“Yes—yes!” cried the old man impatiently. “Go on!”
“Numbers for March”—Karl Wertheimer’s voice came with a curious deliberation as though he were memorizing figures. “—Ahh!” The voice broke in a wild, unearthly cry that froze the blood.
They waited. There was no sound. They heard their hearts beat in a growing terror.
Suddenly the old man spoke.
“The girl!—Look, Kranz!—She does not breathe!”
Kranz sprang to her, lifted her hand, bent suddenly down to her face. He looked up with the eyes of a baulked demon.
“She is dead!” he said hoarsely.
He turned to her again and, with a frenzied rage, tore away the clothes from her throat and chest. Just over her heart was a small round dark spot staining the unbroken skin.
“Look!” he cried.