Grey, flinging away the end of his cigar, turned and looked down, watching it fall and sputter red sparks upon the macadam of the drive. And as he looked a shadow glided swiftly across the arc of light beneath the trees and was swallowed up in the gloom beyond—a shadow, the contour of which even in that brief moment struck Grey as unmistakably familiar, recalling a figure that he had seen twenty-four hours before, leaping wildly, from dark to dark, down a winding stone stairway.
“It’s bed time,” said Nicholas Van Tuyl, yawning. “You must be tired. Suppose we——”
A pistol shot, startlingly loud and sharp against the night silence, clipped off the end of the sentence.
For a moment neither spoke, and the stillness was the stillness of death. Then came the patter of hurrying steps, and presently voices were heard and men were darting across the street from all directions, and all heading toward the Quai at a point just opposite the balcony.
“Murder?” suggested Van Tuyl.
“No,” answered Grey, with conviction. “Suicide.”
Five minutes later, as they watched and listened, the crowd came straggling back, two by two and in groups, all chattering.
“Poor devil!” said one. The words rose distinctly audible.
“He made very sure,” commented another.
“Fancy blowing out his brains on the edge of the Quai and burying himself in the river!” exclaimed a third.