He glanced suddenly over his shoulder, once again to the bed where that silent form lay. Had she heard? Had she known? He thought he saw a movement of the curtains, but a second later he dismissed the fancy with a deep indrawn breath.
He was in that state of mind now that even if she had known— if she had been capable of rising and denouncing him—he would still have caught her by the throat and pressed her back upon her pillows and deliberately strangled the life out of her. It was decided. Fate had sent her so far upon her road, but now her travelling was over, and the end of her was to be bitter and ignominious and unknown.
The handkerchief was saturated. He went towards the bed and bent down. The terrible open mouth, with the hideousness of it, seemed to give him a demoniac courage. He folded the cloth and laid it softly over it and the faintly breathing nostrils. He pressed the damp covering down—down—moulding it to the nose and mouth as one might who was taking a cast of some one dead and unknown to him, and with quite as strong a calm and carefulness.
A moment—a frightful moment—and then she stirred, the big head swayed from side to side. Darkham—white, rigid—watched her as she moved in her terrible impotence, but still held the cloth. It was but a momentary struggle, after all; suddenly it ceased. She lay now, rigid, white—the cloth still upon her face; her eyes had opened in the dying struggle and looked up at him, pale, horrible. But her breath—her breath was gone. She was dead!
A moment—a frightful moment—and then she stirred. It was but a momentary struggle after all; suddenly it ceased. She was dead!
He stood for a long time watching her. At least it seemed a long time. He had released his hold of the death-cloth, but it still lay on her face, covering the lips and nose, and leaving only those frightfully glaring eyes to be seen. They were wide open, and seemed fixed on him. He laid his hand upon her lids, and with a brutal haste forced back the lids upon the dying eyes.
He drew in his breath sharply, and leaning against one of the four posts, compelled himself to listen—to watch.
Not a sound in the house. And not a sound here, either. The breathing had ceased—was still. All was over. Those men had been right, then. There was so little life left in her that recovery was impossible. If he had only waited, nature would have done its own work unaided.
Once again that mad rush of exultation ran within her veins. Once again he sat in the room with Agatha Nesbitt—saw her, listened to her charming voice. He stooped over the woman in the bed, and in a wild ecstasy tore the murderous cloth from off her face. A smothered yell of triumph broke from him. She was dead—dead— dead!