The writer started back and dropped a great blot of ink upon the paper;
then, realizing the cause of the disturbance, forced herself to continue
her task.
The chime being completed: ONE! boomed the clock; TWO!... THREE! ...
FOUR!...
The light in the entrance-hall went out!
FIVE! boomed Big Ben;--SIX!... SEVEN!...
A hand, of old ivory hue, a long, yellow, clawish hand, with part of a
sinewy forearm, crept in from the black lobby through the study doorway
and touched the electric switch!
EIGHT!...
The study was plunged in darkness!
Uttering a sob--a cry of agony and horror that came from her very
soul--the woman stood upright and turned to face toward the door,
clutching the sheet of paper in one rigid hand.
Through the leaded panes of the window above the writing-table swept
a silvern beam of moonlight. It poured, searchingly, upon the fur-clad
figure swaying by the table; cutting through the darkness of the room
like some huge scimitar, to end in a pallid pool about the woman's
shadow on the center of the Persian carpet.
Coincident with her sobbing cry--NINE! boomed Big Ben; TEN!...
Two hands--with outstretched, crooked, clutching fingers--leapt from the
darkness into the light of the moonbeam.
"God! Oh, God!" came a frenzied, rasping shriek--"MR.
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