Rich drew a deep breath.
"Now you will awaken," he said. "Open your eyes. Sit up. Gently now."
"God!" cried Sharpless involuntarily.
Rich's fierce gesture silenced him; the brief glance Rich gave over his shoulder kept him silent.
The person looking back at them from the chair was not Vicky Fane. At least, it was not any Vicky Fane they had ever known. From her eyes, even from her whole face, all those qualities which render a face recognizable as human — intelligence, will, character — had all been drained away. It breathed, and it was warm; but it remained clay. In that utter lack of intelligence, even her good looks seemed to have disappeared.
Vicky sat up quietly, without curiosity. She did not blink in the light.
"I warned you," muttered Rich, moistening his lips. "Now watch."
He spoke to his victim.
"On the floor over there by the window, where I put them when I moved the telephone table," he said, "you will find a cigarette box and a box of matches. Bring me a cigarette and a match."
Arthur Fane began, "There's no match b—" But again Rich's glance imposed silence.