And still no word is spoken.
He writhes in impotent anger. His brain seems seized with a sudden madness. These swift, despoiling hands, the darkness, the horrible silence, appall him—fill him with a sort of supernatural terror.
The hands have ceased their search, and he knows that the two robbers have risen. He feels the near presence of one; the footsteps of the other go from him, toward the street.
A scraping sound; a soft rustle. They are gathering up the rags from the floor. The closet again: this time it is opened, entered. A moment’s stillness; then a sharp sound, which he knows to be the striking of a match. Another long silent moment. What are they doing?
Ah! the footsteps retreat. They go toward the outer room; creeping, creeping stealthily.
Now they have crossed the outer room. They go out, and the door is softly closed.
What does this mystery mean? Have they returned to rob him, and then to leave him? Will they come back yet again?
A moment passes; another, and another. Then a sickening odor penetrates to his nostrils, like the burning of some foul-smelling thing.
Crackle, crackle, crackle!
Ah! he comprehends now! The fiends have fired the closet! They have left him there to perish in the flames—the hungry flames that will wipe out all traces of their guilt!