Even as he met the disquieting
directness of the Inspector's eyes, he could see Conniston sitting in
his place, rolling his mustache between his forefinger and thumb, and
smiling as though he had gone into the north but yesterday and had
returned today. That was what McDowell was missing in him, the soul of
Conniston himself--Conniston, the ne plus ultra of presence and amiable
condescension, the man who could look the Inspector or the High
Commissioner himself between the eyes, and, serenely indifferent to
Service regulations, say, "Fine morning, old top!" Keith was not
without his own sense of humor. How the Englishman's ghost must be
raging if it was in the room at the present moment! He grinned and
shrugged his shoulders.
"Were you ever up there--through the Long Night--alone?" he asked.
"Ever been through six months of living torture with the stars leering
at you and the foxes barking at you all the time, fighting to keep
yourself from going mad? I went through that twice to get John Keith,
and I guess you're right. I'm changed. I don't think I'll ever be the
same again. Something--has gone. I can't tell what it is, but I feel
it. I guess only half of me pulled through.
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