“Ah!” he cried. “It isn’t necessary to fill it any fuller.” And he picked up the tiny cup with infinite care and carried it to the cabinet.
Then he took me by the hand and bade me look at him carefully—carefully—and tell him whether he had not really gone suddenly insane.
His eyes seemed glued to his drawing. They never moved from the paper.
“Let us go! let us go!” he said, drearily, at last. “The time is come, Sainclair. No matter what happens, we can never turn back now! The Lady in Black must tell us everything—everything about the man who is in that sack! Ah, if M. Darzac were to return immediately—immediately!—it might be less painful—but I dare wait no longer!”
Wait for what? Wait for whom? And why should he be so terrified now? What fear had made his eyes so wild? Why did his teeth chatter?
I could not restrain myself from asking him again:
“What are you afraid of? Do you think that Larsan is not dead?”
And he answered, gripping my hand as though he would never release it:
“I tell you I fear his death more than I fear his life!”