CHAPTER XX
"Who spake of Death? Let no one speak of Death.
What should Death do in such a merry house?
With but a wife, a husband, and a friend
To give it greeting?..."
Richard Maule sat up in bed. He had taken a rather larger dose of chloral than usual the night before, and he had over-slept himself.
'Twixt sleeping and waking he had seemed to hear a number of extraordinary sounds—they were, however, sounds to which he had become accustomed, for they were produced by the Paches' motor.
Now his servant was drawing up the blinds, moving about the room with well-trained, noiseless steps. It seemed to him that the man avoided looking across at the bed; but when, at last, his persistent glance caused the servant to look round, nothing could be seen in the other's impassive face.
"Is it a fine morning, Carver?"
"No, sir—at least, yes, sir. But it's been raining."
"I thought I heard a car drive away a few moments ago, or did I dream it?"
The man hesitated.