But Strickland hates that quotation. He says that I have worn it
threadbare.
One other curious thing happened which frightened me as much as anything
in all the night’s work. When Fleete was dressed he came into the
dining-room and sniffed. He had a quaint trick of moving his nose when
he sniffed. ‘Horrid doggy smell, here,’ said he. ‘You should really keep
those terriers of yours in better order. Try sulphur, Strick.’
But Strickland did not answer. He caught hold of the back of a chair,
and, without warning, went into an amazing fit of hysterics. It is
terrible to see a strong man overtaken with hysteria. Then it struck me
that we had fought for Fleete’s soul with the Silver Man in that room,
and had disgraced ourselves as Englishmen for ever, and I laughed
and gasped and gurgled just as shamefully as Strickland, while Fleete
thought that we had both gone mad. We never told him what we had done.
Some years later, when Strickland had married and was a church-going
member of society for his wife’s sake, we reviewed the incident
dispassionately, and Strickland suggested that I should put it before
the public.
I cannot myself see that this step is likely to clear up the mystery;
because, in the first place, no one will believe a rather unpleasant
story, and, in the second, it is well known to every right-minded man
that the gods of the heathen are stone and brass, and any attempt to
deal with them otherwise is justly condemned.