She motioned to Slade, who, leaning over, blew out the remaining candle, while a little hysterical cry was heard from Mrs. Cheever.
The wick shone a moment with a hot, glowing spire, and then everything was black. Mrs. Kildair began to count.
"One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—"
She gave each number with the inexorable regularity of a clock's reiterated note.
"Eleven—twelve—thirteen—fourteen— fifteen—sixteen—seventeen—"
In the room every sound was distinct—the rustle of a shifting dress, the grinding of a shoe, the deep, slightly asthmatic breathing of a man.
"Twenty-one—twenty-two—twenty-three— twenty-four—twenty-five—twenty-six—"
The counting went on, without the slightest variation, with a methodic, rasping reiteration that began to produce almost an hypnotic effect on the imaginations held in suspense.
"Thirty—thirty-one—thirty-two—thirty-three—"
A slight rasping breath was heard, and then a man nervously clearing his throat.