him, or to drive him back, because he was an intruder in a company whose
habit was strange and terrifying.

He forced his glance from the shadows which seemed more active along the
walls. He raised his candle and stared at the dead man. The cast was
undoubtedly there. The coat, stretched tightly across the breast,
outlined it. He stood at the side of the bed. He had only to bend and
place his hand in the pocket which the cast filled awkwardly. The wind
alone, he saw, wasn't responsible for the shaking of the candle. His hand
shook as the shadows shook, as the thing on the bed shook. The sense of
loneliness grew upon him until it became complete, appalling. For the
first time he understood that loneliness can possess a ponderable
quality. It was, he felt, potent and active in the room--a thing he
couldn't understand, or challenge, or overcome.

His hand tightened. He thought of Katherine guarding the corridor; of
Paredes and Doctor Groom, held downstairs by Graham; of the county
authorities hurrying to seize this evidence that would convict him; and
he realized that his duty and his excuse were clear. He understood that
just now he had been captured by a force undefinable in terms of the
world he knew. For a moment he eluded the stealthy fleshless hands of its
impalpable skirmishers. He reached impulsively out to the dead man. He
was about to place his fingers in the pocket, which, after all was said
and done, held his life.

In the light of the candle the face seemed alive and more menacing than
it had ever done in life. About the straight smile was a wider, more
triumphant quality.

The candle flickered sharply. It expired. The conquering blackness took
his breath.

He told himself it was the draft from the window which was strong, but
the companionship of the night was closer and more numerous. The darkness
wreathed itself into mocking and tortuous bodies whose faces were hidden.

In an agony of revolt against these incorporeal, these fanciful horrors,
he reached in the pocket.

He sprang back with a choked, inaudible cry, for the dead thing beneath
his hand was stirring. The dead, cold thing with a languid and impossible
rebuke, moved beneath his touch. And the pocket he had felt was empty.
The coat, a moment ago bulging and awkward, was flat. There sprang to
his mind the mad thought that the detective, malevolent in life, had long
after death snatched from his hand the evidence, carefully gathered, on
which