed no resentment at the fact of being spied upon; but calling John to him, ordered him to walk home beside him across the cliff.
Never was walk so strange--never were companions so ill-matched as the two who threaded their way back over the headland.

Andrew Henderson walked first, talking all the time in a jargon addressed partly to the boy, partly to himself, in which mysticism was oddly tangled with a confusion of crazy theories and beliefs; behind came John, half fascinated and wholly bewildered by the medley of words that poured out upon the night.
On reaching the house, the old man became suddenly silent again, falling back as if by habit into the morose absorption that marked his daily life; but as he turned to mount the stairs to his own room, he paused and his curious light-blue eyes travelled over his nephew's face.
"Good-night!" he said.

"You make a good listener." And John--still confused and silent--retired to bed, to lie awake for many hours, partly thrilled and partly elated by the awesome thought that there was a madman in the house.
* * * * * But all that had happened seven years ago, and now Andrew Henderson lay waiting for his end.

In those seven years John had passed through the mill of deadly monotony that saps even youth, and lulls every instinct save hope.

The first enthusiasm of romance that had wrapped the discovery of his uncle's secret had faded out with time.