Blake's soul was curdled; his senses were numbed; but still his eyes could look.
The ghastly figure stopped in the moonlight, at the landing of the stairs. White, claw-like hand clutched at the drunken curtain and ripped it from its fastenings. The pale light of the moon fell harsh upon it…. Blake shut his eyes….
When again he looked, the figure was at the desk, fumbling with a key…. A drawer screeched in protest. Came from it a rattling as a cadaverous hand drew forth a bottle…. And the thing that had been John Schuyler guzzled.
It laughed again, then, in hollow, mad glee. It staggered forward. Its hollow eyes fell upon the letter that Parks had left. Clutching fingers unsteadily tore end from envelope—drew letter from covering, and hollow, leaden eyes gazed.
Came another wild burst of laughter gone mad. A voice, thick, weak, muffled, weird, said:
"Another enveloped insult. From Parks, the good and faithful Parks." Dull eyes read. "Your employment has become impossible." The letter fell to the floor; the voice cried: "The rats desert the sinking ship!" It chuckled: "Wise rats. Sensible rats!" And then dead eyes saw the man who stood before him.
"You?" They peered, like those of a fish. "Good! I'm glad to see you, even though you have come to scorn, and abuse, and hate. It's a lonely hell, this—lonely."
Blake answered, bitterness in his soul:
"I did not come because I wanted to. It was to prevent her coming—the wife who loved you, and who, God help her, loves you still. She would make one last effort to save you."
Schuyler laughed again.