He stopped in front of the mirror and gazed fixedly at the reflection of his strangely altered face.
“What are you made of?” he whispered hoarsely—“what can you be made of to do the things you’ve done and not to care? Is there no soul, no conscience—nothing to make you care?”
He turned away from the glass, laughing harshly.
“Nothing there—nothing but a horrible face!”
Then fear seemed to grip him and drive remorse away.
“They’ve sent for the police!” he gasped wildly. “They’ll be here soon and drag me away. The jail, a barred cell, the courtroom full of scornful, grinning faces that were once my friends! And then—and then—perhaps, the electric chair!”
His voice sank to a vibrant whisper, and at the last words he caught at his collar like one choking.
“I can’t stand it!” he muttered. “I’m—afraid!”
Suddenly he stood erect and listened. Some one was coming upstairs. He crouched by the window, his white face turned breathlessly toward the door. Now they were coming down the hall. Another moment the key would turn, the door would open, and they would drag him away to prison. He shuddered.
“I can’t stand it,” he muttered—“I won’t stand it!”