That was the dominant passion; the lure of candle-light a secondary attraction.... Then, if this were so—and it had been proven to be a fact—then—then—what was in that young girl's bedroom just below him?
Even as the question flashed in his mind he left the window, went to his door, listened, noiselessly unlocked it.[pg 299]
A low murmur of voices came from the café.
He drew off both shoes, descended the stairs on the flat pads of his large, bony feet, listening all the while.
Candle-light streamed out into the corridor from her open bedroom door; and he crept to the sill and peered in, searching the place with small, pale eyes.
At first he noticed nothing to interest him, then, all in an instant, his gaze fell upon Madam Death under her prison of glass.
There she sat, her great bulging abdomen distended with eggs, her lambent eyes shining with the terrible passion of anticipation. For one thing only she had been created. That accomplished she died. And there she crouched awaiting the fulfillment of her life's cycle with the blazing eyes of a demon.
From the café below came the cautious murmur of voices. The young man already knew what they were whispering about; or, if he did not know he no longer cared.
The patches of bright colour in his sunken[pg 300] cheeks had died out in an ashen pallor. As far as he was concerned the world was now ended. And he knew it.