He saw an
apartment almost identical with that which he himself recently had
quitted; but in one particular it differed. It was occupied... AND BY A
WOMAN!
Arrayed in a gossamer nightrobe she lay in the bed, beneath the trap,
her sunken face matching the silken whiteness. Her thin arms drooped
listlessly over the rails of the bunk, and upon her left hand M. Max
perceived a wedding ring. Her hair, flaxen in the electric light, was
spread about in wildest disorder upon the pillow, and a breath of fetid
air assailed his nostrils as he pressed his face close to the gauze
masking the opening in order to peer closely at this victim of the
catacombs.
He watched the silken covering of her bosom, intently, but failed to
detect the slightest movement.
"Morbleu!" he muttered, "is she dead?"
He rent the gauze with a sweep of his left hand, and standing upon the
bottom shelf of the case, craned forward into the room, looking all
about him. A purple shaded lamp burnt above the bed as in the adjoining
apartment which he himself had occupied. There were dainty feminine
trifles littered in the big armchair, and a motor-coat hung upon the
hook of the bathroom door. A small cabin-trunk in one corner of the room
bore the initials: "M. L."
Max dropped back into the incredible library with a stifled gasp.
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