He felt in his pocket for some paper on which to make the drawing, and took out a letter.
Gortre and the vicar drew their chairs closer.
Suddenly a curious pain shot through Basil's head and all his pulses throbbed violently. He experienced a terribly familiar sensation—the sick fear and repulsion of the night before his illness in the great library. The aroma of some utterly evil and abominable personality seemed to come into his brain.
For, as he had looked down at the paper on which the great white fingers were now tracing thin lines, he had seen, before Llwellyn turned it over, a firm, plain signature, thus:
With some excuse about the heat of the room, he left it and went out into the night.
His brain was busy with terrible intuitive forebodings, he seemed to be caught up in the fringe of some great net, the phantoms of his illness came round him once more, the dark air was thick with their wings—vague, and because of that more hideous.
He passed the lighted kiosk at the Casino entrance with a white, set face.
He was going home to pray.