Yet even so, for a
second, he did not open his eyes. The revelation of my presence seemed
to come upon him as in a dream. "Like Cumberledge's," he muttered to
himself, gasping. "Exactly like Cumberledge's.... But Cumberledge is
dead... I must be delirious.... If I didn't KNOW to the contrary, I
could have sworn it was Cumberledge's!"
I spoke again, bending over him. "How long have the glandular swellings
been present, Professor?" I asked, with quiet deliberativeness.
This time he opened his eyes sharply, and looked up in my face. He
swallowed a great gulp of surprise. His breath came and went. He
raised himself on his elbows and stared at me with a fixed stare.
"Cumberledge!" he cried; "Cumberledge! Come back to life, then! They
told me you were dead! And here you are, Cumberledge!"
"WHO told you I was dead?" I asked, sternly.
He stared at me, still in a dazed way. He was more than half comatose.
"Your guide, Ram Das," he answered at last, half incoherently. "He came
back by himself. Came back without you. He swore to me he had seen
all your throats cut in Tibet. He alone had escaped. The Buddhists had
massacred you."
"He told you a lie," I said, shortly.
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