head to foot.

Leaving his position behind the chair, Saniel, who had thrown the knife
on the floor, looked at his watch and counted the ticking of the
second-hand in a low voice.

"One, two, three-"

At the end of ninety seconds the convulsions ceased.

It was twenty-three minutes after five. Now it was important that he
should hurry and not lose a second.

The blood, after having gushed out, had run down the body and wet the
vest pocket in which was the key of the safe. But blood does not produce
the same effect upon a doctor as upon those who are not accustomed to its
sight and odor, and to its touch. In spite of the lukewarm sea in which
it lay, Saniel took the key, and after wiping his hand on one of the
tails of Caffie's coat, he placed it in the lock.

Would it turn freely, or was it closed with a combination? The question
was poignant. The key turned and the door opened. On a shelf and in a
wooden bowl were packages of bank-notes and rolls of gold that he had
seen the evening when the bank-clerk came. Roughly, without counting; he
thrust them into his pocket, and without closing the safe, he ran to the
front door, taking care not to step in the streams of blood, which, on
the sloping tiled floor, ran toward this door. The time was short.

And now was the greatest danger, that of meeting some one behind this
door, or on the stairs. He listened, and heard no noise. He went out, and
no one was to be seen. Without running, but hastily, he descended the
stairs. Should he look in the lodge, or should he turn his head away? He
looked, but the concierge was not there.

A second later he was in the street mingling with the passersby, and he
drew a long breath.

CHAPTER XIII

DISTRACTION

There was no longer any need to be cautious, to listen, to stretch his
nerves, to restrain his heart; he could walk freely and reflect.

His first thought was to endeavor to explain to himself how he felt, and
he found that it was an immense relief; something, doubtless, analogous
to the returning to life after being in a state of asphyxiation.
Physically, he was calm; morally, he felt no remorse. He was right,
therefore, in his theory when he told Phillis that in the intelligent man
remorse precedes the action, instead of following it.

But where he was mistaken was in imagining that during the act he should
maintain his coolness and force, which, in reality, had failed him
completely.

Going from one idea to an