It was trying to say something about the cigarette-case, it was trying to tell Megbie something about Guy Rathbone.
And what? What was this fearful message that the agonized Thing was so eager and so horribly impotent to deliver?
Megbie's voice came to him. It sounded thin and muffled, just like the voice of a mechanical toy.
What is it? What is it? What are you trying to say to me about poor Guy Rathbone?
And then, as if it had seen that Megbie was trying to speak to it, but it could not hear his words, the figure of Eustace Charliewood wrung its hands, with a gesture which was inexpressibly dreadful, unutterably painful to see.
Megbie started up. He stepped forward. "Oh, don't, don't!" he said. As he spoke he dropped the cigarette-case, which, up to the present he had clutched in a hot wet hand. It fell with a clatter against the fender—that at any rate was a real noise!
In a moment the mopping, mourning, weeping phantom was gone.
The room was exactly as it had been before, still, warm, brilliantly-lit. And Donald Megbie stood upon the hearth-rug dazed and motionless, while a huge and icy hand seemed to creep round his heart and clutch it with lean, cold fingers.
Donald Megbie stood perfectly motionless for nearly a minute.
Then he knelt down and prayed fervently for help and guidance. At moments such as this men pray.