"Don't touch the lights! Don't touch the lights, I say!"
"What folly is this?" Wingrave asked angrily. "Are you mad?"
"Not now," came the quick answer. "I have been. It has come to me
here, in the darkness. I know why she is angry, I know why she will
not speak to me. It is--because I failed."
Wingrave laughed, and moved towards the lights.
"We have had enough of this tomfoolery," he said scornfully. "If you
won't listen to reason--"
He never finished his sentence. He had stumbled suddenly against a
soft body, he had a momentary impression of a white, vicious face, of
eyes blazing with insane fury. Quick to act, he struck--but before his
hand descended, he had felt the tearing of his shirt, the sharp, keen
pain in his chest, the swimming of his senses. Yet even then he struck
again with passionate anger, and his assailant went down amongst the
chairs with a dull, sickening crash!
Then there was silence in the room. Wingrave made an effort to drag
himself a yard or two towards the bell, but collapsed hopelessly.
Richardson, in a few moments, staggered to his feet.
He groped his way to the side of the wall, and found the knobs of the
electric lights. He turned two on and looked around him. Wingrave was
lying a few yards off, with a small red stain upon his shirt front.
His face was ghastly pale, and he was breathing thickly. The young man
looked at him for several moments, and then made his way to the side
table where the sandwiches were.
Pages:
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237