You never know what he's going to let you in
for next. But, as this didn't seem to occur to him, I didn't say
anything. If he really liked catching the last train down, a three-mile
walk, and then sharing a double-bedded room at a poor sort of alehouse
(which was my own programme), he was welcome. We walked a little farther;
then I told him the time of the train and left him. He turned up at Euston, a little after twelve. We went down together. It
was getting on for one when we left the station at the other end, and
then we began the tramp across the Weald to the inn. A little to my
surprise (for I had begun to expect unaccountable behaviour from him) we
reached the inn without Rooum having dodged about changing places with
me, or having fallen cowering under a gorse-bush, or anything of
that kind. Our talk, too, was about work, not molecules and osmosis. The inn was only a roadside beerhouse--I have forgotten its name--and all
its sleeping accomodation was the one double-bedded room. Over the head
of my own bed the ceiling was cut away, following the roof-line; and the
wallpaper was perfectly shocking--faded bouquets that made V's and A's,
interlacing everywhere. The other bed was made up, and lay across the
room. I think I only spoke once while we were making ready for bed, and that
was when Rooum took from his black hand-bag a brush and a torn nightgown. "That's what you always carry about, is it?" I remarked; and Rooum
grunted something: Yes ... never knew where you'd be next ... no harm,
was it? We tumbled into bed. But, for all the lateness of the hour, I wasn't sleepy; so from my own
bag I took a book, set the candle on the end of the mantel, and began
to read. Mark you, I don't say I was much better informed for the reading
I did, for I was watching the V's on the wallpaper mostly--that, and
wondering what was wrong with the man in the other bed who had fallen
down at a touch in the subway. He was already asleep. Now I don't know whether I can make the next clear to you. I'm quite
certain he was sound asleep, so that it wasn't just the fact that he
spoke. Even that is a little unpleasant, I always think, any sort of
sleep-talking; but it's a very queer sort of sensation when a man
actually answers a question that's put to him, knowing nothing whatever
about it in the morning. Perhaps I ought not to have put that question;
having put it, I did the next best thing afterwards, as you'll see in a
moment ... but let me tell you. He'd been asleep perhaps an hour, and I woolgathering about the
wallpaper, when suddenly, in a far more clear and loud voice than he ever
used when awake, he said:

_"What the devil is it prevents me seeing him, then? "_

That startled me, rather, for the second time that evening; and I really
think I had spoken before I had fully realised what was happening. "From seeing whom?" I said, sitting up in bed. "Whom?... You're not attending. The fellow I'm telling you about, who
runs after me," he answered--answered perfectly plainly. I could see his head there on the pillow, black and white, and his
eyes were closed. He made a slight movement with his arm, but that did
not wake him. Then it came to me, with a sort of start, what was
happening. I slipped half out of bed. Would he--would he?--answer
another question?... I risked it, breathlessly:

"Have you any idea who he is?" Well, that too he answered. "Who he is? The Runner?... Don't be silly. _Who else should it be?_"

With every nerve in me tingling, I tried again. "What happens, then, when he catches you?" This time, I really don't know whether his words were an answer or not;
they were these:

"To hear him catching you up ... and then padding away ahead again! All
right, all right ... but I guess it's weakening him a bit, too...."

Without noticing it, I had got out of bed, and had advanced quite to the
middle of the floor. "What did you say his name was?" I breathed. But that was a dead failure. He muttered brokenly for a moment, gave a
deep troubled sigh, and then began to snore loudly and regularly. I made my way back to bed; but I assure you that before I did so I filled
my basin with water, dipped my face into it, and then set the candlestick
afloat in it, leaving the candle burning. I thought I'd like to have a
light.... It had burned down by morning. Rooum, I remember, remarked on
the silly practice of reading in bed. Well, it was a pretty kind of obsession for a man to have, wasn't it? Somebody running after him all the time, and then ... running on ahead? And, of course, on a broad pavement there would be plenty of room for
this running gentleman to run round; but on an eight- or nine-inch kerb,
such as that of the new road out Lewisham way ... but perhaps he was a
jumping gentleman too, and could jump over a man's head. You'd think he'd
have to get past some way, wouldn't you?... I remember vaguely wondering
whether the name of that Runner was not Conscience; but Conscience isn't
a matter of molecules and osmosis....

One thing, however, was clear; I'd got to tell Rooum what I'd learned:
for you can't get hold of a fellow's secrets in ways like that. I lost
no time about it. I told him, in fact, soon after we'd left the inn the
next morning--told him how he'd answered in his sleep. And--what do you think of this?--he seemed to think I ought to have
guessed it! _Guessed_ a monstrous thing like that! "You're less clever than I thought, with your books and that, if you
didn't," he grunted. "But ... Good God, man!" "Queer, isn't it? But you don't know the queerest ..."

He pondered for a moment, and then suddenly put his lips to my ear. "I'll tell you," he whispered. "_It gets harder every time_!... At first,
he just slipped through: a bit of a catch at my heart, like when you nod
off to sleep in a chair and jerk up awake again; and away he went. But
now it's getting grinding, sluggish; and the pain.... You'd notice, that
night on the road, the little check it gave me; that's past long since;
and last night, when I'd just braced myself up stiff to meet it, and you
tapped me on the shoulder ..." He passed the back of his hand over his
brow. "I tell you," he continued, "it's an agony each time. I could scream at
the thought of it. It's oftener, too, now, and he's getting stronger. The
end-osmosis is getting to be ex-osmosis--is that right? Just let me tell
you one more thing--"

But I'd had enough. I'd asked questions the night before, but now--well,
I knew quite as much as, and more than, I wanted. "Stop, please," I said. "You're either off your head, or worse. Let's
call it the first. Don't tell me any more, please." "Frightened, what? Well, I don't blame you. But what would _you_ do?" "I should see a doctor; I'm only an engineer," I replied. "Doctors?... Bah!" he said, and spat. I hope you see how the matter stood with Rooum. What do you make of it? Could you have believed it--_do_ you believe it?...