I had my key in my pocket and I unlocked the big door and entered quietly. The door of the directors' room was open a little way and I tiptoed over and peeped in through the crack. Taylor was seated in a chair beside the big table, his elbows upon the table and his head in his hands. As I stood there, watching him, he took his hands away and I saw his face. Upon it was an expression of abject misery and utter despair. I opened the door and entered.
He heard the sound of the opening door and leaped to his feet. His chair fell backward on the floor with a clatter, but he paid no attention to it.
“Good God!” he cried, wildly. “Who's that?”
He was deathly pale and trembling violently. His appearance startled and alarmed me.
“It's all right,” I said, hastily. “It is I—Paine. I saw the light and knew you must be here. What ails you? What IS the matter?”
For a moment he stood there staring. Then he turned and picked up the fallen chair.
“Oh, it's you, Ros, is it?” he faltered. “I—I—Lord, how you scared me! I—I—”
“George! what IS the matter with you? For heaven's sake! stand up, man!” He was swaying and I thought he was going to faint. “George! George Taylor! Are you ill? I am going for the doctor.”
“No, no! Stay where you are. I ain't sick. I'll be all right in a minute. You—you scared me, creeping in that way. Sit down, sit down.”
He steadied himself with one hand on the table and with the other reached to shut a drawer which had been open beside him. The drawer was almost full of papers, and, lying upon those papers, was a revolver.