“I follow your thoughts,” murmured Dr. Lytton from behind his hand. “The false Vandyke....”
“Yes,” De Medici said. The two remaining candles were dying. A terror swept him. Darkness ... it would grow black. There were candles in the table drawer. His hands crept slowly forward and stopped. An inanition held them. He sat riveted, unable to stir. Terror exploded a Roman candle in his head....
“Ah,” he breathed, a sweat covering him. Darkness! A black room. His throat framed a cry.... “Ah,” he moaned.
Hands were pressing him down, holding him against the chair. Something was at his throat. No, inside his throat, crawling into his mouth. Suddenly his arms flung themselves against the air. He plunged to his feet, beating at the blackness.
“Lights ... lights!” came in a scream from his throat. The doctor’s voice roared a command.
“Stand still!”
The figure of De Medici spun crazily in the darkness and crashed into the velvet-covered wall. It sank without sound to the floor. The doctor groped toward the table.
“Julien!” he cried. His thick fingers were fumbling with a match box. He held a quickly lighted candle aloft. The curtained room swayed and danced in the shadows.... A figure lay, face down, arms outstretched and fingers spread against the gigantic-seeming drape.
The telephone was ringing. Its bell tinkled eerily in the dark. Dr. Lytton stood listening. A voice was waiting for him. He stepped forward and lifted the receiver from its hook.
“Is this Mr. De Medici?” a voice asked.