‘Stay, then,’ said the Professor.
He went into an inner room and returned with a phial and glass, and advanced towards the girl with an almost buoyant step. There was, indeed, an exhilaration in his whole air, that amounted almost to madness. He looked wild—spectral, indeed—in the dim light of the solitary lamp, with his white hair thrown back and his eyes shining fiercely beneath the rugged brows.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
She made a slight gesture of assent, and went a step or two to meet him. She was deadly pale, but she stood without support of any kind. The Professor poured some of the pale fluid from the phial into the glass with a hand that never faltered, and the girl took it with a hand that faltered quite as little; but before she could raise it to her lips, Wyndham caught her arm.
‘Stop!’ cried he, as if choking. ‘Have you thought—have you considered that there is no certainty in this drug?’ Her eyes rested for a moment on his.
‘I thought there was a certainty,’ she said slowly.
‘A certainty of death, perhaps,’ said he, poignant fear in his tone. ‘At this last moment I appeal to you, for your own sake. Don’t take it. If you do, it is doubtful whether you will ever come back to life again.’
She looked at him steadily.
‘I hope there is no doubt,’ she said. She raised the glass and drank its contents to the dregs.
As she did so, some clock in the silent city outside struck the midnight hour.