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"
Strickland
,
"
I
called
.
There
was
no
answer
.
It
was
really
rather
mysterious
,
and
it
seemed
to
me
that
Stroeve
,
standing
just
behind
,
was
trembling
in
his
shoes
.
For
a
moment
I
hesitated
to
strike
a
light
.
I
dimly
perceived
a
bed
in
the
corner
,
and
I
wondered
whether
the
light
would
disclose
lying
on
it
a
dead
body
.
"
Haven
’
t
you
got
a
match
,
you
fool
?
"
Strickland
’
s
voice
,
coming
out
of
the
darkness
,
harshly
,
made
me
start
.
Stroeve
cried
out
.
"
Oh
,
my
God
,
I
thought
you
were
dead
.
"
I
struck
a
match
,
and
looked
about
for
a
candle
.
I
had
a
rapid
glimpse
of
a
tiny
apartment
,
half
room
,
half
studio
,
in
which
was
nothing
but
a
bed
,
canvases
with
their
faces
to
the
wall
,
an
easel
,
a
table
,
and
a
chair
.
There
was
no
carpet
on
the
floor
.
There
was
no
fireplace
.
On
the
table
,
crowded
with
paints
,
palette
-
knives
,
and
litter
of
all
kinds
,
was
the
end
of
a
candle
.
I
lit
it
.
Strickland
was
lying
in
the
bed
,
uncomfortably
because
it
was
too
small
for
him
,
and
he
had
put
all
his
clothes
over
him
for
warmth
.
It
was
obvious
at
a
glance
that
he
was
in
a
high
fever
.
Stroeve
,
his
voice
cracking
with
emotion
,
went
up
to
him
.
"
Oh
,
my
poor
friend
,
what
is
the
matter
with
you
?
I
had
no
idea
you
were
ill
.
Why
didn
’
t
you
let
me
know
?
You
must
know
I
’
d
have
done
anything
in
the
world
for
you
.
Were
you
thinking
of
what
I
said
?
I
didn
’
t
mean
it
.
I
was
wrong
.
It
was
stupid
of
me
to
take
offence
.
"
"
Go
to
hell
,
"
said
Strickland
.
