"Thirty-nine—forty—forty-one—forty-two—"
Still nothing had happened. No other sound had broken in on the strained attention of every ear. Yet the voice that counted did not vary in the slightest measure; only the sound became less human, more metallic.
"Forty-seven—forty-eight—forty-nine— fifty—fifty-one—fifty-two—"
A woman had sighed—Mrs. Bloodgood next to him—the sigh of a woman yielding up consciousness to pain.
"Fifty-four—fifty-five—fifty-six—fifty-seven —fifty-eight—fifty-nine—sixty—sixty-one—"
All at once, clear, ringing, unmistakable, on the sounding plane of the table was heard a quick metallic note that echoed and reëchoed in the empty blackness.
"The ring!"
It was Maud Lille's deep voice that had cried out. Beecher suddenly against his shoulder felt the weight of Mrs. Bloodgood's swaying body. The voice that counted hesitated a moment, but only a moment.
"Sixty-two—sixty-three—"
Several voices began to protest: